I looked behind me and sure enough Cecil was following in a taxi. He was
obviously a Special Investigating Hamster trained to follow it's quarry
till one or the other died. I decided it would have to be the other and
slowed the Harley down to 30 and reached for my Magnum Magnum, realising
at the last moment that it was being repaired.
Bugger.
That left only my 3 ninja throwing staplers, the pump-action hot glue gun
and Billy Ray Cyrus ("This won't be the last, UNFORTUNATELY") on CD, sealed
in a lead-lined case. I slipped a throwing stapler out of it's holster
and loaded up a batch of packing staples into it. heh heh. Deftly I threw
the stapler at the windshield of the taxi as it came in line with me. I
heard the driver scream "SHIT, PACKING STAPLES" just before the taxi veered
off the road and into a telephone pole strategically placed in the plot.
Before I could turn around and make sure the hamster was history, I heard
the wail of sirens close at hand. I knew I didn't want to be in the
position of having to explain how I happened to have packing staples on my
person, especially when they'd recently been outlawed...
I made a mental note to keep an eye out for small creatures in future, you
just can't be too careful. Sure enough, the next pet store I pass, they're
all watching me. Maybe the hamster talked.. Hmmm. The bastard!
Luckily I had a backup plan involving the Turkish ambassador to McDonalds
to fall back on. At the prearranged time and place, I dropped my copy of
"Homicidal Pervert" on the ground outside the Zentral Ubahn station and
simultaneously said "The rain in Spain is completely irrelevant given my
present predicament". A few eyes turned in my direction, but nothing
else happened. Looks like it's time for the backup backup plan.
I get on the ubahn and buy the expensive travelcard and ride. I get off
at Heathrow, then ride the Underground to Russell Square, speaking to noone.
I look around and see nothing unusual, which for Russell Square is very
unusual, so I cross the square and stop in at happy hour at the WhiteHall
Hotel, a pound a pint. Six hours later I stumble out onto Montague Street,
past the British Museum and up onto Tottenham Court road to the Dionysis Kebab
House. Looking round to make sure I wasn't followed, I order 1 chips, 1 kebab
and a chicken and mushroom pie and truck on down to Oxford street.
I buy a couple of papers on the corner and put them straight into a bin
together with the food. I slip down Oxford St, then make a quick left into
Soho Square and down a sidestreet into "Garlic and Shots". The waiter is,
of course, insane, but what we call insanity he calls crazy.
I order a Steak, very rare, in fact still breathing if possible. Lots of
garlic. Raw. And bring me 3 steak knives too. While I'm waiting I get a
garlic milkshake and some garlic nuts. And order another 2 steak knives.
Finishing the food, I start on the steak knives. The wooden handled ones
are the best (with chilli sauce of course). I have three left over after
the meal, so I ask for a doggy knife block and slide them in.
It's awfully quiet outside, which straight away makes me cautious. This
deep in Soho should be quite noisy, so something's up. I slip a throwing
stapler into my hand, load up with 'packers' and walk out..
..into the brilliant glare of 1000watt lamps. I take out the lamp and
operator with a controlled burst from the stapler before it overheats and
drops to the ground with a hiss. I grab the hot glue gun and get out a
couple of bursts to someone who approaches me with a large book, saying
"Simon Travaglia?"
He goes down and I'm down to either the last stapler, the cyrus A-bomb OR
the steak knives. I'm still a bit peckish, so I want to keep the steak
knives, and I'm not a completely inhuman bastard so Cyrus is out, which
leaves the last stapler. It clicks empty and, as I drop it, I notice the
book in the glued guy's hands.
"THIS IS YOUR LIFE!"
Oh wow! Who's face is red?
Mine actually, I go down with a bullet to the face fired by one of the crew
of current affairs photographers who like to be prepared to defend themselves.
As I gasp my last, I hear a photographer chirp..
"One last smile for the final page..."
A steak knife sings.