1-12:The Return of the Lost Gavel

A shove led to a push, which led to a stand-off, which permitted a bottle to be pushed forwards, to connect with a face.

Then a fist came around and was closely followed by a single scream, and another; and another. The cycle repeated itself again and soon what had been a fun night of song, dance and the vague personal abuse of substances, became what the news sites would call ‘Unjustified Violence” and “Drugs and Music Cause Bloodshed”.

‘Shit,’ said Walt, hustling Daisy down the corridor. ‘It’s gone bad.’

‘Who are they?’ asked Daisy.

‘The guard,’ said Walt. ‘The guard of Pope Perilous the fourth. What the hell do they want?’

As they arrived at the emergency exit door, Daisy realised it smelled vaguely of cigarettes and urine.

The doors opened suddenly and three of the Perilous guard entered, radiating unpleasantness.

Daisy and Walt backed-off, as the guards spread out and cut-off the exit. Behind Daisy and Walt came the sounds of a fracas continuing unabated.

‘Bugger,’ said Walt, his shoulders dropping and hand releasing Daisy. ‘We’re stuffed now.’

Daisy’s list of things to do today hadn’t been particularly long, but certainly didn’t include becoming Freddy McWarickson’s next victim.

Guards or no guards, it was time to act.

Perhaps buoyed by the drugs she’d been given, Daisy screamed and ran full-pelt at the men, possibly taking them unawares, but more likely scaring six kinds of shit out of them; she looked like she’d come from the neighborhood of a pyromaniac and as she was dressed in slimming black, her hair, face and upper arms were the only things visible in the dimly lit space.

She slammed into two of them and the third was thrown against a wall as another collided with him.

‘Shit, girl,’ said Walt with surprise, before joining the fray.

Daisy had flipped over and had one of the guard across the top of her, pinning her shoulders to the floor. She lashed out with a knee and his eyes, such as she could see past the silly-looking conical hood, all but collided. He rolled away gasping, gripping his groin with both hands.

Walt slapped one of the guards down, but was punched viciously in the kidneys by another.

Everyone stopped in mid-movement as a gun clicked.

A tall man, dressed in black, stepped through the door, aiming his pearl-handled silver gun at Walt.

‘Come quietly or he gets it,’ said the man quietly with a southern twang to his accent.

‘Shit,’ said Daisy staring. ‘The Assassin.’

The man, stepped into the light.

‘Hang about, you’re not–’ began Daisy, her face dropping.

His face was terribly scarred, his hair long, disheveled and leaning toward dreadlocks in places. He had about him an air of violence, of determination and above-all else, rock and roll music.

His clothing was no-longer white, his belt no-longer cool, retro and broad.

‘You wanna come quietly,’ said Elvis. ‘Or do you want me to plug him a couple of times?’

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