The Grand Adventures of Daisy Donnie

A red mustang accelerated hard up the ramp from the basement car park of the Australian head-office of The Church of

Elvis, with Marcus in the drivers seat, Elvis in the passenger, and Donnie and Prime sitting behind. With very little care, the car zoomed into the traffic, past trams and other cars.

As they drove into the distance, a large black four-wheel-drive pulled away from the kerb and began to follow.

High above the building a half-dozen helicopters were descending, Police markings on the sides, armed officers rappelling down to the rooftop.

Just below them, a neon sign clicked automatically to the alternate message:

High in the sky, the clouds gathered; the hitherto sunny day had been consumed by other weather. There was crack of lightening and a roll of thunder.

This was Melbourne after all; beautiful one minute, pissing-down the next.

Marcus found a relatively empty side-street, and drove down it, changing up gears.

‘Hey, I recognise this,’ said Donnie, recalling a particular incident with a beat-up car, a boot-load of fertiliser and a close-encounter of the digital kind.

Prime nodded.

Marcus slowed and indicated left at the end of the street. Opposite them was Parliament House, and more politicians than one could comfortably imagine.

‘Lucky to escape that,’ said Donnie, peering up out of the back window at the church building. The helicopters had landed now and presumably their occupants were rampaging unabated within the building.

‘Yes,’ murmured Prime, her mind on events of the past and a particular car-ride with a once close-friend. ‘Lucky indeed.’

‘They weren’t after us,’ said Marcus. ‘We’d never have got out if they were.’

‘Yeah,’ asked Donnie, peering sideways at Prime. He wondered if she was recalling the same incident as he. Could that be why she was so quiet. Bad memories?

He shook his head; he’d forgotten that he had been Daisy that time and that this memory couldn’t possibly have been shared with Prime.

‘Probably just making an appearance,’ said Prime at last and not without a little cynicism. ‘But they’d have needed some serious money to pay the cops to go in on The Church.’

Elvis hmm’d irritatedly.

Donnie gave her a questioning gaze: a frown with one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.

‘Well, the bigger the job, the bigger the payment,’ said Marcus, glancing back: he’d seen Donnie in the rear-view mirror.

‘Perfectly logical.’

‘So who’d have enough money to pay the coppers to take on the church?’

‘Government most probably,’ said Marcus. ‘The PM was certainly ranting about how he was going to have us taken down.’

‘Putting taxpayers money to good use,’ said Prime, sardonically.

Elvis glanced into the side-mirror. Something wasn’t quite right.

They passed a large bus, emblazoned with the business-name:

As they passed, Donnie could see pensioners tapping ineffectually on the fogged-up windows with the palms of their hands and walking stick frames.

‘Long Live Rock & Roll,’ Donnie read from a barely legible scrawl on the glass.

There was a hint of music from the bus as the Mustang finally accelerated away; a mix of 1950s out-of-copyright songs which were usually heard on commercial stations devoted to The best of particular decades.

Donnie looked over to Prime, a question in his eyes.

‘So, what am I missing,’ he asked at last. ‘What couldn’t you tell me?’

‘We’ve unearthed new information,’ said Prime, ‘as to the origins of The Sisterhood and The BSD.’

‘Monsieur Bleu and Madame Pink,’ said Elvis. He seemed unhappy to be repeating these names, and added in a murmur. ‘Old names from old times.’

‘Who,’ asked Donnie.

‘CCT,’ said Elvis.

Donnie cut over him.

‘What, another three-letter-bleeding-acronym,’ he paused. ‘What’s this one for Cretinous Cu–’

‘Cubist Conspiracy Theorists,’ Prime interjected. ‘It’s a…’

She considered a moment, thinking of the easiest way to explain.

‘You know Picasso,’ asked Elvis, a little tension slipping into his voice.

‘What, a lot of eyes pointing up nostrils, that sort of thing?’

‘It’s an avant-garde movement,’ said Marcus, glancing backwards then back to the road.

‘The principle is that the only way to represent something is to show it from multiple points simultaneously,’ continued Prime. ‘Picasso and Braque were the first to apply it.’

‘What, and the Cubists followed on from their fine examples,’ asked Donnie, eyes wide.

‘The Cubists live the examples,’ said Elvis. ‘They are cubist.’

Donnie considered this image for a moment and couldn’t make it work. He shuddered.

‘Thing is,’ said Marcus. ’since we’re on the BSD and Sisterhood shit-list, we’re probably on the Cubist’s too.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Donnie sarcastically.

‘But we don’t know their intent,’ said Prime. ‘We don’t know why they created the two groups.’

‘And we don’t know where they are,’ said Elvis.

‘Did you make contact?’ asked Prime. ‘At the shoot?’

‘Hmm, What?’ asked Donnie, kicked from his thoughts and realising it was he that she was speaking to. ‘Who with?’

‘Your contact,’ said Marcus. ‘The reason you were there?’

‘There? Oh… there…ah,’ said Donnie, mentally backing away. ‘The only person I spoke to was a leather-masked gimp.’

‘Yes,’ said Prime. ‘that was him.’

Donnie shook his head slowly. Whoops!

‘No, sorry,’ Donnie, faltered, and added, his mind concocting a plausible excuse, ‘the helicopters arrived too early.’

‘So we’re flying blind again,’ Elvis breathed out heavily, resigned, glancing down in the mirror. The black four-wheel drive was still behind them. Elvis frowned at its image in the mirror and glanced away again. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard and squinted into the wing-mirror once more, trying to read the number-plate. There was a ‘Q’ on it.

‘The Cubists were also behind Universal Promotions,’ said Marcus.

Donnie blinked; now there was a name with an unpleasant, tinny melody ring-tone to it.

‘Not sure what they wanted to achieve with them,’ added Marcus, almost jovially, ‘but we’re working on it!’

‘But won’t the cops take the computer systems,’ asked Donnie. ‘Take all the information?’

‘It’s all stored on remote servers,’ said Prime. ‘Even if we lost the local branch, we could still carry on.’

‘We’re not going to lose it, though…’ asked Donnie, hoping he was right.

‘Well, it’s possible they could revoke the permits,’ said Prime. ‘But the church would go on.’

Donnie stared out of the window, his eyes drawn to a huge sign on the side of a building.

At the top of the billboard were two words, in huge type:

Below this was the lower part of a man’s torso, a bare stomach which was bisected, before any pornographic imagery could be implied, by a pair of blue jeans, which led down to the upper legs.

In the fastenings of the jeans had been placed a wooden ruler, pointing out at a jaunty angle.

The final word on the poster was, as would now be obvious, referring to a certain piece of male anatomy which could – on occasion – be problematic due to a number of unforeseen circumstances.

Donnie’s memory kicked up.

That’s right!

‘What about that mob under the restaurant,’ he asked Prime with a slight smile.

‘What about them,’ asked Prime.

‘Would they know where the Cubists are?’

‘Been there, done that,’ said Elvis. ‘It was unoccupied when we went in and never used since.’

‘How did you find out about it?’

‘Luck,’ said Marcus.

‘Skill,’ said Prime.

‘Patience,’ said Elvis.

‘What,’ asked Donnie, not getting it.

‘Both groups were being fed information somehow,’ said Marcus. ‘It seemed logical there was someone watching.’

‘Couldn’t they be the cubists,’ asked Donnie.

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you,’ asked Prime. ‘And we’ve considered it.’

‘It makes sense,’ began Marcus.

‘We’ve been over this,’ Elvis interjected. ‘There’s not enough information.’

‘What about the envelope,’ asked Donnie. ‘the one you left in there. What was in it?’

‘Two invitations,’ said Prime. ‘For the leaders of the BSD and Sisterhood care-of The King of Rock and Roll.’

‘You were throwing a party and didn’t tell me,’ asked Donnie, taken aback.

Prime gave him a look and he twitched backwards momentarily.

‘We asked to meet with them all, to thrash out some kind of peace-deal,’ said Marcus.

‘Oh,’ said Donnie merrily, then with sarcasm slipping through the light-hearted humour, ’so that’s why we sat and shagged on it!’

Prime gave him a look, which he was able – at this juncture – to ignore.

‘Makes perfect sense,’ he concluded with a cynical grin, and glanced away. ‘Silly me.’

‘We needed enough of a distraction to get their minds off of what they intended,’ said Prime.

‘Which was?’

‘They’d been itching for a reason to go to full-blown war for over a year,’ explained Marcus. ‘As ex-members–’

‘Traitors,’ Prime interjected. ‘Remember? Donnie and I are officially designated traitors. Got our own web-pages and everything.’

‘Gosh,’ murmured Donnie. ‘Fame at last.’

‘As ex-members of both groups–’ Marcus tried again.

‘Shagging like rabbits,’ continued Donnie, with a small and almost imperceptible nod. ‘Mustn’t forget that.’

‘Wouldn’t go that far,’ murmured Prime, and glanced up at Donnie with humour in her eyes.

‘Which neither group condones,’ said Marcus, ‘and indeed loathes the whole idea of… well, it doesn’t take a physics professor in a wheelchair to work-out how pissed-off they would have been.’

‘I got it,’ said Donnie, slightly downcast. ‘Oh well.’

He looked up at Prime.

‘Did they reply,’ he asked.

‘Returned to sender,’ said Prime. ‘Address unknown.’

‘No such number,’ said Marcus, with a concerned tone.

‘No such zone,’ murmured Elvis, squinting into the mirror.

‘What,’ asked Marcus.

‘I think we’re being tailed,’ Elvis explained. ‘That four-wheel-drive; been behind us for the last ten minutes.’

‘There’s a lot of them on the road,’ said Marcus. ‘Sure it’s the same one?’

‘Sure enough,’ he said ‘It ain’t the Mormon Tabernacle Accounting Department, either.’

‘Righty-ho,’ said Marcus with a cheerful nod and pressed a button next to the GPS.

‘We need to lose them,’ added Elvis, making the point clear for all to hear.

The GPS screen burst into life. A police-force logo with the words Protect And Serve written across the bottom was displayed, followed by a bored looking officer.

‘Emergency,’ he said. ‘State your business.’

‘Need Major Smith’s unit, please?’

‘The situation,’ asked the officer.

‘Tailgating,’ said Marcus.

‘Account details,’ asked the officer.

‘They’re on-record,’ added Marcus. ‘Church of Elvis.’

‘Got it here,’ said the officer. ‘They’ll home-in on your signal; should be less than five minutes.’

‘Ta. Keep up the good work,’ Marcus replied with a smile.

The connection was broken.

‘But they were raiding the church,’ said Donnie with considerable concern. ‘Won’t they–’

‘Money’s money,’ said Marcus. ‘We’re customers same as everyone.’

‘So?’

‘So they’ve now been hired to address a tailgating issue.’

After a moment, one of the black, slimming helicopters approached and hovered over the black vehicle. Officers rappelled down and, after a brief altercation in which the driver of the vehicle was shot repeatedly, the four-wheel-drive screeched off of the road rolled fifteen times, and collided with a pylon, a large tree, then burst into flames.

The men returned to the helicopter and, just before it departed, two air-to-surface missiles were fired into the vehicle for good measure.

‘Subtle,’ said Donnie, still watching and wishing it was he at the trigger; he hated four-wheel-drives.

However, he was left, not for the first time, with a feeling of serious worry. He’d always been taught to trust coppers. Now he wasn’t quite sure about them. Yes, Protect and Serve, but not on a platter after a barbeque.

He glanced back once more. The fire was still raging, but had achieved its goal: there were no more vehicles following; they were all gridlocked behind the wreckage.

Donnie turned to the front once more, a question on his lips.

‘So what about Tassie?’

‘Bombed,’ said Elvis.

‘Yes, got that,’ said Donnie. ‘Why though?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out,’ said Elvis. ‘I’m having a bad feelin’ about this. Like I’ve had a few too-many deep-fried mars-bars… like I got in the old days.’

* * *

They walked into the main terminal and were met by a woman in black business attire.

‘High Priest, your graces, welcome to the airport,’ she said with a bow. ‘My name is Tina. Would you kindly follow me, please.’

Donnie kept an eye out while they were led into the building. In the near-distance, men, women and children of all financial obligations milled around, some in queues, some in retail outlets. All were oblivious of the black-suited officers standing in strategic positions around the terminal, clearly armed and dangerous.

Donnie frowned as he caught sight of a fat man with a pudgy expression standing nearby chatting with a woman.

No, couldn’t be, thought Donnie. Panix wouldn’t have been caught dead around a female.

There wasn’t time to check for sure; they were led into a corridor away from the proletariat travellers and past CCTV cameras which tracked their progress silently and without effort.

‘We’re being watched,’ said Donnie.

‘Security cameras,’ said Prime. ‘Guaranteed closed-circuit. No-one can get into them. And anyway, they’re for checking after something goes wrong.’

‘Oh,’ said Donnie and sniffed.

‘Put a face to the perp, that sort of thing,’ Prime continued. ‘Useful for tabloid television to display their next victim.’

As they were led deeper into the airport, the Rock-and-Roll quartet remained silent. The only sounds were a general background hum of electrical systems and that of footsteps on the thin grey industrial carpeting.

Tina led them into a section of the building reserved for visiting dignitaries and their minions. There was a  short queue of people stood between them and the departure-lounge.

Donnie stared briefly at the signs arranged across the stark white walls; various warnings against falsifying biometric data and threats to imprison, or deport anyone found to be doing this.

The posters included a face-shot of the current Australian Prime Minister, a weasley looking man with feral eyebrows, who stared meaningfully at the surrounding area.

‘Big Wanker is watching you,’ murmured Donnie.

In the queue before him was a woman who was undergoing the screening. A retina-scan, mouth swab and blood was taken and compared against the biometric data contained on her card.

The machine screeched and a trap-door opened beneath her. She fell without a sound.

‘Perpetrator detained for processing,’ said a computer voice as a guard dragged the woman’s bags over to an incinerator. They were thrown inside.

A moment’s worry and Donnie was relieved to be through. He emerged in a large lounge area. The others had been led over to some rather luxurious seats and awaited the call for their flight.

As Donnie approached the others, who were sitting on a dark leather couch chatting in hushed tones, he heard the end of a conversation.

‘The bombing of Tasmania was just the start,’ said Elvis, puffing on a stogie, despite the non-smoking signs that were emblazoned across every wall in seventeen different languages. ‘We dropped the ball and it cracked like an egg.’

Ignoring the mixed metaphor, Donnie looked around. The lounge was filled with people, all owed money by the rabble in the public areas. There were more cameras on the walls.

‘Yes,’ Prime agreed ‘Just when we thought things were going our way, the rules got changed.’

Tina walked up, oozing efficiency.

‘Here are your tickets,’ said Tina, ignoring Elvis’s blatant breach of federal law. ‘Did you have any baggage?’

Elvis shook his head. A puff of smoke expanded in the air.

‘That’s fine,’ said Tina. ‘Follow me please. Your plane is waiting.’

They were led from the plush surroundings of the lounge, deep into the bowels of the airport’s restricted area and past more cameras before emerging on the tarmac outside.

It was one of those nights where the rain had fallen just enough to make everything slippery and icy cold. A fine mist hung in the air like like the final breath from a condemned man.

A slick white jet waited, about fifty meters away, its engines roaring.

Donnie glanced upwards, cooling his face on the light drizzle. He slowly turned, extending his arms slightly in the rain. He breathed slowly and deeply, then opened his eyes.

Colonel Panix stood on a balcony just above the door. He was not alone.

‘Ambush,’ screamed Donnie.

‘Dammit,’ Elvis cursed, turning and pulled his guns. Two quick shots destroyed the spotlights and dropped them all into inky darkness.

Prime whirled and bitch-slapped Tina, who fell to the ground.

‘Long live Madame Pink,’ yelled Tina, and yanked a pistol from a holster on her inner thigh.

Prime was faster. She kicked the gun from the woman’s grasp, reversed and spun on the ball of one foot to thrust the flat of the other into Tina’s face. The gun slid over the ground into the shadows while Tina ended up horizontal, unconscious, with a bloodied nose and probable concussion.

The captain of the plane had his company’s reputation to uphold: no accidents, ever. He throttled-up and the plane began to accelerate away.

‘Marcus! Go!’ yelled Elvis.

Marcus was closest to the plane and sprinted the short distance, grabbing the door before it closed fully. He yanked it downwards and managed to get inside.

Elvis, Prime and Donnie, however, were still in firing range and as prone as chickens in a factory farm. Cover was only meters away.

They moved as quickly as they could, knowing that at any moment the BSD men on the roof could terminally perforate them all.

Prime fell, which annoyed her as her footing was usually so true. Of course, it was not usually obstructed by rabid members of The Sisterhood.

Tina had Prime’s ankle held fast and clawed her way along the ground; her concussion only making her all the more batty.

‘You should know better than to have joined these scabs,’ she hissed. ‘You’re one of us! You filthy traitor!’

Prime rolled onto her back and used her free foot in a percussive argument to the contrary.

‘You’re… working,’ said Prime, thumping at Tina’s face with the sole of her boot, ‘with the B-S-Fucking-D.’

Thump went her foot once more.

‘What do you call that,’ asked Prime through , continuing to thump Tina’s face. ‘Community Service?’

Tina stopped moving and as Prime rolled backwards and pushed up onto her feet, she found herself bathed in a spotlight; Panix’s men had shed further light on things.

* * *

‘We want her alive,’ said Miss Rook, standing next to Panix and staring down at Prime with an expression of repressed fury.

‘Fine,’ he said huffily, then to his men, ‘legs please.’

Two well-aimed bullets ripped through Prime’s dress. She collapsed again, screaming agonisingly.

* * *

‘Cover me,’ said Elvis shoving one of his guns into Donnie’s hands.

He ran out into the light to retrieve the fallen Cardinal.

Donnie stepped forwards a little, just far enough to have a clear-shot and blasted in the general direction of the attackers.

He felt like a little boy firing a cap-gun. The bullets were enough to distract the men momentarily and give Elvis enough time to drag Prime to temporary safety.

She was in a bad way; unconscious with blood draining slowly from the wounds.

‘It’s not arterial,’ said Elvis, giving her the once-over.

‘We’ve got to get her to hospital,’ said Donnie, stating the obvious.

‘You’re caught,’ yelled Panix. ‘Like rats in a trap.’

‘Can’t we call the police,’ whispered Donnie.

‘This is federal territory,’ whispered Elvis. ’No jurisdiction. We’re on our own.’

‘If you come out, we promise not to treat you well,’ yelled Panix. ‘But we definitely won’t kill you. That’s someone else’s job.’

Elvis and Donnie stared ahead. In the distance the plane continued along the runway.

‘Now what,’ murmured Donnie.

Nearby, a CCTV camera turned slowly and pointed at Donnie’s face. It slowly zoomed in, focussing on his face.

* * *

Two pale, perhaps albino, faces floated against a pitch-dark background, their faces illuminated by the images on a number of black-edged computer screens.

It was difficult to tell the two apart; they both wore black lipstick with a hint of red, they both wore eyeliner, both had hair cropped almost, but not quite, to the skin of their scalps. Both had striking grey eyes and identical noses.

For the sake of argument, you could say that the one with the long eyelashes was female and the one that didn’t wasn’t.

Only the most skilled beautician could have been able to guess how old they really were; they both had youthful faces, but their eyes betrayed their true age.

One pressed a button and Donnie’s worried face was displayed on each screen.

The two uttered a single word, their accents hinting at their French origins:

‘Finally.’

Click to see the next installment: Porn Free (part 1)

Thanks to Stacey for Piltdown and Monika for editing suggestions.

Huntingdale and South Yarra, January 2006