The Grand Adventures of Daisy Donnie

He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. Satisfied, he opened his eyes. They focussed finally and unfortunately they were pointing at a television screen, high in the corner of the room, a room that turned out to be a shop, a shop that turned out to be a burger bar. An all-night one at that.

He rubbed his eyes, then checked his ears; no, they were working fine — it was just the music-video was crap. It didn’t surprise him.

Donnie Penfolde pushed back from the red formica bar and almost fell off of the stool which was fortunately nailed to the floor. Well, embedded into the cement floor. At least it was stable, which was the last thing he could think of as something resembling his life.

A glance out the window behind him revealed it was night, and his watch confirmed it — 11.33pm. The sign over the door declared this was Danny’s burgers, closing at 2am if Donnie’s memory was right. He asked for a coffee and it was delivered in a paper cup. He wasn’t surprised.

The music on the TV disappeared for a moment, only to be replaced by something featuring a lot of wailing which turned-out to be what the Americans called Rhythm and Blues, and which he called crap. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d swum against the flow of popular culture; his attire attested to this simple fact, for while the other people at the bar (could he call this a bar if they didn’t serve alcohol? He decided to try and see how it felt), were dressed in a mixture of artificial fabrics, blends, company logos and jeans, he wore a pinstripe suit and trilby. This seemed odd even to him, so he took the hat off and left it on the bar where it attested to his dress-sense being a left-over from the 1940s. Could he help it if the Private Investigator’s Union had decided on a Phillip Marlowe uniform? Would be a bit difficult for the females in the profession, and he felt their pain.

Donnie wondered why he was here. The coffee was hotter than a high fire-risk day (no naked flames, no outdoor barbeques), and he had yet to receive any sustenance of an edible form. His burger arrived. By the look it was a Chicken Breast Fillet Burger, hold the chicken breast. He couldn’t work-out why he’d ordered lettuce and mayo in a bun, but decided to live in the now, and took his first bite. He needed the coffee to wash the taste from his mouth. What was the bun made of, sugar and more sugar? It was only the sesame seeds on top that made it anywhere near a savoury item rather than belonging squarely with the ice-cream sundaes and whipped-cream he would have ordered for dessert if Danny’s served that sort of thing. They didn’t, so he ordered another coffee and a Chicken Breast Fillet Burger, hold the lettuce and bun. He got a look from the man behind the counter which could have been a stomach complaint.

A man sat down next to Donnie, and he coughed heartily into his handkerchief, checking it for spots of blood.

‘Is there blood on this,’ asked the man. Donnie was surprised to say the least, but it was late and he had nothing better to do.

‘Yes,’ said Donnie, reading the message on the handkerchief.

Five minutes later, the fillet arrived. Donnie had left a ten dollar note as payment but wouldn’t be able to take advantage of the protein. It was a pity because he’d need it.

There was an alleyway behind Danny’s. One end was the fifth sector and Danny’s burgers. Halfway down there was a checkpoint and beyond was the sixth. The sign declared that he was leaving the Australian Sector for the French. Someone had spraypainted a cheery “Bonjour” beneath it.

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