2-17: The Long Night
The guards at the checkpoint were bored and heavily armed and wouldn’t be questioned too much if they shot someone. Donnie made his presence known from quite a distance away so they wouldn’t take a pot-shot to see how well he could scream.
They told him to stop and put his hands up. The first he did, he’d pre-empted their other demand by a few minutes which annoyed them a little. They didn’t like smart-arses.
‘No offence fellahs,’ said Donnie in a voice most-likely to annoy them, and started walking again.
The guards raised their weapons, then fell to the ground, an acupuncture needle inserted, by way of high-pressure air-pistol, into a special point at the back of their necks. They writhed momentarily on the ground before Donnie put the boot-in and relieved them of their conscious-state for at least a few minutes.
She wore a vivid pink skirt and jacket with matching hat. She looked like Grace Kelley but if Grace Kelley had been an albino Goth.
‘Nice outfit,’ said Donnie. He was lying.
‘A pleasure as always Monsieur Penfolde,’ she said, her French voice unusual to Donnie’s ears. He wondered if she was one of those mad Quebeqois, or just simply mad.
‘Good shot,’ he said kicking the nearest guard once again; he’d begun to stir and really should have just accepted unconsciousness. It was, after all, late at night.
‘I thank you for coming so promptly,’ she said.
‘I cleared the decks when I got your summons. A few people will be pissed-off that I’ve dropped their cases, but you’re more important.’
‘Another lie, Monsieur,’ Madame Pink smiled but only with the corners of her mouth. ‘I am glad you have not lost your defining aspect with all this tension.’
She was right, of course. With the British invasion and subsequent drop in crime (unsurprising given the Limey’s were Judge, Jury and Executioners and didn’t have any qualms about doing the executing), Donnie had been rather bored of late.
‘How can I be of service this time around,’ he asked, stepping on the head of the guard he was closest to.
‘Allow me,’ said Madame Pink and fired another couple of needles into the men for good measure. The man nearest began to groan, but it wasn’t from pain.
‘We are seeking the fugitive Monsieur McWarwickson,’ said Madame Pink, slightly mis-pronouncing the name. Donnie couldn’t blame her, it was a mouthfull. ‘I believe you made his aquaintance.’
Donnie nodded. Freddy McWarwickson, ex-pope and scourge of the Western Suburbs was the British number fourteen most-wanted. They were making a point of letting McWarwickson piss as many people off as possible so that finding him would be made easier. It was only the hunt for Pink and Bleu that allowed him to remain at large. That and they hadn’t found a jailer who wouldn’t just punch McWarwickson repeatedly on first sight. He was certainly yesterday’s Pope.
‘I have a hunch where he is.’ He didn’t. ‘Same rate as before?’
There are a few ways to describe one's self when effectively trying to mask the fact that you're a complete hermit and spend your entire existence behind a computer screen sipping hot tea and eating cakes. The first would be to suggest that you're somewhat introverted and avoid coffee. Another might be to suggest you're a fan of Apple Macs but are cutting-down from the 6 you used to have to an even two (Macbook and Mac Mini in turn). Finally you might choose to say that despite the massive pay-drop, this writing thing is quite a lark isn't it? Not to mention enjoying the creative life a lot more than mindless tedium in corporate jobs, working the 40 hour week to the drumming of endless meetings and political intrigue that would have made Machiavelli blush and hand his pen over to the corporate slugs that run companies these days. Enough said really.
