1-13:The Secret of the Lost Gavel: A New Pope

Elvis snorted derision, which got him a pointed look from Freddy.

‘We’re clear,’ called-out the Floor Manager.

‘Right, you fuckin’ bastard,’ said Freddy furiously, stepping closer to The King. ‘Why now? Why’d you bring her here?’

Elvis met Freddy’s gaze and the air fairly crackled between them.

‘I smell a bloody rat you over-popular prick,’ said Freddy. ‘You want me to have you locked up too?’

‘You don’t have the nerve,’ said Elvis calmly. ‘There’d be riots and you know it.’

Freddy’s expression grew more intense again, knowing full-well that Elvis was right.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the assistant carefully, walking to one side of the men. ‘This solves nothing.’

‘He’s on my bloody show,’ Freddy hollered. ‘So he’ll bloody do what he’s told!’

‘Bite me,’ said Elvis, turning contemptuously away.

Freddy fumed at Elvis, then stormed back to his throne, impotent rage boiling within him.

* * *

Another day, another dark corridor, mused Daisy as she was led by the arm towards a metal door.

‘How are your bonds,’ asked Marcus, beneath the guard’s costume.

‘Tight,’ said Daisy, slightly irritated. Her wrists were beginning to itch.

‘You go first,’ said Marcus ‘I’ll loosen them as we go.’

‘Okay.’

‘Just remember,’ said Marcus. ‘Go bananas on my signal.’

‘Which is?’

Marcus considered.

‘I dunno,’ he said, glancing upwards with thought. ‘Bananas?’

‘How the hell are you going to work that into the conversation?’

They stopped by an armour-plated door. Above this was a small camera and a speaker.

‘What,’ barked a voice. The speaker fed back for a moment then stopped.

‘Got a prisoner,’ said Marcus.

‘Good for you,’ said the guard within the facility over the speaker.

The door buzzed and Marcus pushed it open.

* * *

1-12:The Return of the Lost Gavel

He groaned feeling like his head was the victim of a friendly-fire incident and instinctively felt between his legs.

‘Ewww,’ he exclaimed with Daisy’s voice which had a tone in the lower-levels of revulsion and shook the liquid from her hand, ensuring it was as far away as anatomically possible.

She reached out with her other hand and retrieved paper from the roll and used it to dry the remaining moisture, then grabbed some more to rub the fragments of tissue paper from her hand.

There was a knocking at the door.

‘Not finished,’ she called out.

‘You’re on in thirty,’ said Marcus. ‘You need to shift please. You’ve still got to get dressed.’

Daisy felt a moment of confusion, while she examined her clothing. This gave way to tangental irritation.

‘What are you doing in the ladies,’ she asked pointedly.

‘What?’

‘You’re disturbing the stream of consciousness,’ said Daisy, hinting at something else entirely. ‘Go away. You could be arrested.’

‘What are you on about?’

Daisy sighed, retrieved more paper and used it for its usual purpose.

When she emerged, Marcus was leaning back against the bank of sinks, with a bemused expression on his face.

‘You’re done then,’ he asked with a closed smile.

‘I need to wash my hands,’ she replied and pushed past him quite deliberately to the specific sink which he was standing in front-of.

‘We’re on a bit of a schedule, here.’

‘I need a drink,’ said Daisy, making the only excuse she could.

‘Fine,’ said Marcus, rolling his eyes. ‘Just hurry up.’

* * *

Emerging from the toilets, Daisy was confronted with half a dozen flash-bulbs and at least as many microphones thrust under her face.

‘Hey, get lost you lot,’ said Marcus, pushing forwards. ‘You know the rules. No interviews before the gig.’

Several flash-bulbs were discharged in his face, for which he thanked the particular photographers with a very rock-and-roll punch in the mouth for their trouble.

‘Miss Penfolde,’ began one, and was rounded upon by Marcus.

As he confronted the journalistic hacks, and laid down the law to them, Daisy slipped quietly away to the bar.

‘Gin and tonic, please,’ she said to the barman.

He reached over his shoulder with a practiced motion, retrieved a can of pre-mix and, with a flourish, clicked it open with a special bar-tending tool that looked for all the world to be a miniature crowbar. The can was placed onto the bench before her.

Daisy blinked at it.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yep,’ replied the barman, with a bored tone.

‘So, no bottles of spirit,’ she asked. ‘No top-shelf, bottom-shelf..?’

‘No,’ said the barman. ‘Just mediocrity.’

‘It’s a bit…’ said Daisy at last with a dubious tone and frowning at the yellow, red and silver can which seemed to have been designed by people who communicated by yelling at one-another. ‘Naff.’

‘You have no idea,’ he replied with a shake of his head, then added in a monotone, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Would-you-like-peanuts-or-chips-with-that?’

Daisy stared. ‘Come again?’

‘We’ve been told we have to ‘suggest-sell’ when making a transaction,’ he replied with clear distaste.

‘What, like in fast-food places.’

He nodded.