‘Doesn’t look good Donnie,’ said Freddy.

Donnie’s hand hovered over his groin, then he heard a high pitched whirring. It sounded like a drill.

‘Guards,’ yelled Freddy. ‘Security breach! Shoot that bastard!’

The doors toppled inwards, the result of a good kick, and there stood Donnie’s rescuer.

‘Achtung!!’ screamed Fritz the German, dressed unexpectedly in a wrestling leotard, a blue-black mask and cape. He hurled a stick-grenade down the corridor.

Donnie was bathed in the glow of the explosion, shading his eyes.

‘Get out of here,’ screamed the German, hefting a big machine-gun up. He fired quick bursts from the machine gun, the sound accompanied by a faintly pleasant metallic tinkling of spent cartridges raining down on the concrete.

Donnie had knelt down and had his head covered by his hands; he looked like an ostrich with its head stuck in the sand.

‘La la la…’ Donnie murmured in desperate terror. ‘I’m not listening…’

‘Get out,’ screamed the German and back-kicked, catching Donnie’s backside. ‘SCHNELL!!!’

Donnie jumped up like a hundred meter sprinter and ran for the nearest safe thing: a perfectly maintained 1963 Volkswagen Beetle.

Meanwhile, the German tipped one of the barrels on its side and rolled it down the corridor.

He hurled another hand-grenade after it for good measure and ran for the car.

The explosion and resulting fire successfully cremated the guards.

Within moments Donnie and the German were roaring out of the car-park (As far as you could roar in a VW Beetle) and into the side-streets around the studio, slowing only for Donnie to stand out of the sunroof with a stick grenade which was lobbed into the guard’s booth at the main gate. Beside the gate was a poster for the fight of the century, Rambozo’s Roarers versus McWarickson’s Trio of Terrifying Terrorists.

* * *

Donnie started breathing again — another near-death experience under his belt. Maybe when he had the full set he’d be allowed to stop all this running around?

‘Thanks for that,’ said Donnie to his rescuer.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Fritz.

‘Um,’ Donnie pondered how to ask about the man’s get-up. ‘What’s with–’

The German turned to face Donnie.

Donnie’s eyes widened in realisation.

‘Raznou the Magnificent?’ exclaimed Donnie, a boyhood dream coming true: his wrestling hero had rescued him from certain death.

‘Yes,’ said Raznou. ‘It is I.’

‘You rescued me,’ said Donnie. ‘Why?’

Raznou turned pensively to watch the road ahead. ‘It was what you said… the Lost Gavel.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Donnie, disappointed.

‘Freddy has been searching for it,’ said Raznou, gearing down as they had reached an intersection. ‘And when you asked about it, I knew what I had to do.’

‘Where’s Maria,’ asked Donnie.

‘Maria,’ murmured Raznou, heartbroken. ‘Maria left me, left the team, for a job in the entertainment industry. One that didn’t involve tight lycra and Thrush once a month.’

‘Penfolde!’

Donnie looked up through the windscreen as a huge helicopter zoomed overhead, turned in the air and hovered over the intersection before them.

Raznou hit the brakes and they stopped in a cloud of burning rubber.

© Lisa Sinclair 2004-2009 All Rights Reserved

The Grand Adventures of Daisy Donnie by Lisa Jane Sinclair is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Australia License.
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