1-9:The Middle Child of the Secret of the Lost Gavel

A tinny funeral dirge began to play.

‘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.

1-8:The secret of the lost gavel

He woke with a killer headache and groaned slowly while checking his genitalia for evidence of alteration.

Ah, there they were, right where he’d left them.

A sharp and loud beeping assaulted his ears leaving him feeling as if he’d been aurally mugged.

An eye slowly opened and focussed on a mobile telephone not far from his face.

A message on its face flashed on and off.

Donnie attempted to move but found he couldn’t. His face appeared stuck to whatever he was resting against.

He moved a little, experimentally pulling at the surface and slowly his face came away with a rip of paper. He peeled his eyes open and cracked his jaw.

There was a newspaper on the desk, coated in red stickiness; some had ripped off and was still stuck to his face. The headline, on the newsprint that remained, screamed:

Advertising Triumph!

A picture of a pyramid accompanied the statement, though the rest of the report was obscured by haemoglobin.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, dabbing at the top of his head where the scab of a wound was clear evidence of being belted by something fairly unpleasant. The caked blood acted as a macabre hair-gel.

Below the report was another, equally unbelievable, this one had an image of triangular mirrors against a starry backdrop.

‘Solar Mirrors launched,’ read Donnie. ‘Global Warming to be finally controllable.’

He snorted derision.

‘Wankers.’

Donnie glanced around the depressingly dull office. Dark wood-panelling insinuated itself upwards from the grotty wooden floor, stopping partway up the walls in much the same way as rising damp. Beyond this was nasty-looking peeling wallpaper terminating in a cracked and probably asbestos-infested ceiling.

In the middle of the ceiling a fan slowly rotated, like a bored fast-food service assistant. It seemed to be saying, ‘Do you want air with that?’.

Donnie decided to help the asbestosis along a little, and reached into the top drawer where he found a packet of Gauloises and a silver zippo lighter with an amusing aeronautical motif. A practiced flip and click resulted in a lit cigarette landing between his lips.

He flipped the newspaper open onto page 39 to his horoscope while slowly flexing his face, trying to get back some feeling and to crack the sticky red varnish over it.

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.