* * *

A white jeweled belt was folded by two men. The silver buckle was folded last and ended up on top.

The Elvis impersonator, captain of The King’s Guard, carried the belt slowly over to Prime and Marcus and handed it to them.

‘Glory, glory, ‘ sang one of the impersonators, performing a splendid rendition of American Trilogy. Three backup singers harmonized with him as the rest of the guard strummed acoustic guitars, providing the musical accompaniment.

‘Ma’am,’ he said, nodding to Prime and then to Marcus, said, ‘Sir.’

He turned on his heel and walked carefully back to his regiment.

Above them all, a helicopter circled and came into land.

Prime glanced up at the cherry tree, in full blossom, still damp from the previous nights rain.

The honour guard slowly moved away, leaving Marcus and Prime standing alone.

* *

A single person, dressed in black stepped from the helicopter, ducking the whirring blades. They began to walk up the hill, pausing as the honour guard approached. The captain of the guard, behind silver sunglasses, nodded to the newcomer as he walked solemnly past.

* * *

Marcus and Prime stood looking down at the grave where a white, hand-made wooden cross took the temporary place of something a bit more appropriate for The King of Rock and Roll.

On the horizontal, written in black paint were the words:

Elvis Aaron Presley

On the vertical, in the same black paint were the initials:

R I P

‘I can’t believe he’s really gone,’ murmured Prime, dressed in black with a warm overcoat over her shoulders. Steel crutches supported her weight enough for her to stand, and from her coherence it was obvious she was off the pain medication.

Marcus stood, pale trench coat covering black clothing, a scarf around his neck. He was remorseful, the shock and guilt filled him; no longer the confident British ex- super-spy.

‘I should have gone with him,’ he murmured, sadness and annoyance mingling.

Prime turned and grabbed him by his jacket with one hand, the crutch she was holding toppled to the ground.

‘Snap out of it. He pulled a gun on you,’ she said. ‘He told you what he wanted you to do.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘’Don’t but me, man’,’ quoted Prime, putting on an astonishingly bad accent. ‘That’s what he said. I was there. I heard.’

He stared at her, with the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

‘Don’t blame yourself, Marcus,’ she added. ‘He went because he wanted to.’

‘’Two is better than one’,’ murmured Marcus, recalling his friend’s words. He blinked the tears away and smiled sadly. ‘He said to say “Hi” by the way.’

Prime glanced over as Daisy-Donnie reached the top of the hill.

Without realising why, Marcus glanced away suddenly.

Prime held out her hand and Daisy-Donnie walked slowly over.

* * *

DaisyDonnie dreamed…

They were walking; walking through wet, cold undergrowth.

Without stopping, they glanced around, trying to make sense of their surroundings.

A forest perhaps? Certainly there were a lot of trees around.

Although it appeared to be the middle of the night, they didn’t feel the cold. They were detached; a watcher wandering through a dreamscape.

They decided to settle in and enjoy the ride, ignoring a bizarre tug of familiarity. Deja-vu was a complete bitch at the best of times.

The treeline flowed into low scrub, then to a grassy clearing of perhaps an acre in size. Conical structures were dotted here and there, looking like hi-tech teepees.

The dream had revealed itself. They were walking through memories, dreaming of their first home. This was the village where they lived as children.

DaisyDonnie looked up into the sky with a sad smile, hoping to get a glance at the moon. Alas, it was the wrong time of the month.

Looking down once more, they surveyed the clearing, realising how small these homes really were. Everything looks big to an eight year old. Even bigger to two of them.

It was a pity it was the middle of the night, too. DaisyDonnie made a mental note to have a word with their subconscious to include some lights the next time they dreamed of home. And some people; some sound would have made this place a little less creepy.

A child began to cry; a fearful, scared sound which broke through the dark silence like nails on a blackboard, tapping straight into the right nerve. DaisyDonnie was now very frightened.

Note to self: ps, don’t be so bloody literal-minded.

Another child cried out in shock.

Without knowing why, DaisyDonnie ran toward the sound and found two children in one of the homes kneeling on the floor.

A moment of distraction hit DaisyDonnie; they’d run straight through a wall to find the children. This shock passed in a flash as they realised where they were, and the adrenaline of fear kicked-in properly.

The children looked up from the bodies with shock; a shock that was shared by DaisyDonnie… they knew what was coming.

‘You have to leave,’ said DaisyDonnie, voice rising to panic. ‘You have to leave now!’

The door behind DaisyDonnie opened with a theatrical creak of rusty hinges.

‘Hello there,’ said The Assassin.

BZORNT!

Daisy and Donnie will return

in

And Dream of Home

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

‘This is a bad idea,’ said the voice again. ‘Bad things happened here.’

They ignored the voice. Donnie turned to Daisy, and nodded in the direction of their home.

* * *

The silence between Marcus and The Assassin was pronounced. Prime kept to herself, smiling and half giggling.

‘This stuff is great,’ she slurred to no-one in particular.

The Assassin puffed on the cigarette

‘It’s probably illegal smoking in here,’ commented Marcus, conversationally.

The Assassin offered Marcus the pack. Marcus accepted it and lit one, taking a puff.

‘So’s using nuclear weapons without a permit,’ murmured The Assassin.

‘Which means they’ll arrest us first.’

The Assassin smiled wryly at Marcus, who nodded in agreement.

‘Bored, bored, bored, bored,’ babbled Prime. ‘Bored, bored, bored.’

Marcus looked up at the access panel. ‘What’s keeping him?’

* * *

Donnie pushed the door to the house open.

‘Mummy,’ whispered Daisy.

‘Daddy,’ whispered Donnie.

Only silence answered them; it was as if they had spoken into a padded room. There was no echo, no depth to the sound; it was muffled and lifeless in there.

They stepped in and tripped over.

* * *

Alarms went off.

Elvis slid down the ladder. He rubbed his hands at the bottom to relieve the pain of the slide.

‘It’s done,’ he said.

‘This way.’ The Assassin led once more.

‘Brilliant,’ said Marcus, and began to run, his movement hampered by the wheelchair, catching himself before he tripped.

He stopped, spun the chair around and faced Prime.

‘Wassup?’ She grinned manically at him.

Marcus lifted the drip bag from the rack on the wheelchair and held it firmly in a hand. Then he hefted Prime up over his shoulders in a Fireman’s hold and kicked the wheelchair out of the way.

‘Wheee!’ she said, and laughed wildly, waving her arms around, throwing him off-balance.

He swung around, regaining his footing, and his heart skipped a beat.

A Cubist goon stood behind them, weapon drawn.

The Assassin turned and knelt, firing a single bullet past Marcus and Prime. The Cubist fell to his knees, choking, blood spewing from his throat.

Marcus, turned to face The Assassin, horror on his face.

The Assassin holstered his gun, a silver revolver with a pearl-handle and led the way.

* * *

‘Do we care?’ asked Madame Pink, standing in the control room. Each few minutes a screen that once showed a picture of the retreating quartet changed to static and snow.

‘Not particularly. I would be interested, however, to know what he transmitted up on the roof.’

* * *

Daisy pushed herself up. Whatever was on the floor was moist and squidgy.

She turned and looked into the lifeless eyes of her father. A stain of blood obscured one of his eyes.

Donnie yelped, terrified to find himself kneeling on the body of his mother.

They jumped backwards, banging each other’s heads together.

‘You have to leave!’ screamed the voice into their ears. ‘You have to leave. Now!’

They jerked upwards, as if on invisible wires just as the door opened once more.

‘Hello there,’ said The Assassin. He held a pearl-handled revolver in his hand.

* * *

The pilot looked up as people bundled into the plane behind him.

‘You ready?’ called Elvis from the other end of the plane.

Marcus put Prime as gently as he could into one of the seats and fastened her seat-belt. He put the drip bag on her lap and made sure there were no kinks in the tube.

‘You didn’t give me much time,’ said the pilot. ‘Engines are warm.’

‘Great,’ said Elvis. ‘I hereby grant you honourary rank of Priest of the Church of Elvis. Complete the paperwork back at HQ and you’ll also get the full collection of albums.’

‘I’ve already done that,’ said Marcus with a grin. ‘How’d you think I got him to turn back in the first place?’

‘Get these two out of here,’ said Elvis, addressing the newly anointed priest.

‘What?’ demanded Marcus.

Elvis had already turned and jumped from the plane to the tarmac below. Marcus gave chase, grabbing Elvis’s shoulder and pulled him around.

He stepped back suddenly.

A pearl-handled, Presidential-issue revolver was poked into his stomach, the business-end leaving an indentation in his skin.

‘I’m not arguing, Marcus,’ yelled Elvis above the din of the engines and with a determined look in his eyes. ‘Either you go with her or I shoot you and you’ll both go anyway.’

Marcus stood dumbfounded, staring at his friend.

* * *

Prime woke, roused by the discussion and found herself unclipping her harness. She fell to the floor and followed the noise. She stopped briefly to retrieve the drip bag and continued to the door.

* * *

‘I mean it!’ yelled Elvis. ‘Someone has to carry on the fight. Two is better than one!’

‘But where are you going?’

‘They’re still in there,’ said The Assassin. ‘And we have to get them out before it’s too late.’

‘I can help,’ said Marcus, disbelieving.

‘No,’ Elvis’s statement was final. ‘Go with Prime.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t but me, man,’ Elvis’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘There’s not enough time to argue.’

‘He’s right,’ said the pilot, standing by the door. He had helped Prime up and her head lolled forwards, then upwards as she snapped herself awake through sheer willpower.

Elvis and Marcus stared at one-another.

‘If we miss this launch window, we’ll be stuck here for the next two hours,’ said the pilot.

‘And that means The BSD and Sisterhood will be all over you both.’ said Elvis. ‘And Prime’s on their hit-list. You know what they’ll do–’

‘I know,’ said Marcus quickly, knowing he had no way out.

‘I have to trust you to get her, to get you both to safety,’ said Elvis. ‘You have to continue the fight.’

Marcus glanced at the tarmac, then up to his friend with a shocked expression.

‘You’re…’ he began.

‘We have to leave,’ insisted The Assassin. ‘Now.’

Elvis lowered then holstered the gun and hugged his friend.

‘Keep going. We’ll be fine,’ he said and looked up as Prime passed-out once again.

Elvis gave Marcus a trademark grin.

‘Say ‘Hi’ to Prime for me.’

Marcus nodded, a frown of concern on his face.

‘Now, go!’

* * *

‘Run!’ screamed the voice.

The Assassin was enveloped in a blue mist. He screamed heartrendingly.

Daisy and Donnie ran through the house and through to the back door.

Outside now, the children ran, terrified, back into the forest, the main path the easiest route to use and by far the quietest.

Of course, it also meant it was also easier for their pursuer.

They took a detour.

* * *

Marcus helped the pilot return Prime to her seat, then returned to the door.

The engines screamed, the volume increasing as the plane slowly moved away.

Marcus stood in the doorway and watched.

‘I hope we meet again,’ he said, expecting the worst.

He closed the door.

* * *

Elvis and The Assassin stood and watched the plane moving slowly away

‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Elvis and turned to the Assassin. He extended a hand.

The Assassin took it and they shook once, like old enemies forced to work together, like two old friends on either side of a war.

‘It’s been a while,’ said Elvis.

‘It has at that,’ said The Assassin with the ghost of a smile. ‘Just like the old days.’ They turned and strode back to the doors.

Pinpricks of light appeared in the distance; they weren’t stars.

* * *

Daisy and Donnie ran blindly into the darkness, the voice no-longer in their heads.

They emerged in a clearing, one they had not come across before.

In the centre was a blue haze, which became clearer as they grew closer.

‘You have to be hidden,’ said a beautiful creature that stood before them. Androgynous, neither male nor female; ethereal. The being had astonishing flawless skin which shone with an inner light. The creature was every cosmetic company’s dream model.

It spoke with the voice that had always helped them.

‘I wish I could make your lives what they should be,’ said the creature with a sad smile.

‘Help us,’ pleaded Daisy.

‘Please help us,’ begged Donnie.

The creature nodded, tears in its eyes.

‘Take my hands…’

* * *

Daisy-Donnie awoke with a start.

They glanced up at their shoulder. A hand was there that wasn’t theirs.

Monsieur Bleu, attached to the hand by way of his arm, spoke. ‘Your enemies approach.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Daisy-Donnie. ‘Which ones particularly?’

‘All of them,’ said Madame Pink.

* * *

‘Target ahead,’ said the helicopter co-pilot.

Panix and Miss Rook stood behind the pilot and co-pilot, hands steadying themselves against the aircraft ceiling.

Below them, the jet slowly took off, climbing almost as if in slow-motion. The pilot was well aware of the danger from above, but any attempts to avoid it would have simply ripped the wings off.

‘We have a lock.’ The co-pilot flicked off the safety on the weapons console. The systems were ready. Visual displays showed the target and a red flashing cross-hair superimposed across it.

The plane continued on its course. Slowly it climbed, the engine roar audible from the helicopter’s cabin.

‘Ignore it,’ said Panix at last.

The jet pulled away, heading east.

‘Panix to wave one,’ he spoke into his mouthpiece as the helicopter came in to land. ‘Secure the area. Wave two, join your opposite numbers and find the targets.’

‘Sisters, enter from the East and West,’ said Miss Rook, her radio held close to her mouth. ‘Secure the devices by any means necessary. Ignore anything and everything between you and the weapons.’

* * *

Elvis and The Assassin stormed into the facility once again.

‘Goddamn it, if the junk food doesn’t kill me,’ gasped Elvis, ‘it’ll be the exercise exploding my heart.’

The Assassin said nothing, but came to a stop beside a door with which Donnie would have been familiar.

And like before, it opened, and the hapless Harold stepped out.

‘Oh my god!’ he prostrated himself before Elvis. ‘I tried to deliver the message, I really did.’

‘You seem to have an effect on people,’ said The Assassin, looking over at Elvis with a sarcastic smile.

‘Uh-huh.’

* * *

Daisy-Donnie was hustled along to the Control Room and offered a chair next to a small table.

The room was a carbon-copy of the one which Donnie and Prime had become entangled several jumps earlier. A wall of screens on one side of the room, and another wall opposite.

They glanced over at the table and noticed a small black book sitting there.

‘The Book of Cubes,’ said Daisy-Donnie. Now that was odd; they were sure they’d heard of this publication. Maybe it was one of those book-into-movie debacles they had heard so much about, probably one starring an ex-comedian with a script which removed all the good bits.

In the absence of anything else to do, Daisy-Donnie flicked through the book. It contained lots of bizarre illustrations that Picasso had either drawn, tried to imitate, or had dreamed of; lots of eyeballs looking up their own noses.

Madame Pink and Monsieur Bleu studied the screens for activity, ignoring Daisy-Donnie for the moment.

‘There,’ said Madame Pink, pointing.

Two figures ran along a gantry…

Click to see the next installment: pornography (part 3)

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

He sat up and looked over at the door to the cell, which had swung slightly open.

A trap? Surely not. They already had him, what would be the point of doing anything funky now?

Of course, those damn Cubists were capable of almost anything; belief was a bitch to circumvent sometimes.

He stood, grabbed his jacket and turned to leave. He turned back and picked-up the sunglasses sitting on the table by the bed.

He slowly pushed the cell door open. It creaked on elderly hinges and he took a quick glance outside.

He crept from the cell, observing the usual things you’d find where cells were involved: a pile of telephone books against one wall and several fire hoses in a disorganised mess in the corner.

Now at the control desk he noted the the lever to his cell had been pulled down, which had resulted in his fortunate escape. He pulled down on the other three levers and glanced over. As each door opened there was an accompanying buzzing sound.

Elvis walked back down to see if there was anyone in the other cells.

‘What took you so long?’ asked Marcus from cell number three. He stepped out.

‘I’ll explain on the way,’ replied Elvis and opened the door of the next cell.

Prime lay sleeping on the bed. Her legs were heavily bandaged and she was clad in an out-of-character white gown. A tube from a blood-filled bag terminated in a ball of bandage on her left hand.

‘Hi darlin’,’ said Elvis as she stirred on the bed.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she replied with a disappointed tone. ‘Where’s Johnny Depp when you need him?’

‘Who?’

* * *

‘You know, I don’t feel too well,’ said Daisy-Donnie.

The surroundings blurred and Daisy-Donnie found the perspectives shifting wildly. They realised what was happening far too late to react.

Daisy-Donnie slowly collapsed to the shiny obsidian floor.

* * *

‘I just want to know where the hell my guns are,’ muttered Elvis, rifling through the storage cabinets and drawers. ‘Nixon gave them to me, for crying out loud. They’re Presidential issue revolvers, man.’

‘I’m sure they’ll turn up,’ said Marcus. ‘Ah, there’s one.’

Elvis had opened a drawer and inside was a pair of handcuffs and one of his guns.

‘Damn,’ he said, irritated to have lost the other gun. He stood and looked at Marcus while checking the gun for bullets. ‘Turn your collar up.’

‘What? Fashion tips from you?’

‘Just do it,’ He twisted the gun in the air and the magazine slammed shut. Then he turned his collar up.

‘I’m back,’ said Elvis.

* * *

Daisy-Donnie opened their eyes. The walls were moving upwards. No, not the walls, the ceiling.

‘Hmmm?’ they said, still unused to the voice. ‘Wassgoin… on?’

They looked up and saw an unfamiliar face. He stared straight ahead.

The trolley bumped through a pair of swinging doors just as Daisy-Donnie fell into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

Elvis, Prime and Marcus carefully and quickly made their way through the facilities, trying to to find a way out.

‘Where’s Donnie?’ asked Prime, still groggy from the anesthetic, sitting in the wheelchair from her cell.

‘Don’t know,’ said Elvis honestly. ‘We’re getting you out of here then we’ll go lookin’.’

‘I’m not going anywhere. Just give me something to defend myself and I’ll be… fine,’ she lulled forwards, then raised her head again. ‘ooo. That felt thing… um.. funny…’

Elvis nodded. ‘Graceland’ll be wondering where the hell we are by now.’

They turned a corner and stopped dead. A man was standing there, dressed in black.

‘You took your time,’ said The Assassin, looking pointedly at his watch.

‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Marcus.

‘Who the hell is who?’ asked Prime. ‘Hey, if I go cross-eyed I have… one… two…three hands.’

She giggled happily.

Elvis stared, then his shoulders dropped.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

‘You know this guy?’ asked Marcus.

Elvis glanced at Marcus then strode over to The Assassin. They stood and conversed in whispers for a few moments. A nod from Elvis and he gestured for Marcus to wheel Prime forward.

‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ said Marcus brightly and somewhat sarcastically.

‘Be glad that you haven’t,’ The Assassin replied.

‘He’s a friend,’ interjected Elvis. ‘He released us. And now we’ve got to get the hell out of here.’

The Assassin turned and began to walk.

‘This way,’ he said.

* * *

Daisy-Donnie dreamed.

They dreamed of their childhood, spent in the forests of home, playing in amongst the trees and on the grass.

They remembered the first word they said; a child’s hand pointing forwards and two tiny little voices.

‘Look Mummy,’ said Donnie, beginning the sentence.

‘There’s a cloud up in the sky,’ said Daisy, finishing it.

Daisy and Donnie remembered growing up together. Sister and brother born moments apart.

Everything had been new then; the only running was from their friends, both imaginary and real.

The light bouncy memories faded into darkness, and Daisy-Donnie were drawn back to a dark, wet night; a memory like a nightmare, a nightmare that was a memory.

With tears rolling down their cheeks, Daisy and Donnie crouched in the bushes that formed the border between their village and the rest of the forest, they heard harsh whip-cracks of sound, the screams all deadened by the oppressive, wet darkness.

Daisy and Donnie hid. Their friend kept them safe.

* * *

Marcus and Elvis stood just inside the room. Prime sat, but that was okay.

The walls of the huge room were lined floor-to-ceiling with metal boxes, each with strong handles and warnings printed in various languages.

Each had a particular yellow and black symbol printed prominently on its side.

‘Oh my,’ said Marcus with shock.

‘Indeed,’ said The Assassin, turning to face them from the centre of the vault. ‘I thought you’d appreciate this for what it was.’

‘How many of them are there,’ asked Marcus.

‘Enough.’ The Assassin turned to address Marcus.

‘Enough for what?’ asked Marcus.

‘I heard the test-firing went like a dream,’ said The Assassin ignoring Marcus’s question.

Grim realisation hit Elvis and Marcus at once. If it hit Prime she didn’t acknowledge it, but that was okay seeing as she was unconscious and drugged to the eyeballs with pain medication.

‘Tasmania,’ said Elvis.

‘But it was a French nuke,’ said Marcus.

‘The Cubists are French,’ said The Assassin. ‘Not that it matters of course; they have no links to government; other than being the managers of their most deadly weapons.’

Marcus glanced up. ‘It was them?’

‘Oh, man,’ said Elvis, leaning against a wall with one hand flat against it.

‘The bomb that was used in Tasmania was delivered on a cargo plane that flew out of this airport twenty hours ago. It was crash-landed and exploded by remote-control.’

‘Why?’ asked Elvis, still leaning against the wall.

‘Cubists,’ said The Assassin, with an expression of patient frustration. ‘How better to see people at their best and worst, to see things from every angle.’

Elvis closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Damn,’ he murmured.

‘Then why did the French say it was one of theirs,’ asked Marcus.

‘It was one of theirs,’ said The Assassin with a shrug. ‘They didn’t order the bombing of course, but they were truthful when they said one of their weapons had been used to blow up a small island in the middle of nowhere. They omitted, of course, that the nuke had been used improperly.’

Marcus gave him a confused look.

‘The worlds weapons are managed privately,’ explained The Assassin. ‘Like everything else.’

Marcus stared, open-mouthed.

‘The French would have suffered politically if they’d admitted the truth, that the Cubists had taken one of their bombs and used it for their own ends,’ The Assassin explained. ‘And besides, they all knew the government would just roll-over.’

‘Which is why we’ve been pulled into it,’ said Elvis, putting the pieces together.

‘Easier to blame a group that won’t bend to their will than to tell the truth.’

‘Politics,’ spat Marcus.

‘Plausible Deniability,’ agreed The Assassin. ‘It looks good in the press if they have someone to blame.’

‘And they knew they couldn’t touch the ones really behind it,’ said Elvis. ‘Even if they knew it was the Cubists.’

Elvis stood straight now and walked further into the room, turning on his heel to observe the horror that filled it. Box upon box filled the shelves. They seemed to go on forever. It was like walking between two mirrors,

‘And now they’ve got nukes as far as the eye can see,’ he said.

Prime opened her eyes. ‘Wheeee! What’re they darls?’

‘Pain medication’s obviously good,’ commented Marcus. ‘Nasty things, sweetie.

‘Very Nasty Things.’ said Elvis.

* * *

Daisy and Donnie hid in the undergrowth as the stranger approached, knowing he would not find them. It was the game they were best at – for so-long as they remained calm, no-one could find them if they didn’t want them to.

‘Come out,’ he said simply, quietly and without demand.

Daisy and Donnie stayed put, watching as the stranger walked slowly past.

‘He’s a bad man,’ whispered the voice of their friend. ‘You have to always remember that.’

Daisy and Donnie nodded and slowly, carefully rose. The stranger had gone deep enough into the brush for them to avoid detection.

They stood carefully and walked slowly back into the clearing using their secret track. A few minutes later they emerged in the clearing. A giant oak tree stood in the middle of the glade.

All was silent, and the darkness enveloped everything; the environment of every nightmare made real.

* * *

‘We need to get somewhere I can get a clear signal,’ said Elvis, addressing The Assassin.

The Assassin nodded and led them from the room to another corridor.

‘How do you know your way around,’ asked Marcus.

‘It’s a talent,’ said The Assassin bluntly.

He stopped by a ladder which led up to to the roof.

‘Right,’ said Elvis, beginning to climb.

‘Calling in the cavalry?’ asked Marcus.

‘Kind-of,’ replied Elvis, who turned and gave Marcus a worried look. He dropped back to the ground.

‘You’re not fucking serious,’ snapped Marcus, reacting as if stung.

‘We’re stuck, Marcus,’ said Elvis, turning to face him properly. ‘We don’t have the manpower to secure them all.’

‘But… what about–’

‘None of our people can move now. If they do they’ll be held and thrown into

detention,’ said Elvis. ‘You know this.’

Marcus stared furiously.

‘Calling in the BSD and The Sisterhood is the only way left to handle this.’

Marcus stood, mouth open. ‘This isn’t a serious option. You can’t… There has to be someone else.’

‘You’d rather see them in the hands of the Cubists? Or the Government?’ Elvis was annoyed now, but not at Marcus.

Marcus broke the gaze, shoulders dropping.

‘There’s got to be another way,’ he murmured.

‘We’ve already seen what they’ll do,’ said Elvis now referring to the Cubists. ‘They’ll nuke something just to see what’ll happen. That’s what they are.’

‘And no-one will stop them,’ said The Assassin. ‘No-one can.’

‘See the world from every way possible,’ murmured Marcus. ‘They’re forces of Chaos.’

‘No, chaos is nature,’ said The Assassin cooly. ‘The Cubists are forces of destruction. This is only the beginning.’

Marcus glanced up and took a deep breath. He knew he was beaten.

‘The BSD and The Sisterhood are nuts,’ Elvis continued. ‘But they’re our kind of nuts. Manageable nuts. The Cubists have to be disarmed somehow.’

‘We are running out of time,’ said The Assassin.

‘Shut up,’ Elvis rounded angrily on The Assassin.

The Assassin raised his right eyebrow and took a quiet yet deep breath. He stepped back a little and reached into a pocket, retrieving a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

‘Mutually Assured Destruction, Marcus.’ said Elvis, now addressing his Cardinal. ‘They’ll both have the nukes and they’ll both be balanced. It’ll be like it always was.’

Marcus didn’t have an answer.

‘You know it’s the only way,’ insisted Elvis.

The Assassin lit a cigarette and the lighter closed with a flick of his wrist.

The lighter had a design of an Eagle on it.

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

‘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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‘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.

* * *

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

‘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.

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

Oh, this again, he thought.

Daisy opened her eyes. Blinked and frowned.

‘Who’re you?’ she asked the man directly above her. He had a very goofy expression on his face.

There was no reaction, no change to the rhythm, nor a hint that he’d even heard her.

She rolled her eyes and repeated the question.

‘Who…are-’ she said, then exclaimed: ‘ohmygod!’

Marcus was on top of her, having his manly way with her. It was the absent beard and slicked back haircut that had confused her.

It was a pity he’d lost the goatee; it was actually a turn-on and useful in ways other than just looks. Without it he looked like a square-jawed 1960′s secret agent, which had never been her thing.

Her mind raced, trying desperately to work-out where the hell she was. As she glanced from side-to-side she realised the room was decorated in the unmistakable style of the decade of protest; and it wasn’t just cheap knock-offs either.

‘Hnyahhhh…’ gasped Marcus, then collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily. After a moment, he rolled onto his back, and reached across to the bedside table where he picked up the telephone and dialed a number that appeared to feature mostly fives.

‘All done here,’ he said. ‘You can come at any time.’

Nice, thought Daisy. First I’m subjected to the Missionary Position and now I’m brushed-off like cat fur.

He hung-up and picked up a small, flat silver box.

‘Cigarette,’ he asked, offering her one, speaking with perfect the perfect intonation of a BBC announcer. ‘My own blend.’

‘No thanks,’ said Daisy, conscious of her slack Australian accent. She only smoked Menthols anyway.

He reached over and picked up a zippo lighter with an engraved bird on the side.

Daisy slipped from the bed and picked up a robe that had fallen onto the floor. Putting it on, she stepped past the underwear, the shirt, trousers, top, shoes, socks and skirt, and wandered over to the window.

‘You’re a quiet lover,’ he said, exhaling the smoke. ‘Different to other girls.’

That would be because you’re crap, thought Daisy, but ‘hmm’d’ a bemused affirmative. These curtains were amazing and the view beyond was stunning. They were quite high-up. She glanced down and tried to orient herself.

‘Lazenby is Bond,’ she read from a large poster in the distance. ‘Diamonds are Forever.’

Well, that nailed it; definitely a different world. She made a mental note to go see that movie. She’d often wondered how the Bond series would have worked out with a different actor in the part.

‘Why do Australian girls taste different from other girls?’

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

Donnie looked down and saw an empty plate. On a table.

He looked up with a frown.

‘Would sir like to see the wine list,’ asked the waiter.

Donnie fell sideways from his chair, pain the only thing registering through the violent headache exploding through his brain.

‘Ahem,’ said the waiter. To Donnie he sounded like he was yelling through a 6000 watt PA system with the volume set to 11.

‘Please don’t speak so loudly,’ hissed Donnie as he clawed his way upwards again.

‘Terribly sorry sir,’ whispered the waiter, playing along. ‘Would sir wish to see the wine list?’

‘Ooo,’ said Donnie, a grin on his face. He winced from additional movement and while his conscious mind tried desperately to work out which muscles should stop moving, his unconscious formed a rather useful algorithm:

Donnie blinked a couple of times, and the logic made sense. He looked up and smiled some more, though not without further pain.

‘I would love to see the list,’ he said in an agonised whisper.

The waiter handed him the document with considerable distaste; it wasn’t becoming to lust after alcohol.

‘Hmm, old and dusty, old and dusty… ‘murmured Donnie. He looked up and addressed the man in another whisper.

‘I’ll have the Chateau Neuf ’35.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter. ‘And something to eat? Sir.’

Donnie gave him a blank stare.

The waiter coughed an ‘A-hem’; politely pointing out that he was making some kind of point which had hitherto not been noticed by Donnie.

‘Just the booze,’ whispered Donnie, now sure his brain was being pushed out of his ears like mince through a mincer.

‘The Armenian salad is particularly good tonight,’ insisted the waiter.

‘Does it have alcohol in it?’ whispered Donnie, checking his ears. No blood; of course, all that proved was that he was fundamentally brainless.

The waiter looked uncomfortable.

‘I am not aware of this possibility, sir.’ He coughed another ‘a-hem’.

‘Right, off you go then,’ said Donnie, fingering his ears; there had to be something coming out, surely? Other than earwax of course. ‘And bring my plonk forthwith.’

The waiter turned on his heel and stalked off.

Donnie closed his eyes in an effort to reduce the pounding agony he was experiencing, slowly letting the pain migrate from hemisphere to hemisphere and finally coalesce in his upper neck.

A can rattled loudly beside his left ear.

Donnie screamed and fell sideways from the chair, holding his head in his hands in an effort to stop the agony.

‘Would you like to make a donation,’ asked the young man standing beside the now vacant chair. ‘It’s to save endangered sea life.’

‘Only if you stop shouting,’ hissed Donnie. With white spots popping in front of his eyes and the pain back in his cranium, he crawled back onto the chair.

The waiter placed the requested bottle on the table and, in a most contemptuous way, paced off once more without even so much as pouring a sample for Donnie to try.

Not that it mattered of course. Donnie focussed on the bottle while murmuring to himself.

‘MyHeadHurts is true, Booze is true.’ He nodded with a smile. ‘Repeat…’

One of Donnie’s great unsung talents was a total lack of a gag reflex. He synchronised his breathing and guzzled the contents of the bottle in one go.

The man with the can winced slightly at the sound of the last of the expensive wine being sucked from the bottle.

Donnie pulled the empty receptacle away from his mouth. He gasped and sniffed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Oh,’ he said after another moment, and noticed the pain had dulled substantially; the nuclear bomb tests going on in his skull had been successfully disrupted by a protest flotilla of nearly a liter of a good quality French red.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Donnie with a grin. ‘That feels better.’

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

He opened his eyes and winced from the sudden dazzlingly bright lights before him. His ears were being assaulted by screeching sound from somewhere in the room.

‘All right,’ he yelled with his sister’s voice, answering the gender identity question once and for all, and closed her eyes as tightly as she could. ‘For crying out loud, turn it off!’

No-one responded; it was entirely possible they didn’t hear her.

On and on the sound went, screeching up and down. She couldn’t see anything past the lights, her senses were on overload. Nothing was getting through, not the surface she was lying against, nor what was restraining her.

Suddenly the lights and sound stopped. The room was plunged into darkness.

She shook her head, unable to see or hear, but glad of the sudden quiet.

‘Hello,’ she thought she said; she knew her lips moved, but heard nothing.

Again the lights went on. The noise followed.

‘Fuck,’ she yelled. ‘What do you want?!’

The noise and light continued for what seemed like an eternity, then stopped again.

She shook her head and glanced around, eyes still unable to focus. A new rectangular source of light became evident; a doorway had opened.

Two shapes, perhaps human, walked quickly into the room and pulled her head upwards.

She tried to focus, to lift her head away, but it was held firm.

She was slapped hard across her face. The force wrenched her head to one side and her cheek smacked into the wall.

Before she knew it, her bonds had been removed and she was being dragged along a corridor, blinking madly.

‘What’s this about,’ she asked in a whisper.

Neither of the guards answered.

She tried to get her legs beneath her, but they were too weak. Her senses began to report that she was horribly and sickeningly hungry.

A doorway was opened before her and she was thrown inside.

Her body went into shut-down and everything went dark once again.

* * *

Sudden cold woke her; she was soaking wet.

She opened her eyes and saw water. Struggling slightly she realised someone was holding her head beneath the surface.

She fought as best she could, but her strength was gone; her body weak from lack of protein and constant abuse.
She gulped, trying desparately not to breathe-in the water, but it was not enough.

Convulsing she fought one last time, and was yanked upwards out of the water, choking and spluttering; water had gone down into her windpipe and she was unable to clear it on her own.

She was dumped onto the floor and pain exploded in her abdomen; someone had kicked her stomach.

The water exploded from her throat and she gasped, gulping air.

She heard boots walking around her.

‘You were caught,’ said the voice in a monotone, then repeated: ‘You were caught.’

Daisy gulped air and shook from fear and confusion. What was all this?

‘We have you now,’ said the voice.

Was the voice female?

‘I’d let the others at you, but there are rules,’ said the woman derisively. She continued to circle, then repeated, ‘you were caught.’

‘Caught,’ whispered Daisy flatly. ‘Caught?’

‘Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ said the woman, continuing to circle. ‘And now we’ve got you.’

‘What is this,’ Daisy whispered, now blinking far faster than was normal; the shock had caught-up with her and her body was shuddering uncontrollably.

‘You were caught and now we have to make an example of you,’ said the woman.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ said the woman.

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)

image by FroggyFrog

He woke up with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. He didn’t find what he was looking for, which meant he would have to remember not to answer to the male pronoun.

She opened her eyes.

A set of train tracks lay three feet in front of her. She looked over her shoulder and read the graffiti on the side of a building.

She remembered that slogan from the last time.

Daisy Penfolde stood up and looked around. In the distance in front of her was a bridge. Behind was the sound of an approaching train. It was probably time to get off the tracks.

She examined her clothes as she walked, while simultaneously shortening her steps and forcing herself not to walk with a cro-magnon gait. She was dressed for a night out, and as a result, she was freezing.

Slowly, the memories of the last brief existence flowed back. It was the closest she’d been to death in quite some-time.

The bridge finally presented itself and she climbed carefully down, arriving at the bottom in a what appeared to be a university district. This assumption was reinforced by a large number of semi-literate youth, together with an expansive set of second-hand record and book-shops. The presence of a whopping great sign with ‘University’ on it was also a pretty good indicator that her supposition was correct.

The university building, the one with the sign on it, was the biggest in the district and was  topped with the biggest satellite dish she had ever seen.

As she walked past the kids, some of whom she recognised, others she didn’t, a graveyard of Goths presented itself. One winked at her, then pulled a zippo lighter with an engraved symbol on it that looked rather like a bird.

Her mind put the imagery together: goths=coffins, lighter=cigarettes.

Just what she needed.

© 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.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.daisydonnie.com/contact/. 9ae3f9335452f165d38cf62b412d20be (38.107.179.213)