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.

1-13: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.

* * *