Lucky Ming was the type of woman Constance Lawless hated most: A competitor.  From past encounters in Europe, the near east, Africa, Asia and sometimes South America, Constance knew Ming as a formidable, lethal woman.   Her mixture of brains, creativity, bravery, flexibility, strength, agility, beauty, and ruthlessness, absence of conscience, to mention but a few strengths, made her dangerous. 

Constance also pondered why the Chinese would send Ming, a high-value asset, to work in the US, as the US had superior resources for detecting and removing threats to its national security.  A prise must be great to put an operative of Ming’s skill into action.  And Ming hadn’t the slightest compunction about killing anything interfering with her goals.  Wolverine beware!

By now, Constance had her driver hurtling the Range Rover down I-44 towards St Louis.  The Rover had already passed the Rolla exit.  How near or far was Ming?  Did she have accomplices?  Did she have covert escort cars tracking her?  

As Constance saw it, Ming’s obvious goal was to reach the Chinese embassy for sanctuary and escape.  Then, again, she might prefer a covert rescue at a port or via air.  Constance recalled Ming escaping from the Levant after killing a disobedient Arab when a helicopter snatched her up before a posse of foes reached her. Mostly likely, she then got lowered onto a cargo ship and then vanished. If Constance had to guess, Ming went to Africa on that occasion.  Ming, she guessed, adored Africa.  With so much poverty and abysmal educational resources, it was a master operator’s paradise, especially if she avoided the hottest climates.

Constance liked Africa. Exciting memories encircled her.  She visited it during a tour to figure out where a woman had the best chance of meeting superior lovers.  Africa fared well.  England and Ireland were disgraces.  According to Constance, Ireland had filled itself with Catholic neurasthenics. It was a island of sexual cripples.  England was a country populated by repressed homosexualists.  When a woman landed there, a woman could count on wearing all her whips out.  That said, Constance had an attraction to the zany Lord Caligula.  He knew how to treat a woman, but could be pressed back into a submissive, English schoolboy stance with no effort at all.  Thank goodness for the English public schools, even if they had pushed out generation after generation of wimpy closeted homsexualists.  

On the other hand African men were a tonic, as were Australians.  Japanese men were okay.  Most European men were adequate.  South American men were a mixed bag.

But I’m straying, as, or so I am told, was Constance.  HJer unconscious churned zippy-zip as she reviewed Lucky’s escape options.  

Back at Wolverine’s estate, he was busy.  When he surveyed the scene, he knew somebody had seized one of his bots.  He was outraged.  Even with his limited forensic abilities, he got the gist of the operation.  Some daring-dor or doers had dumped a horrid mix of shit, tar, and god knows what else onto his bot.  Its eyes locked and blinded made it easy prey.  Something had melted a portion of the bot, as was seen by  pieces of resolidified metals on and about the remaining, stinky, fly-drawing half of Cornpone’s body.

Wolverine reasoned that Cornpone was bait for the bot.  He felt some pleasure when he noticed the Cornpone’s S&W Model 10.  When Wolverine checked the cylinder, he saw that several unfired  .38 SP P+ rounds were still in it.  Cornpone had fired 3 rounds. Rather stupid of Cornpone to fire.  He might as well have tried to kill an anvil with his revolver.  

Elation began to crawl over Wolverine, as he grew certain, after looking at a wallet (how careless of Corny) that verified his idea.  Corpone it was.  Of course, it would be hard not to spot a corpse so fat. Then, again, Pulaski was fat man territory.   The stench of Cornpole’s last dump was powerful.   As Wolverine moved away, he looked at the bright side.  Cornpone will no longer show up asking silly questions about two non-existent in the present and future G-men.  Good riddance to that succulent, nosey redhead and her muscle bound, dimwitted partner.  Two points for the bot that day.  Today the bot had met its match.

As Wolverine left, he ordered his crew to apprehend–dead or alive–the thief.  He told his crew they would rue the day if they did not return the bot, no matter its current condition.  It was treasured Munitions Galore property.  

Once back home, Wolverine learnt from his servants of his mum’s visit.  Needing somewhere to ventilate, Wolverine left an angry, angry message on my voicemail about how inopportune was the moment his mum had chosen to come.  He levied a familiar complaint:  What a nest of thieves the world has become.  There is no respect for life either.   Hear ye! Hear ye! Trump is not the only person with a gift for projection.

Wolverine’s litany of complaints expanded when he began talking about the hypersensitive Emperor Xi.  Xi has set a ballbusting ancestor of Ming the Merciless on him.  Now, as if he didn’t have enough to do, he had to mete out justice to Ms Ming unless his mum did the job for him.

You’d have to hear the message to grasp how much angrier he got as he ratcheded  himself up over Ming’s “misbehaviour.”  

There’s no doubt that he learnt further details from his servants.  He must have let his crew know that Ming was headed for points unknown.  He surely sent photographs of her as well.

Everybody reading the news in Pulaski County knows that somehow that day, Ming’s gorgeous Waynesville house burnt to the ground.  As a saavy journalist, I know Wolverine’s guys must have turned the house inside out during a search before burning it all.  The local fire department declared the fire an arson.  Coppers announced their arrest of several locals, described variously as drunks, undesirables, tramps and, as if there is a difference, Democrat Activists.  What else?  Waynesville’s in rural Missouri.