Creative men, even if swindlers, have thoughts that elude ordinary beings. As Lord Caligula savoured his post-tryst bliss with the scent of Constance’s sweat saturating him, Peregrine and Wolverine were scurrying about the salon like a couple of trapped rats. None of the goodies at hand soothed them. No fine champagne, no truffles, no caviar promised to relax their minds for problem solving.
Peregrine squealed he knew not what to do to rescue them. Lord Caligula rebuked him.
“You remind me, boy, of a prissy girl who has wet her panties. Get a grip.” And then his Lordship began to explain a lucrative way out.
“We must enlist the Americans as brokers of our goods. For obvious reasons, nobody, not even Putin or Xi, will try to strong arm them. As it happens, one of my dear school chums is just the man to pull our balls out of the fire. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Binky, Binky Dalrymple. Binky was so sneaky a boy that his parents packed him off to Eton for his schooling. He then went to Cambridge, where he read History, specialising in scams through the ages. He was dissipated and clever enough to be made an Apostle. Bink has gifts.
“After Binky left Cambridge, he returned to America where his waspy parents got him a job with the Christians in Action (CIA). Despite a civil servant’s salary, I know that Binky’s accounts grew fatter and fatter. The man is a Croesus. He also disdains the honest acquisition of money. Half the fun of money is stealing it. The CIA gave Binky so many crooked contacts and means that I suspect he has more shell companies and foreign accounts than Japan has lanterns. Our enterprise will be just the kind of knave’s project he loves.
“Once Binky wraps his mind around this financial possibilities, he’ll be prising maximum value from our wares. And he will have it well guarded.
“I know for a fact that Binky uses the Mossad as muscle. He also has gangs of former Legion Etrangere to apply pressure and connections in every foreign intelligence agency with killing skills.”
“But why,” asked Peregrine, “would Americans do this for us?”
“It will look like the Americans are doing this for us. In reality, Binky is doing this for us . . . and not for free either.”
Wolverine blurted out, “But won’t people figure out where the Arms are coming from? Lucky seems to know.”
“Look,” riffed his Lordship, “once Binky has all the cogs and wheels going, a team of gods wouldn’t know who sold what to whom. It will be the shell game to end all shell games.”
But how could Putin get anything? If you cut him out, there’ll be trouble,” sang Peregrine and Wolverine.
“Do you believe stuff never falls off the backs of lorries. The world is rife with thieves too. Binky will work out how to sell and distributed to everybody, though perhaps Putin will pay a premium, but will never know it.”
Nothing surprised me as much as learning that Constance arranged to have Binky and Lord Caligula powwow at the north country mansion of her husband Irascible Lawless. The mansion’s remote location on Michigan’s upper peninsula along an ambiguous stretch of American-Canadian border assured plenty of privacy.
Irascible began by objecting to the use of his mansion for the meeting, but relented when Constance told him the fee she had negotiated for him. Wolverine was kind enough to send me photos of chez mes parents. The house had fireplace that would have pleased Goliath. Flames went flying up a good twelve feet before entering the chimney. The room had large leather sofas made from a variety of animal skins that Irascible’s servants had draped with fine Turkish rugs. The floor had slashes in it.
Irascible refused any form of carpeting. From time to time, he liked to slash his claws into the floor, and then pull up sheets of oak. Nothing that interfered with this pleasure, which grated on Constance, was permitted. The walls had paintings and photographs of Irascible in all manner of activities, but most of the “art” showed Irascible killing other animals. Nor was he the least backward about having the artists show gore.
When Binky and Lord Caligula arrived, Irascible excused himself. Constance was present. Irascible looked at her, looked at his Lordship, then quipped, “At least when you use my house, instead of Constance, I get a fee.”
I don’t know what happened during the negotiations between Binky and Caligula. Wolverine told me he could often hear them laughing. A lot of booze, fish, and fresh game got carted in and out of the room. After three days, the two of them announced an agreement.
Once again Wolverine aided my journalism. He got me a photograph of Binky, a rotund, pink-skinned man wearing a birder’s outfit with an improbable number of calculators bulging from its pockets. He wore thick, Martin Scorsese glasses and, perhaps in honour of the locale, sported an orange pitch helmet. He also carried a holstered S&W Model 29. Lord Caligula contented himself with a riding crop.
When Bart and Fielding discovered photographs of Irascible’s mansion, they got a face of disgust.
“What’s the use of having Trump as president if he is going to let your scofflaw friends fill their house with northern vermin. We don’t mind that a lot of it is dead, but in looking through the pictures, it is clear that in the north no progress with a big wall has occurred. Instead marauding beasts still invade from the north. Our Prez would do well to watch more episodes of Game of Thrones to educate himself on where the real threat to our country is. Why carry on about scrawny Mexicans when there are god-damn polar bears headed our way as we speak?” Off they went in a huff.
With the recent disasters in Lithuania, Cornwall, and Montana branded into the intelligence communities of all major players throughout the world, Munitions Galore found itself flooded with requests for Ice-10 bombs that it supposedly did not have. The failure of MI-5 to find any Ice-10 bombs, far from discouraging demand, increased it. Absence of evidence, never the best indicator of evidence of absence, inflamed the minds of acquisition officials. Munitions Galore must indeed know the value of Ice-10 is enormous to have hidden samples so well. Its invisibility showed how valuable it was.
Once Peregrine, Wolverine, and Lord Caligula confounded the MI-5 agents, his Lordship went to the House of Lords sober to begin a series of talks on the glaring incompetence of MI-5. When Englishmen are murdered on a stretch of Cornwall beach, MI-5 and other organs of her Majesty’s government must find better uses of its time than the persecution of patriotic members of an English company that has done so much to keep the free world free. Â
Having picked up speed, his Lordship invited educated Englishmen to behold the state of their country. Just hours before coming to the House of Lords, his Lordship said MI-5 gangs of muscle-bound men and fatuous women–whose accents guaranteed they were graduates of comprehensives and redbrick universities, or worse–had attacked his two ablest assistants at Munitions Galore. These clods had launched clumsy webs of deceit that tried to blame Munitions Galore for MI-5’s ineptitude. Her Majesty should thank almighty God that the good people at Munitions Galore worked ceaselessly to preserve Great Britannia. Tears leaked from the sides of each eye, and he did not ever have to use any onions in his sleeves to elicit them.Â
As he left the House of Lords, packs from BBC, Fleet Street, and the foreign press set upon him. He promised them they would receive evidence from his solicitor on the perfidious doings of the Home Office.
Putin sat with his advisors in Moscow watching coverage of events in London whilst contemplating the totality of the situation. A young aid volunteered that despite the threats and hateful commentary emanating from the EU and America, Putin’s reputation had continued to soar in Africa. Crockett’s features in L’Afrique Aujourd’hui had won Putin boundless love on the Streets. It was enough to make Mugabe wonder if he should commission features by Crockett. Stories that incantations of Putin’s name cured impotence, West Nile Virus, and prevented being eaten by crocs or drowned by conniving hippopotami endeared Putin to simple people throughout the eastern Congo. Also, Crockett’s assurances that pure-hearted requests to the heavens in Putin’s name would make a man wealthy and immune to HIV were especially dear to African teamsters, as was the idea that a sinless man’s prayer in Putin’s name would resurrect Lumumba.
After listening to this new news, Putin said out loud that his popularity in Africa was not translating well in DC, Jerusalem, Paris, Berlin, Rome, London, Tokyo, Stockholm or, less surprisingly, Vilnius. Turning to his Minister Laughoff, he said, “Get this young genius posted to Goma to begin figuring out why. And let’s look a little deeper than the impact of Crockett’s clever stories.” A couple of security officers removed the now crying aid.
Nothing like horseback riding lifted Lord Caligula’s spirits. Constance understood so she made no objection when he fitted her naked body with a saddle and himself with a cap and riding crop. With possible fights with Lucky looming, these were precisely the kind of workout that readied her for the struggles ahead. Besides, she got to pay his Lordship back double when she mounted him after his old body made it possible for him to continue as the top.  Sooner or later every Etonian revealed himself for what he was. Thank God Winston went to Sandhurst. Even Bertrand Russell wisely submitted to education at home before attending college in that nest of Sodomites on the River Cam.Â
At least Lord Russell seems to have escaped the clutches of the squeaking pervert Lytton Strachey. Of course, Constance was far from sure that running with Bloomsbury women was a bit better. “Gad,” she thought, “Russell’s afternoons in the arms of shallow nympho Ottoline Morrel, yuck. l hope he escaped from the Lesbo Virginia Woolf. Life as a catamite would be better.”
After recreating with Constance, the refreshed Caligula put on his dinner clothes to sup with Peregrine and Wolverine. They had to decide how to maximize profits from the bots, and stealth bombs, especially the Ice-10 models, without having the CIA, MI-5, Mossad, the BND, the DGSE, etc., etc. murder them.
When Wolverine and Peregrine were telling me about their recent worries and doings over dinner, I told them I was surprised that intelligence services still killed opponents. The two of them fell to the floor they were laughing so hard. “Yes, and Armies don’t buy weapons that will kill civilians en masse either.” They thought my naivete was priceless. Live and learn, I say.
Today my plan was to write more about what happened in London regarding the emerging Ice-10 tempest collapsed. Fate turned against me. On Monday, my trusty, albeit bitchy, amanuensis, mike, tested positive for COVID or what he calls Trumps Plague. Despite having the vaccination and the recommended boosters, mike got sick. His symptoms expanded even as he started taking Paxlovid. Imagine my fear. If he dies, I’ll have to endure grief. Perhaps just as bad, I’ll have to replace him during a labour shortage.
Mike, even a potential doorstep of doom, managed to see an upside. As he told me, he was living through one of the great public health catastrophes of the 21st century. Was he a man who would wish to miss a chance to complain about the fools responsible for this virus’s spread? The health gods had enabled him to speak authoritatively of the symptoms of a moderate case of Trump’s Plague: joint pain, stuffy nose, headache, sore throat, cough, discomfort breathing, and a memorable episode of diarrhea.
He felt cross with the cranks whose opposition to mandatory public health measures to save small-brained people like themselves had caused many conscientious people to contract Trump’s Plague. The unvaccinated were a primary vector of disease.
Before long, I was getting a lecture on how morons handle risk.
If you know mike, he likes examples. Imagine two privates, PVT Strack and PVT Sad Sack. Every generation has an abundance of stupid, reckless Sad Sacks who shun measures to reduce risk. Sad Sacks hate motorcycle helmet law. To Sad Sacks, seatbelts are an assault on their liberty. OSHA rules are the infallible mark of a nanny state. In the Army, divisions of Sad Sacks in Vietnam disdained flak jackets or in Iraq shells. It’s a miracle Sad Sacs don’t prefer to march into battle barefoot and as naked as the day they were born. Mike invited me to imagine Tucker Snarlson defending barefooted Sad Sacks as an elite in which the spirit of Valley Forge lived.
PVT Stracks on the other hand took sensible precautions. They believed anybody less likely to die if shot in the chest wearing a shell than if you were not wearing one. All Stracks would view barefoot soldiering as lunacy, not a restoration of the Spirit of Valley Forge
As you can guess, mike thought Sad Sacks had strong mooch tendencies. When their own addiction to folly led to disability, they wished others to compensate them. Employment at the VA made mike the VA made mooch enablement a specialty practice. Stracks often had no idea that they could obtain for service-connected injuries. Sad Sacks see all infirmities of age as service-connected, and even have networks pandering to disability applicants too dim to make a case for disability on their own.
As he spoke about Sad Sacks, I wanted to rush off to assure myself that no Sad Sacks were stealing my growing stash of Krugerrands. By today, mike began to forecast a metastasizing army of Sad Sacks, pressing for disability payments for having had COVID, because any right-thinking person should see that COVID causes PTSD or such horrendous disabilities as slow COVID, not to mention the vast range of crippling drug addictions that “self-treatment” of post-COVID symptoms causes.
Like many geezers, when mike got going on the topic of loafing bloodsuckers, it didn’t take him long to imperil his own health.
Mike went on to tell me that his experience of Trump’s Plague would make it easier for him to ignore Sad Sacks on this topic with a clean conscience. Let us never forget that a misfortune like Trump’s Plague is not an injustice.
By this mike meant that he was not owed anything if, say, the disease killed him. As my servant, I was not onboard with that bit of philosophy. I spend years bringing a servant up to stuff and then he dies because of some “misfortune” and I get nothing? What next, am I to spend my Krugerrands insuring my servants? What’s government for?
Anyway, the Plaxovid seems to have worked. Mike must have a few more decent work years in him. That’s the main thing. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn into a Sad Sack and demand more time off from taking my dictation. Using Roberta was too unfamiliar. I’ve got an artistic temperament. I thrive when assisted by no-maintenance servants.
Peregrine, Lord Caligula, and Wolverine congratulated themselves on their murderous ruse. Now the fingers of blame pointed at Putin. Â
Consider the facts. Intelligence communities long suspected a Russian role in the Congo and Chinese Uighur bombings. Who but Putin had reason to bomb Lithuania? And Putin had a history of murderous activity in the UK. The Montana bombing argued that his successes had emboldened Putin.
In Moscow, confusion reigned. Neither Putin nor his intelligence experts could understand what happened to create escalating suspicions about Russia’s behaviour.
Even though the evidence was weak, Putin began to suspect his collaborators at Munitions Galore had betrayed him. He had no supply of Ice-10 creating stealth bombs. Instead, he had enraged responses from the USA, the EU, and China.
When he reached Lord Caligula, his Lordship presented as jaunty and happy. Why would he betray a friend as dear as Putin. The conversation amused him because Constance lay on his bed naked whilst playing with herself. Many days his Lordship knew why he so enjoyed the role of CEO. Putin’s intensifying anger at Lord Caligula enhanced his Lordship’s pleasure. Rather than contradict Putin, he blamed supply problems on MI-5. The counterintelligence boys were foiling his plans for a big rollout. Further, he had no idea what fiend was doing all he could to smother the supply line by creating hypervigilance throughout the world. Perhaps Emperor Xi had something to do with it. If anybody knew what wily plotters the Chinese were, surely it was the Russians. All they could do now was wait for an opportunity to fulfill orders.
And MI-5, if you believe his Lordship, used an Army of agents to disrupt Munitions Galore’s work.
By happy coincidence, a phalanx of MI-5ers arrived at the Munitions Galore complex as Putin. They pissed Constance off when they poured into the room and smirked at her nudity and self-pleasuring hand-paws. Rather than put up with their contumely, she threw on a pricey outfit to go search for Lucky.
An hour later, Constance strolled into the Connaught. Constance knew Lucky’s tastes. Once Constance entered Helene Darozze, she saw Lucky. tucking into a plate of A5 Wagyu beef with aubergine, white miso, and fermented pepper.
Constance sat down at Lucky’s corner table. “How glad I am to see you still alive. You are indeed lucky girl, Lucky. At least it’s not too late to have dessert, Helene’s signature Baba is divine.”
With a barely perceptible movement of her left hand, Lucky ordered the Baba for Constance and Helene’s chocolate dessert for herself. If only I could have been there to order oysters.
Between mouthfuls of dessert, the two of them chatted. “However did you find me, darling? I don’t recall sending you a card to let you know I was at the Connaught.”
So Constance explained it to Lucky. If you believe Constance, she assured Lucky she was well connected. You couldn’t go many places without my having informative friends.” From there, Constance, If I believed her, told Lucky that a mother’s love for her son. I’m willing to go to all manner of trouble and expense to protect him, even though he is now a big boy. “Hunting Wolverine will always be a risky enterprise whilst I’m alive.”
Lucky grinned, then said, “Well, if you son cares about safety, he must find safer hobbies, perhaps scaling Himalayan peaks or working as a mercenary. Anybody tampering with Emperor Xi’s country, even you, dear, may be abbreviating his life. Even you, dear, might live longer if you find a safe hobby than guarding your creepy son” From there, Lucky mentioned she didn’t care, or so Constance told me, if Wolverine was alive, provided he shared trade secrets with her about Munitions Galore, especially something called Ice-10. “Alas,” sighed Lucky, “stingy boys, violent boys chiseling boys so seldom are long-lived if they come to my attention.”
“You know,” replied Constance, “young, pretty, boasters haven’t lived long enough to know how abbreviated their lives are. Your faggot friends in Warrenton learnt that lesson. And how embarrassing for the one that likes pink panties. To die outdoors with your pink panties down and the anus oozing from a gunshot is a humiliation for even the boldest fairies.”
“You would know, darling. Of course, it’s hard to conceive of you having your panties on for long.” Lucky grabbed the check and signed for the meal. Looking the soul of concern, she whispered, “You really need to encourage Wolverine to hang with safer friends than the fruity Peregrine or that famed deviant Caligula.” Constance told me she let that slide. She thought it took nerve for a slut like Lucky to lecture others on perversions. In return, I declined to mention her projection to her.
Meanwhile, Wolverine, Peregrine, and Lord Caligula had spent an afternoon with MI-5 interrogators. What a waste of time. When a person has more holes in it than a good Swiss cheese, my journalistic experience proved the futility of interrogating him. In fact, if neurophysiologists ever get to do necropsies on that trio, they are going to discover that where science had prepared them to find a conscience, they instead found a vacuum tube. However, talking to them is not a waste, if one keeps in mind that nothing better concentrates the mind of a Caligula than mentioning vast sums of money in the offing.
I went to a lot of trouble to stay connected to my London sources, including the principals during this perilous time. So, I know that after Lord Caligula dined at Scott’s, he went to White’s to get roaring drunk. His hours at White’s (no women allowed) aggravated Constance. She consoled herself that London had plenty of men and that White’s by design was no whorehouse. But it’s not being a whorehouse was no guarantee that it was not a colony of rich sodomites. Constance feared his Lordship was headed for HIV if he didn’t change his ways. She took PrEP when she screwed him.
Being well past her ingenue days, she took a lot of PrEP. The men she liked had the habits of alley cats.
Peregrine and Wolverine had scheming to do. Their chauffeur took them from Scott’s to Munitions Galore’s property in Reading. Peregrine kept a huge suite there that would have made Oscar Wilde proud of him. It was a monument to Pre-Raphaelite aesthetics. His suite’s walls swarmed with original Rosettis and Waterhouses, even though much of it was of dubious provenance. Peregrine often expressed gratitude to the Nazi looters and other crooks who helped make possible his private collection.
Wolverine admired the walls. Peregrine’s boy servant brought Wolverine a port. They soon sat down to a table with walnuts and cheeses, whilst the cute, shaggy boy, now in a loose loin cloth, lit their pre-Castro Davidoffs. Peregrine used the boy’s hair to wipe off the butter from his lobster feast. The boy cooed. Once again, I got a reminder of why no self-respect cat would send a son to Eton.
“You know,” opined Peregrine, “Lucky Ming is after you. I suspect she suspects you of every sin. I think she also thinks the bots have a role in Ice-10.”
“Well, We did design that as guardians of Stealth bombs with or without the Ice-10 supplement. How much have we got?”
Peregrine’s eyes shined. “We’ve got more than I could sell at the price I want. It will make me, you, and Lord Caligula thousands of millions. Not even Putin has looted Russia thoroughly enough to have what we’re going to have.”
“And do the bots and stealth make us anything pitiful?” Wolverine added, “You know I sometimes wonder if they alone would have been fungible enough for us? Why run the risks of Ice-10?”
Peregrine rolled his eyes. “Surely you’re joking, Woolly. You never had a head for numbers. Never forget that just because you have plenty doesn’t mean there isn’t plenty more. Why should we not be the planet’s first, as the Americans would count it, trillionaires?”
Wolverine wondered what money must mean to Peregrine when noticed the bulge in his trousers. Talking money was foreplay for Peregrine. You’d guess he was ready to mount his prey.
Wolverine then pleaded he was weary. Peregrine commanded his boy servant to take Wolverine to the best guest suite. Wolverine entered. He liked the luxury. There was a gorgeous Poussin and a Klimt supposedly destroyed by the Nazis in Vienna. The Faculty Painting, alleged to have burnt during a bombing was on the wall. Peregrine had come a long way during his seven or so years since Eton.
By now Wolverine believed Lucky was out to get him. As much as a son hates to admit his mum is right, his mum was right. And he now absorbed a grim truth. Lucky was not a trifling operative. She was a real-deal killer.
Wolverine hunkered down with Peregrine at the Munitions Galore complex in Reading. With the bot and human guards, Wolverine felt safe from Lucky. They did plot a bold move. It happened a week later, or so Wolverine told me.
I read about it in the Christian Science Monitor, my favourite Saint Louis newspaper. A splashy headline announced a bombing at a beach in Cornwall. Spokesmen for the government announced the loss of 500 or more lives. Because the bombing included a chemical attack, scientists had ruled the bodies of the victims had to be isolated. My mind reeled. Who but his friends at Munitions Galore had the goods to pull off this attack?
I sneaked onto a plane headed for Heathrow. After I arrived, I headed to Claridge’s. Knowing that I was coming, Lord Caligula, Peregrine, and Wolverine briefed me on the logic of the attack.
“Look, Crocky, the attack is a perfect exercise in misdirection. Think about it. Who has been attacked? The Congo, China, Lithuania, and Great Britain. This evening, there’ll be an attack on a girl’s football team in Montana. From what I heard, none of these girls shows promise. The White and Congress will go bonkers. And who has not been attacked? Putin. Who is the easy target of blame? Puti. Vlad the freezer!” His Lordship giggled as he explained it to me.
As it happened, the trio had to arrange to send a notice to the White House of the destruction in Montana. A team reached it. Nobody within a 10-mile radius survived, all 70 of the perished. To avert criticism, the White House arranged a secret clean-up. A Pentagon spokesman said that there had been a training accident in the area, and they had deployed a CBRNE unit to investigate. They cautioned anybody about the area to avoid coming near if he valued his life.
Putin was now public enemy number one or the world’s most loathed great leader.
The truck had a nice ride. I even found a comfy seat to take over. Lucky didn’t mind. She spent her time chatting in Mandarin to one of the rescuers.
An hour or so later, the truck stopped. A door opened. Lucky hopped out and so did I. What luck I have. I recognised the street. We were in Vienna. Roberta and mike still owned a townhouse there. By an act of divine jujitsu, I had landed in that neighbourhood. The Chinese safe house, or so I construed it, was near Curzon CT. If you know Vienna, the the neighbourhood is an easy walk to or from the Vienna stop on the Orange line. It is also near 66 going into town. But from the Chinese perspective it had an indispensable feature: A superb high school within walking distance.
On the way into the safe house, a pair of clods dropped a trunk of guns. It was my signal to skedaddle. Up a short hill, I hit a biking trail just off Earls Court. Into it I went. Efforts to lure me back to the dangers of Lucky’s company failed. I had had enough for the moment. Fine vittles ain’t everything.
I took a long counterintuitive trot on the trail. My vigilance was at its peak. When I got to Vienna station, I caught a train. When it reached Rosslyn, I sneaked off and caught the Blue Line to National. From National, I stowed away on a flight to Saint Louis. Easy-peasy. I then went to my Webster Groves holding.
Before going home, I watched Polgar’s boys play some chess. Â
Why would I do that? I suspected I had a beating in my future from Fielding and Bart. Would you rush to that fate?
I know my wifeys. When I got in, Fielding was the first to notice. “Lookee, Bart. Behold, the wayfaring stranger has returned to mooch.” Bart rounded a corner. When she saw me standing by Roberta’s Noguchi table, she picked up speed. She had a gleam in her eyes when she clobbered me. I fell to the floor. Fielding had at me too. Since I long ago learnt the futility of resistance, I waited until they had punched themselves out. When no further blows rained down on me, I went upstairs to my queen-sized bed. Â
As you might have expected, lots was happening that I only got the lowdown on later. For example, Lucy got to the Chinese embassy in disguise by driving a delivery truck into it. She must have learnt the bot she swiped was fit for reverse engineering. In the role of a diplomatic courier, I heard she went to Shanghai. Once in Shanghai, she booked a flight to Vilnius.
Wolverine range me a few days after I got back to Saint Louis to tell me he and his mum were at Claridge’s in London. Since it was a Zoom call, I noticed that Peregrine was sitting in the suite drinking tea whilst Wolverine and I caught up. I also saw Constance, either nude or half-naked, wander in and out.
If I understood Wolverine, secret buyers were miffed about rumours that somebody had stolen one of his Mr Clean bots. Further, and worse, many intelligence analysts believed Munitions Galore ha something to do with the bombing and Ice-10 frozen corpses in Lithuania.
Meanwhile, Lord Caligula gave speeches in the House of Lords decrying the murders in Lithuania and the loss of a moral compass that kept people from buying or selling weapons of mass destruction. When a fellow Lord referred to Munitions Galore as a Merchant of Death that trafficked in loathsome, antihuman weapon, Lord Caligula jeered at him, and then promised the House that God punished men guilty of such calumnies.
Perhaps God does. When the sharp tongued Lord got to his country home that evening, an unknown assailant beat him near lifeless, and left a rolled transcript of the battered moralist’s speech before the Lords stuffed like an old stogy in his bleeding mouth. Â
The next day, tears in his eyes, Lord Caligula spoke a jeremiad against the plague of violence swamping England. “Why only last night, a fellow Lord was beat insensate in his own house. We must stop these attacks.” Then his Lordship began a tirade against the immigration. What a sad day it is when a lax government permits aliens to ravage defenseless Englishmen in their homes. Not satisfied, his Lordship blamed her Majesty’s government for preventing real Christian Englishmen from arm themselves. Concealed carry for the rich is a national necessity!
I had to listen to this Caligulan rubbish because mike read it to me from a e-subscription to the Telegraph he had. Given mike’s tone, I felt mocked for my friendship with his Lordship. To mike’s annoyance, Fielding, Bart, and Quine meowed their approval of Lord Caligula. It was about time, they chimed, that a politician had the sense to recognise the alien menace. Chicago, being a jock, pleaded he was above politics.
Back in London, Wolverine, Peregrine, and Lord Caligula all met at Scott’s in Mayfair. They order the shellfish for two, paying a hefty supplement for lobster and caviar. Wolverine said he was very hungry. So, he ordered the seafood catch of the day for two. The three of them added and shared potatoes, spinach, and tarragon buttered vegetables as sides. Lord Caligula ordered 2 servings of smoked eels and a twice baked cheddar souffle as starters. He ordered a bottle for 10,000 pounds of Colin-Morey Montrachet and left it to the sommelier to make additional selections as needed.
Over dinner, the threesome rejoiced at the consequences of the attacks in Congo and Lithuania. Demand for Ice-10 had intensified. Everybody promised to never identify the seller, even if it was Munitions Galore. Peregrine played dumb about having access to Ice-10. “Let them bid up the price,” recommended a smiling Lord Caligula whilst Wolverine shovelled eels into his ravening mouth.
As the threesome feasted, Lucky sat in her suite at the Hotel PACAI fuming. When she had her henchmen dig up a few graves of Ice-10 victims, she found them empty. Damn Americans, Israelis, Russians, Germans, Brits, and French had beat her to the graveyards. As she sat watching Lithuania TV, she felt sure scientists in other countries were doing what they could to reverse engineer the secrets of Ice-10. Wisely, she let her unconscious tackle the problem. Clicking off the telly, she started a session of Tai Chi.
An hour later, an unshakeable conviction settled over her. She smiled to herself. She called the concierge and asked that he book a 1st Class flight to London. How could Munitions Galore not have the secret of Ice-10? She then dialed the Connaught to reserve a suite.
Some gentle readers may wonder how I come by all my details. My sources, my gifts as a journalist, and my lovability make me one well-informed guy. Lucky, fo example, flooded me with info when I telephoned her after she got to London. I wept that I missed her. Only my natural delicacy had pushed me away. She also bought my story that a friend in London told me she was at the Connaught. Lord Caligula liked everybody to know about Lucky’s whereabouts. Thank you Lord C.
The Warrenton ranch had horses. An amiable Chinaman owned it, or said he did. He and Lucky spoke Mandarin, so I hadn’t a clue. After a bit, an odd-job looking guy showed Lucky and me to our room.
Lucky didn’t stay long. It was very posh, though. She went out. Soon I heard shots ringing. When I hopped onto the widow cell, I saw Lucky at distance. She had her Colt 1911 and PPQ out. As she marched through a range of moving targets, she rang up target after target. She was a dead shot. After pushing through 3 or 4 times with her pistols, she put them down. She then worked out on a larger course with a shotgun and then she started using an SA80A2; sometimes she added an AAG36 to it. Her mastery of the grenade launcher was obvious. Whatever she used, she was unerring in her marksmanship. She finished up with sniper rifles.
After she finished, Odd-Job started to clean her pistols. She shooflied him away. When I asked her why rejected Odd-Job’s cleaning, she said cleaned her own guns. “Dead people let others clean them.” I watched. Her routine was like a lot of soldiers at Fort Leonard Wood. The guns a going over with Break Free CLP, a bore snake, cotton swabs, some paper towels , and gauze squares. Once done cleaning, Lucky reloaded with special ammo from China. Not yet finished, she took a whetstone she had left to soak in our sink, and then used it to bring her Police Spyderco to a razor’s edge.
Warrenton’s a quiet place. From time to time, a husband shoots a wife and anybody she’s rutting with, or a wife gets fed up and puts a bullet in her hubby’s head. You know how it is . . . the usual rich people’s shenanigans.
Who knows what time of night or early morning Lucky awoke with a start. She gave me a shoosh.. Boom. She was in a black ninja outfit with a black kevlar vest. She had her Spyderco and her pistols arrayed on her duds. Rather than use the door, she was out into quiet, still air to get her feet onto a slab of roof outside our room’s window. I got an order to stay put. I waited, and then ignored the order. I tracked her.
Lucky must have taken a drainpipe to the ground. I had to find a tree to hop to and then shimmied down. Going full speed, I did what I would to make a large arc that would intersect my best guess of Lucky’s route. It worked. I’m good at this.
I came first across a Range Rover that was parked parallel to a fence outside the ranch’s gate. I went through the open passenger’s side window. It was still warm.
Ohh-oh. The driver was dead. Lucky (who else?”) had shoved her Spyerderco through the underside of the man’s head. The tongue was badly severed. She had then, by the looks of it, slammed his face onto the steering wheel leaving blood and teeth. With driver’s head forced forward, he then had taken an upward thrust of the knife at the base of his skull. So much for him. Oh, well . . .
I got queasy. I started back toward the house. As I did so, I heard the whop-whop of a helicopter. As it began to come down, I heard what i recognised from the morning as the report of Lucky’s SA80. I heard two short burst. I then heard something else. Woe! It was the sound of the SA8-‘s grenade launcher. I saw the helicopter turn to flames.  Lucky stood back and shot the scorched survivors. I still didn’t see her. By now, Team Constance had lost six men. Two others rushed to the scene. Lucky’s fire from the SA80 cut them down. She moved laterally. When I saw her, she was putting it to an armed chap. She had her Colt 1911 in her hand, having slung the carbine. Pop. He dropped dead.Â
I was impressed. Lucky was stingy with ammo, a real friend of the one-shot-one-kill school.
Because I was feeling vulnerable, (I’m sane after all) I slithered back toward the house. I may have nine lives, but I’m not going to make myself a big, juicy target. I saw the Odd-Job poseur with a phone in his hand. He seemed to be screaming into it. All at once, I saw his head s burst open. Then I saw Constance about 10 feet to Odd-Job’s left. She had fired one round from her trusty Colt Python. Bad break for Odd-Job. He did seem to have got a call off. I then saw the Chinaman sprinting towards Odd-Job firing a pistol I didn’t recognise as he screamed, “Stand fast. I love you, Beetle.”
To my gobsmacked horror, his message of love enraged Constance. She drew a bead, shooting Beetle’s lover deliberately in the crotch. She walked over, kicked his body onto its stomach. He was crying. Constance had no mercy. She yanked down his pants and pink panties. She gave the exposed butt a hard slap. And then she shoved her Python’s barrel between his buttocks. “Enjoy this one, faggot.” She pulled the trigger. Blam! His whimpering stopped.
Her attitude shocked me. I knew Constance was a traditionalist, but surely the chap never did anything to or with anybody that Constance hadn’t done countless times herself. Nor, for that matter, Wolverine. At least now I had the amusement of being sure she was a RePub and not a Dem. I did see a streak of stern Catholic moralist in her.
Having slithered by now to the house’s porch, off I scampered into the house, I made it back to the room. Once in, I hid under the bed.
Lucky strolled in coated with blood. She sweet talked me out from my hiding place, then began to towel off. She stepped into a shower with her ninja kit on. She stripped, scrubbed off fast, and put he bloodied, muddied ninja duds into a canvas bag.
I mentioned my terror of Constance continuing the fight. “Not tonight, sweetie Constance knows Odd-Job’s call summoned our posse. She could leave fast or die.”
Voila, a Chinese gang arrived. They began to clean up the battleground. A clique of them spirited us from the house. Into a nice truck we went and away we went.
Meanwhile, as I learnt from future conversations, an aggravated Constance made her way back to her pickup point that night. She put three new rounds in her Python as she went. The empty casings from her work with the Chinese went into a pocket. Even when I talked to her, she was miffed at her driver. “The fool got himself killed without a fight. Screw him. I hear even Cornpone the worthless fired his freaking gun.” What did please her, she told me, is that she was not picked up by her backup car. Instead, a Caddy Escalade rolled up to her. From the back, she heard Wolverine’s voice. “Get in mum. Tomorrow’s another day.” What mother, she asked me, does not adore hearing her son’s, especially when he brimmed with optimism?
Never ask a cat for moral assessments. When I insinuated that the coppers in Waynesville did wrong in targeting the town’s unlovelies. Bart and Fielding jeered in unison, “Do nothing? Preposterous! When cats work to establish law and order in their realm, do they kill only the guilty. That’s an invitation to lawlessness. We kill all mice we catch as a warning to the others. Keep in mind to that we mete out justice to the slow and the stupid first. They’re easiest to catch.”
But let’s get back to the chase. Constance loathed the idea of Lucky escaping. Constance decided to let her driver take her to Saint Louis. From there, she decided to fly to DC. Once in DC, she would hightail it to the Chinese embassy near Kalorama, and just back from where Connecticut crosses over Rock Creek Park. If the gods were with her, sooner or later Lucky would present to the Chinese embassy.
The plan had one obvious defect. Lucky might scoot out of the US via some other route; however, as Constance saw it, Lucky would stay in the US until she knew that Team Xi had a usable bot for reverse engineering. If it didn’t, Lucky would have to steal another. Wolverine explained it all to me weeks later.
Meanwhile, part of Wolverine’s posse had convinced themselves that they had met an informant with news of Lucky. The informant described a Chinese woman driving an MB S90 at high speed. The fink also said a cat was sleeping on its dashboard. What’s it to him?
Lucky had got to Saint Louis in good time. Instead of pushing through to the east, she took the cutoff for Memphis. It took me until we hit I-40, where she headed east, that I got the feeling she was headed to DC or even NYC, instead of the big port at New Orleans. Personally, I favoured heading to NOLA, but Lucky told me she had other plans. If she wanted my opinion, she gave it to me.
Lucky listened to a combination of classical and techno as she drove. By now, I wished I had figured out how to escape from her company in Saint Louis. Instead, I was now with Lucky having catfish in Jackson, Tennessee.
When she found Reggi’s BBQ, she pulled in. She ordered a Pitmaster Platter (picking ribs, brisket, and pulled pork) with coleslaw, fried okra, and onion rights. She ordered me smoked pulled chickee and some pulled pork. Bless her heart, she also demanded they give it to me unsauced and told the waitress “No, she didn’t care if they didn’t do that. Just do it.” For dessert, she got strawberry shortcake and a side of whipped cream for me. She washed her chow down with sweet tea and demanded a bowl of water be placed at her feet for me.
After dinner, we went to a Hilton Garden Inn where she had a reservation. She sniffed at the look of it and turned the car around. After driving back 70 miles, we checked into the Peabody.
Okay, I’ll confess. It was off-putting for Lucky to drive to Franklin, discover that the hotel failed the needs of the plus rich, and then drive back to Memphis to take a suite at the Peabody. To make matters worse, her detour cheated me of getting to see the ducks do their parade in the hotel’s lobby. I was so inconsolable that Lucky restored me by arranging a tour of the ducks’ quarters. So, maybe I wasn’t quite inconsolable.
The suite was old-style southern. Why not? Some say the Mississippi delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel. All this fancy southern stuff appealed to Lucky’s girlie side. Like many women, she has watched, even in China, Gone with the Wind way too many times. The room was comfy. Lucky shoved her 1911 in the nightstand’s drawer next to the Gideon Bible and shoved her Walther PPQ under her pillow. When she undressed, I noticed a black Spyderco Police knife drop from her trouser. Lord knows what other killer knick-knacks she had in her outfit and suitcase.
Once she fell asleep, I crawled under the covers to snuggle next to her. Her bod had a lot more muscle on it than I was used to. I didn’t mind. The bed was comfy soft.
When we checked out, Lucky saw something or somebody she didn’t like the look of. I don’t know what. she put me in the Mercedes, and then, “Darling, I have a quick errand.” I noticed she had put a raincoat on, attached a silencer to her Walther, and put it into an inside pocket of the Mac. Whoosh. Off she went. There was a staircase she took. I thought I heard a muffled shot. She walked back to me all smiles. “Sorry, darling. I just had to do a bit of pest control.” Off we went, got onto to I-40 heading east.
A few days later, I read a report in the Memphis Daily News of a shooting of a Missouri man in a stairwell of the Peabody. His name was Mitch Cheshire.
After I read it, I asked about it. Lucky rolled her eyes. “Such an amateur, darling. I noticed him in the lobby checking out. It took nothing to lure this Wolverine stooge to a stairwell. If I had more time, I’d drowned the rat in a women’s restroom toilet. You don’t like finks, do you, darling?”
By then we had already motored through Nashville where we supped, after some shopping at the Bluebird Cafe. Lucky felt lively, so she drove on to Knoxville, where she smuggled me into a suite Oliver, a hotel that was on square and that had a hall that led to a Sweet Magnolias Restaurant. Lucky complained about the absence of any real luxury in Knoxville. “We’re slumming with the hillbillies, darling,” she told me. After that, she took I-40 to the I-81. She headed north on I-81. We got off at some point, traversed pathetically low mountains, and stopped to dine and sleep at the Inn in Little Washington. At last, Lucky had found a joint that pleased her. She had preordered a 1975 Petrus that cost a few times more than mike’s car. Per her instructions, the chef prepared foods that went with it. The chef also had an assortment of the finest fish for me. Lucky permitted the sommelier to enjoy glasses of what she ordered. For all her sermons on Marxism, Lucky felt right at home with the Haute bourgeoisie. On the other hand, I can’t even pronounce the chow that Lucky consumed. I tell you this, she had better taste than the Trumps.
As Lucky was finishing her dinner, I heard a familiar voice. “Well, hello, Lucky, what a surprise. I do admit I thought I might find you here. Tell me, Crockett, has she introduced you to my boy Wolverine?”
“But I already know him, Constance.”
“Of course, you do. Maybe you all got to spend time with him in Waynesville. It’s such a dangerous place, though. I wonder why anybody would go or stay?”
Lucky’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t guess you’d like Waynesville. There wouldn’t be enough young sailors for you.”
“Nor enough stuff to steal for you.” Constance played with her pearl necklace as she said that. “Wolverine told me you omitted to visit him. Maybe he was wrong.”
“I don’t think so. Didn’t I last see you naked on a yacht whilst a Russky oligarch was playing with your bottom? You were groaning rather loudly. What an error I made. I slowed my speed boat down and got too good a look, you know, with my love of binoculars and all. And what noises you made.”
“Yes,” purred Constance, “I recall how much you enjoy watching . . . and hearing. You’re rather like that fellow Chance in Kosinski’s novel. You’re hard to recognise without blood on you. We had a brief chat when you were losing money with a pretty boy at a gaming table at the Casino de Monte-Carlo. You still had clothes on. Toodles, I must go. I just had an urge to say hello”
The next morning, she drove to a large place with lots of horses that she told me was Warrenton. From there she wished to do preliminary work that would get her to the embassy. Be very, very careful. Constance is hunting.
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.
As I was sitting and watching Lucky’s U-haul, she assured me it just looked like a real one. An associate had made a replica ofa U-haul. I wondered why.
I was pondering the problem when Cornpone arrived. He was wearing Camo and boots. Who would have thought they made camo immense enough to fit Cornpone. He was to human’s what my vodka guzzlignnchum Behemoth–a cat immortalised by Bulgakov–was to ordinary cats.
Cornpone waddled about the truck before climbing into the passenger seat. Lucky hopped into the driver’s seat, with me following. I scampered over her and plopped down between her and Cornpone.
Lucky drove out to the place where the bum died. She got out. I noticed she had her 1911 in a holster and was also wearing a Walther PPQ M2 in a shoulder holster. I recognized Walther because mike adores and buys Walthers. The PPQ is his personal favorite. Perhaps he has now added a PDP. to his holdings.
Lucky walked to the wall placed a small, discrete video camera. I worried more when I saw she had also put a thermite grenade on the ground. When I showed mike a photograph later, he told me it was a M14 TH3. If you live in a closet, this grenade will melt through an engine block. Soldiers can use it to destroy artillery and other stuff. Anyway, this M14 only looked evil to me.
Lucky effortlessly heaved a block tackle of some sort with hooks. I then saw a light weight incline planes straddle the fence. Even the enormous Cornpone could now cross the fence. To let him climb over with his muscles was a ridiculous idea. Lucky again sent me up the sycamore. One of its thick branches held her pulley system.
Cornpone carried two large pails of the mixture in the tub that the truck carried. He walked to where Lucky had told him to walk. He was a bit forward from where the bum died.
The pails pulleyed up to the branch and somehow stayed there. How did Luck do that?
Lucky had already given me my instructions.
Not more than 5 minutes passed before we heard a bot. It approached our area. As soon as it saw Cornpone, it advanced. Then Mr Clean’s eyes rolled open. To judge by Cornpone’s reaction, he was afraid. In a flash, he pulled a Smithh and Wesson Model 10 from his backside. I recognised it, as mike has one. He opened fired with fruitless accuracy, just, bing, bing.
Now if you ask me, he might as well have tried to ward off a grizzly with a safety pin. A couple of spot-on shots bounced off Mr Clean’s forehead. The death ray started. Voila. Cornpone was a slab of long pig awaiting consumption.
Without wasting a second, Mr Clean came forward. He was more or less just where the deceased bum entered the Kingdom of the Dead. I could hear Clean’s incinerator switch on. The heat of it roiled up into the tree branches. Cornpone’s hefty cadaver began to feed into the incinerator, though I could hear the squeal of the saw as it sliced Cornpone into fire digestibles faggots.
During the horror, I heard Lucky’s command. “Now!” I ran by the pails as Clean’s head swiveled toward Lucky. Before Clean drew a bead on her, the pails splatted into his metallic head. Even before that the filthy fluid had begun to pour onto him. His head was drenched with black evil slop.
Faster then Flash himself, Lucy was on the bot. She slammed her termite grenade onto him and detonated it. The thermite’s magnificent heat melted through the bots neck at a 45 degree angle. Clean’s motive force left him. The feed stopped, the incinerator stopped, the mired head dropped off and rolled between Cornpone’s buttcheeks.
I still can’t shake the image of this decapitated head appearing to be positioned to rim Cornpone food exits. Worse, death had loosened Cornpone’s bowels. Oh, well . . . realy nasty. It was most un-enticing.
Lucy noted it all. She had built a device that pulled the bot away. She jacked it on to a carrier. She secured the decapitated head in a bag and sent it over the fence. Super pronto, into the truck it all went.
Lucky also ordered (boy, I hate that word) me back. “Fast! Faster! We must get away lickety-split, rikki-tik or die.”
When in the grip of fear I am one swift cat. Mercury ain’t got nothing on me. I was in the front cab faster than Lucky. She had also pulled the rear door of the truck down. Before rolling away, She had also kicked the tub, making it flyout of the truck’s hold. The tub’s filth left its mark when it went thumpy-splatty on the ground. What remained of Cornpone’s remains were an abandonned monument. Lucky left the un-incinerated half of him for Team Wolverine.
As we rolled down the highway, she laughed. “Well, that went better than I expected,” she said. I got up the gumption to mention Cornpone’s awful death. A lover of philosophy, Lucky lectured me on the transience of life, Cornpone’s endless deficiencies, and his opportunity, for once it his pathetic life, to die fighting like a man rather than just eating like.
I kept to myself the idea that he would have been better off fighting like a woman. If he had mimicked Lucky, he might be in the truck with us. Whilst I gave all this some thought, Lucky encouraged me to look at the bright side of life.
One loss must not spoil a whole day. Besides, swiping a bot was well worth one fat man’s death.
Being more sentimental than Lucky, I had doubts. Anyway, she made a turn I didn’t expect. The truck soon rolled into a large auto body shop. A Chinese guy in greasy blue, paint-splattered overalls came out to greet her.
Lucky wasted no time. “Get this thing repainted and put its old plates back on. I want its contents unloaded by security cleared, competent people. Put it all in an unobtrusive vehicle. You and only you will take it to Saint Clair. There you will meet Mr Gan. He will take over the driving.”
The chap in overalls plainly knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he got on with the project. He gave orders to his crew. Then everything started going.
To my surprise, Lucky’s S-class Benz was parked at the shop. In we hopped. I stayed in her lap doing all I could to please her. She got plenty of biscuits on the tummy and legs. She purred. Alas, she didn’t care much for my breast work. Probably I need to work on my technique. But I learned my art working on women with brandy-snifter breasts rather than a pair that resembled a couple of martini glasses. Perhaps I had become too accustomed to Melania’s ample Slavic breasts. As anybody with eyes knows, the Germans and Slavs are races of stacked women. The Chinese? Not so much.
As Lucky rolled down the highway, there was a lot going on in and about Wolverine’s state.
For example, relying on a mother’s intuition, Constance sensed the disturbance in the force that told her her sneaky son was at risk. So, she headed to Wolverine’s lair. Instead of finding him contemplating perverted porn in his study, she learnt, as they say in Matty Groves, that he was out in his far bonnie fields bringing his bots home. Or so claimed his servants.
“What a crock,” screamed Constance, “he’s out superintending a calamity.” It’s so good to have sources that let you know this juicy stuff.
So, my sources tell me, she screeched about how she had to do every fucking thing herself. Her son was a loafing boob, conman, and pornographer, a fellow unfit for real work.” As she the house stark raving, she offered truth: “Never send a boy, a girl or a mere man on a woman’s errand.” She jumped onto one of Wolverine’s Range Rover. Her servant and chauffeur took its wheel.
My guess is that Lucky would have liked to know that Constance was out hunting. We’ll get to that soon.