publsher and bookseller
Last
story ended with total confusion of all parties who dared to enter the
infamous Nesstown Jungle, with the exception of those who knew what to
expect; that was Jack Dagger and crew, and the zoo staff involved. Everyone
else, including the animals, have lost their short term memories of that
time - a result of Nesstown jungle's 'weapon of mass memory destruction.' It seems that Hugo Hacker is the only illegal entrant to escape
rounding up, but only because he was taken by some jungle creature and
stored as food in its larder. Hacker, being considerably overweight, fell
through the bindings and has at long last made it home to Poland. He was,
momentarily, the only outside agent to understand the devastating,
world-changing potential of one of Nesstown's darkest secrets; now he
realises there is a crucial period of recollection missing, but he has an
idea... "Agent Cheryl, Mr.
President."
Cheryl tried to hide her considerably
jangling nerves as she was presented at Thickett's desk. He didn't get up,
merely surveyed her briefly and waved her to sit down. Thickett pretended to
read the notes in front of him for a few moments. "Nothing... what do you
mean nothing?"
"I... er well, you see Mr. President...
er, well... "
"Lost your memory or somethin." Thickett
attempted sarcasm.
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Well I'll be a..."
"Mr.
President," interrupted Rumacre, "Something happened in there, we've heard
others claim their memories have been wiped too. Looks like a WMMD; way of mammalian mind distortion."
"Darned slimey limeys! I knew they weres a'hidin
something... prob'bly stole it from I-rak. Guess we'd better bomb them after all."
"What, Cheshire?"
"Yes Canada."
"There is an alternative sir, I mentioned it before;
send in a rather different type of agent."
"Ya mean
like agent orange?"
"Agents provocateurs, sir."
"What; cut the tropical forest down by hand rather
than poison it from the air?"
"Not secateurs, undercover agents; get
them jobs at the zoo, do a little trouble stirring too."
"If I may be so bold," Cheryl interrupted, "I don't
think human agents would ever work there."
"Nonsense:
our agents are all colotorial now, they ain't lazy."
"I mean a suitably trained and bugged animal would be
more successful."
"Nice holiday
bruvvers?"
"Holiday? Er, look sister Peckunia, we
don't go off on freebie perks you know."
"No? Well
what were you doin' galavanting out in capitalist territory, eh?"
"We was, er, well the Proletarian Penguin Peoples
Party, er, well... Er bruvver Poncho, what were we doing?"
"Squaawk. Me mind's in a fuddle, Prefect Perseus."
"Bloody booze-up again. I've told you before about
what too much fish-oil will do to your brain, and you'll get an oil-belly.
Don't expect me to go out with you then, and don't you dare ask for
increased subs at the next AGM!"
"Nag, nag, nag."
"Come on bruvver lets go and aardvark bait: we aren't
appreciated here."
"'Ang about, that reminds me of
somefink..."
"I've booked the
holiday darling. You just need to sign this visa application."
The prime minister looked out from behind the sofa:
"Phew, thank God it's you: I've been warned the US ambassador is on the
warpath; something to do with that bloody northern zoo place."
Sherry watched her husband put a signature on the form
and quickly put it in her handbag. "It's alright now darling, a nice long
break, and a secret destination; no journalists, no troublesome back-benchers. Just what the doctor ordered."
"I'll send off for some thingies then - plain brown envelope. A
gross do?"
A sly smile was quickly disguised. "Mmm."
"Constable Williams."
The constable looked up from his reward claim form for arresting Fitzroy Fielth: "Yes Sergeant Williams."
"Why the blutty hell does your Myfanwy keep giving me funny looks?"
"Can't believe we're not related."
"Oh, is that all. Thought it might have been the speed trap we put in her drive."
"Oh no sarge, it's North Wales, she expects that."
Hugo Hacker pushed his second plate of juicy, meaty local sausage, rich dripping-and-onion gravy, sour-creamed potatoes and spicy pickled cabbage away empty. He was full. An accompanying litre bottle of strong red wine drained to join the melee in his stomach, and now he knew he would sleep deeply despite having that machine attached to his brain. Tomorrow afternoon, he hoped, the Dung Jungle secrets would be his to sell to Monantos. Long dreamed of riches...
"Why doesn't that fat middle-class moron answer!" Count Fielth fumed as he held on for longer and longer. This was his one allowed phone call from prison. "Oh for a competent accomplice!"
NEXT - Flights of Fancy - What's this mysterious form Sherry has? Both Thickett and the 4P ponder invading Canada. And Rumacre hatches a new scheme.