“I’m gonna let you into a secret. I shouldn’t really be here.”

She chuckled softly and glided over to the short creature sorting the machinery and whispered something into it’s ear. With a flurry of a lab coat, it produced a remote from the inner workings and handed it to the lady.

“I believe you have met Frank?” she asked as she headed for a stack of monitors. For a split second I was lost, not sure who she was referring to, but then she turned on the monitors and the Bret Michaels bodybuilder appeared. He was sat at the head of a large wooden table with a bottle of Fireball Whiskey.

“Frank? Really? Fucking Frank?”

She looked taken aback. “What is wrong with the name Frank?”

I took in this vision of a woman and realised that there had to be a floor and unfortunately I had stumbled into it. I cleared my throat…

“A) This is to subtlety what broad strokes are to pointillism. Just in case your disgusting disguise of culture is more dense than first inspection, pointillism is the art form of creating a larger image from small specific placement of paint. B) Frankenstein was never the large mammoth creation! Victor Frankenstein is Frankenstein, the creature in most instances does not have a name. Calling that thing on the screen there Frank is just low par on several levels.”

The room went silent and she held me in her gaze; then she began to laugh with complete mirth. After a minute she subsided and returned her gaze to me.

“My dear little spy man, I know of this literary slight that you refer to. However I do not call Frank Frank because he is like the creation from Mary Shelley’s documentation of my dear friend’s work. You may ask Viktor himself,” she gestured to the small man in the lab coat. He nodded curtly and returned to his work. “Frank,” she continued, “is simply the name of the man that is now downing Dutch courage there before coming to terms with what he should do with his new lease of life. He is an anomaly in the desired outcome of our experiment.”


You could hear a penny drop.

The penny dropped.

“This was you?!” If I had control of my limbs I would be backing away at this point.

“Come come, Mr Spy. This is the way of the worlds! In all stories there is a protagonist and an antagonist; you need a bad guy to overcome, surely?”

“I’m not a fucking hero! I already said I’m a Wade Wilson anti-hero type in a previous part of this shit!” I can’t believe she hadn’t been keeping up with the narrative. Bloody Vampires!

“Ah but an anti-hero is still a protagonist, the ends justify the means. The only difference is you chuckle as you kill whilst someone like Spider-Man believe that you shouldn’t kill. I want you to go and rectify my error…”

No comment.

“Frank, Mr Spy man. I want you to go kill Frank.”

This time it was my turn to laugh.

“And how do you suppose I do this, what with you using your funky mind powers and your feminine wiles to keep me from making a move no matter how hard I try?”

With this I dropped to the floor; for the first time since the fight, my body experiencing sensations and this time it wasn’t pain!

“So what’s stopping me from just killing the pair of you and leaving without having to do any other work?” There was no response, so I answered myself. “Oh yeah, your Jean Grey mind shit. What’s the pay?”

“How about I don’t kill you?”

“HA!” I exclaimed, “jokes on you! I’m already dead!”

“I am well aware, Mr Spy,” she strode to the desk where several bottles of purple liquids on. “However, I have a cure to bring you back. You may take this as payment and whatever you can carry from the surrounding mansion.”

I clicked my neck and headed for the door.

“Time to make the fucking chimichangas!”



1915 steps later, I stood at the bottom of the small staircase leading to the top room where this whole spunk bubble of a day had started. I took a quick check of the steps in front of me and realised the architect responsible for this monstrosity of a building was clearly a John Buchan fan. I skipped the bottom step to ruin the gag and 38 steps later I stood at the hole that was the doorway to the oval room. I couldn’t see the beast anywhere and remembered he had moved down to a dining room, so I turned to descend again and took a fist square on in the face. I flew across the room and out of the gash in the wall I had been dropped out of not 30 minutes (or about 1200 words ago).

I hit the ground, dazed and confused. The gardener turned to see me slowly crawl out of the crater I had created on landing.

“Are you okay there, lad?” He asked warily.

I stuck up my broken index finger to make a point to the old man, but my witty remark came out a little absurd…

“Connaught – the predator home world – was known throughout the galaxy as a perfect utopia. Here the endless war between the Aliens with their duck comrades and the Predators with their pigeon brothers was a distant thing.”




N.B. I know that was really reaching but come the fuck on!


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