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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The King's Heir - Part 2

'Captain!' a welsh man named Taff says, barging in the room.
'What!' says Prince, still staring at himself in the mirror.
'It's Pike! He's onto us.'
'What piffle. That's nonsense.'
'No, Captain. He's got an inside man on the ship. A peruvian.'
'A spy, eh?' Prince said, closing his pocket make-up box and placing it delicately in a handbag.
'Yes.'
'There is no spy, Welshman. Now leave.'
'But there is!' The welsh man begs.
'Mutiny!' Prince barks back.
'What?!'
'We leave tonight. I am the first! The captain of this ship! There is no spy! Do I make myself clear.'
'Yes, captain.' Taff concedes, nodding.
'This man you believe to be working for Pike - What is his ailment?'
'He's blind.' Taff says, pointing at his his eyes.
'Put him back on the land, give him money to shut up and give him a van.'
'How will he drive it?' Taff says, confused.
'I AM THE FIRST! NOW LEAVE!' Captain Prince, shouts back.

Prince grabs something from his pocket and looks back into the mirror. He lifts a fake, grey mustache to his upper lip and fixes it in place. The grey mustache stands out on Prince with his dark skin and jet black hair, but for all his years on the sea he's worn it. He believes it enhances his small stature and his authority on ship. Whilst he is currently roaming the ship in his usual purple attire and high-heels, as soon as the ship leaves port he'll be dressed smartly in the crispest white Captain's uniform you'd ever see. He commands a crew of about 30 men. On the ship currently, over a thousand men. Most being the captain's new 'intake' or his word for people being smuggled. To his shame, he's been reduced to the role of Captain of the people smuggling vessel, with him the ringleader.
He'd tried out for the US Navy in the mid-1990's, but his celebrity faltered any progress, so with heavy heart he quit and went it alone. Spending his remaining fortune on 'The King's heir' he swore he be the captain of a great Whaling ship. This plan went to pot quickly, as he was neither experienced enough to capture whales, and he believed if Greenpeace exposed him he'd be ruined and lose his beloved ship. This fear of the loss of his ship led him to his current position as exploiter of vulnerable on the high seas. Ferrying people from the poorest parts of the world to be exploited by the rich in the west. Though shame compels him often to vomit in private cabin toilet, the immense riches brought in by each person smuggled keeps his ship on the seas and him a Captain to his quite sizeable crew. A couple of near-misses have nearly brought the truth of his vanishing from the public to fore, but money at sea, bribes, his past celebrity status have so far saved his neck. Keeping a low profile has always been key. He goes by the name 'Captain' or 'Captain Smith'. Mere mention of the name 'Prince' or his musical past has led to men being tied and flogged on the ships lone cannon. To keep the outside world off his case, old unused recordings he made in the 80's and early 90's are released as new tracks, his lookalike is paid to do exclusive tours, and stories are fed to the press, such as he's become a very private Jehovah's Witness. If only the world really knew.

Keeping up the charade has had its downsides though. The singer Tupac Shakur was murdered after he uncovered the truth, after wanting to duet with Prince for the Andrea Bucelli opera song 'Time to say goodbye'. Shakur was killed by a crack team of Argentine mercenaries hired by Prince in Las Vegas, in the year 1996. The death of the singer has always haunted Prince though, who for sometime later after the murder had psychotic delusions where he believed he was the mysterious Pirate, Blackbeard. Sporting a pirate hat and eye-patch, he led a crew of reluctant sailors on so-called 'missions' back in late-2002. Off the coast of Somalia, they would often attack expensive yacht's that were sailed by the rich. Theft, murder, rape, even planks were walked. A total of 30 Yacht's were sank, with many, many dead. It went on for six months. Prince's recollections of these events are fortunately vague. He awoke one morning and wasn't Blackbeard any more, the story goes. Captain he became was once more. Whenever an old memory from this 'blackout' period comes back, he shrugs it off as he was daydreaming fantasy, rather than re-remembering old and true events from his past. He remembers little as he was ill it is thought, but these events told did occur.

How Prince came to be a Captain has its origins in the late 80's...

The story is covered in Prince's personal memoir that he wants to released following his death – Life at sea, a personal account of my true journey away from music...

'I met David Pike at a yuppy boating club in late 1988. I soon had a friend who shared my passion for the [sign in to see URL] rented a trawler together in early 1991. During this trip of English rivers, I met Derek, a kindly lunatic who talked to the dead. I got the feeling that Derek and David were lovers. When I got curious one night, I tapped Derek on the bottom, as if to show some interest, for as much as he was a lunatic, he was an attractive and handsome man. He snapped at me and went to punch me. Thankfully, Brutus, my able bodyguard pulled him away from me, just as he picked me up and threatened to throw me overboard into the Thames. Not so kindly, this Derek was afterall. Whilst I'm not homosexual, I got curious that night. I thought for sure that Dave and Derek were secret lovers. This was not the case. I never saw Derek again after this. This experience left me both humiliated and ashamed. Dave began to treat me differently after this, I was certain. I think he thought I were a gay [sign in to see URL] mid-1992, by sheer coincidence I bumped into David again at Steam engine museum in rural Kansas. I hadn't seen him in several months by this time and after a vegan meal he suggested we rent out an old Banana boat, a do the crossing from Jamaica to Britain in record time. Under my pseudonym of Philip Decartes, I and Dave entered the record books on 22nd February [sign in to see URL] early 1994, Dave offered to write some songs for me... This musical partnership ultimately led to the release of 'The most beautiful girl in the world', a song written by David Pike, whilst we holidayed in the Caribbean on a catamaran. David wrote the song about his cat originally, the original title being 'The most beautiful cat in the world'. I said, I liked the song, changed 'cat' to 'girl' and recorded it... When the song was released though, my career went into free-fall quickly. The song was hated and the album too. I left the recording studio one day, then told myself I shall never sing another note again. I haven'[sign in to see URL] is solely to blame for the my exit from music. Following my death, if he outlives me, I hope someone will slap him for me. Until then, under the guise of still being his friend, I have plans for him. Some sort of Karma, if you like.. True, I am happy at sea, but my real music career died when I collaborated with Mr [sign in to see URL] vow never to set foot on land again. This is eighteenth year I have commanded this vessel and not once have I set foot on land. As much as I miss music, nothing beats the thrashing waves and or a night at sea under the moonlight and stars.'

'We leave tonight!' Prince shouts to himself, looking at his reflection, practising his speech for the crew. 'It'll be a tough journey men. We go down south and then past Cape horn. It'll be a dangerous voyage. But we'll make it in a about a month if we push those engines. I have every faith in all of you, as your Captain. It is a great honour leading [sign in to see URL] AM THE FIRST!'


Last edited by knights, 11/23/2014, 6:48 pm


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11/22/2014, 1:29 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The Faux Trade Center Complex shined on the hill, though there was the cloud of Fergal's treachery hanging over the enterprise, and that suspicion that Building Seven could get "pulled" at any time. Dave was having shirts printed with the phrase OrphaDidIt emblazened on them. From my own perspective, I thought Fergal had seen the light on his own time, and was tired of this trail that Dave made, this trail of lies and absurdity that led people so far from the truth. But I must say, he might have very well been right about Orpha.
Burgersen came running, his face redder than ever, and practically screamed at Dave: "Another dog is down! I'm gonna kill Fergal Stot if it's the last thing I do!" Dave grinned maniacally, revelling in Burgersen's hatred like a fiend. He may have been sexually stimulated too, like an octopus about to make an emission into the ocean, splaying it's eight legs, twisting them, pistoning them with a sense of alien romance. So it goes.
"Why haven't we caught him yet?" I asked, feeling a sense of surprise at Fergal's newfound resourcefulness. I remember Dave and Fergal from before, in sunnier days, when the two were inseperable, one as a kind of mentor and the other as the kind of student. They had shiny shoes and smiles, and took in the world as a kind of fog-laden daydream back then. It was all drone strikes and surgical wetworks now, with the occasional terrorist action. Twas a different world, a world where we remembered dreams, but we no longer slept easily.
"Because this place is huge, Der" said Dave. "In case you haven't noticed." I thought now of this new Fergal, or Fergal in this new state, and though the thought made me shiver, I actually felt sympathy for him now. He had to die, of course, for his treachery; it was practically a philosophy tenet that Dave should murder him. But now lay the dark looming spector of Orpha, and that in itself was like building Pikeworld in the shadow of some awesome, angry volcano.
"Just a matter of time before we get him" said Burgersen, looking scared suddenly, perhaps weary of Dave's changing emotions, which was always a mixed bag. "I'll just leave the dogs out and let them keep looking. Needless to say, I'll put off feedings until they catch him. It'll make them more vicious."
"Great" said Dave, tilting his head backward again, smiling, like an evil emperor of some godless land of thousands of years ago, the kind where they sacrificed people by the hundred to appease the gods to make the crops grow. Not that Dave was that sort of superstitious sort, or any kind of sort for that matter, for after years of friendship, I still had no idea where he drew his inspiration, save that whatever it was, it was intense and unfocused.
I bid them good day then and went to do some more design work on my section of the park. I was having a bit of envy over his replica of the WTC, and knew I had to come up with something stupendous to make the horror park shine. It was a great challenge for me, who was just someone who talked to ghosts. Design a theme park? Right, matey. I'll get right on it. Do you want fries with that? I worked and worked, racking my brain, doing sketch after sketch of what I thought the park would look like, with happy stick people with black and orange balloons, marching about looking for things to purchase. I gave them no teeth, rounded noses and little black dot eyes, making them look somehow mysterious despite their uniform quality. I found my mind wandering, trying to give life to the stick people, the smiling dots, circles and lines that I jotted down.
I heard screaming from outside then, a terrified torrent of sound, and immediately I left the water closet and went for the front door of the mobile office. I was astounded by what I saw: it was the law of unintended consequences run amok all over Dave. The dogs were biting him and dragging him this way and that while he cried and yelled. I could not stop them, I thought, because I had nothing I could use to stop them, no weapons to speak of. It was a deep, dark nightmare come true was what it was. I watched my friend being pulled around by the dogs, his jaws shaking with fear.
I went back in the office, looking for something, anything to help Dave, and I grabbed the first thing near: a big binder full of papers, copied documents of some sort. Back outside, I stood on the steps, staying near my escape, and I flung the binder at the pile of dogs. It hit one, but this had the opposite effect of what I had intended. It made him mad, but at least he didn't notice me. They were still gnawing and pulling at poor Dave.
Burgersen came running. "Just play dead, Mister Pike" he shouted. "Play dead and they'll lose interest." Easier said than done, I thought, given such rough, rude treatment by the beasts and then asked to remain quiet and still while they bit into him. I felt sorry for Dave, here, obviously, despite trying to kill him numerous times for numerous reasons. "Mister Okra, you better get back inside before they notice you." And that was all the warning I needed: Dave was alone to fend for himself.
11/25/2014, 3:53 pm Link to this post Send Email to abaddon1215   Send PM to abaddon1215 MSN Yahoo Blog
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


'Get off!' I yelled, as a massive bull mastiff yanked at my legs, whilst the others hovered over me, nipping and biting at me as I began flailing. I hate bull mastiff's, I think to myself. These are the devil's dogs. Then it occurs to me, these are my !@#$ dogs. Well, or at least Mr Burgerson's. That rotter. I'll have him for this, if I live. Think calm thoughts, I reassure myself as this pack of bull mastiff's try there worst, with me as their helpless victim. I felt like a rag doll. Think nice calm thoughts of beaches, teddy bears, or green pastures, I tell myself again as these beasts snarl, bark and bite at me more. This should be Fergal Stott. Not me. I don't won't to die like this. I can't be eaten alive by a pack of frothing-mouthed bull mastiff's. Not now. Not Ever. This won't happen.
'Take this you foul beasts!' Burgerson shouts while hitting one of the dog's over the head with a piece of 2x4. 'You beasts! Stop this!' He strikes this one dog again, as the others still bite at me. The sound of the wood hitting this dog's head with a thud, quite sickening. A clattering thud. The dog keels over. Thank god, I think. One down, only five more to go. Keep going, Burgerson!
'No!' I scream, as the dog's continue their assault. 'Don't go!'
'I'm sorry, Mister Pike – I've riled them up! They're hungry!They'll kill us all!' Burgerson said, fleeing with his 2x4 wood, with one of the dog's running after him. 'I'm sorry!'
'No!' I spit out again, still flailing at the four dog's that still remain. I kick out at the one which has wrapped its jaw round my leg. It yelps if only for second and then sinks its teeth into my foot, the pain so intense, I feel light-headed. This is the moment I shall surely die. Why did we choose this breed of dog, I wonder to myself as begin to lose consciousness. Why not poodles or even labradors. I flail more, but my strength is weakened more, as the dog's still overpower me. I'm certain at any moment, one of these !@#$'s will go for my neck, then...

Somewhere in the South Atlantic Ocean
'We passed the Horn, Taff!' Captain Smith said with pride.'We did it. Cape Horn!'
'Yes. Quite a feat. Though much easier in a vessel like this than a wooden ship, a couple of hundred years ago, mind'. Taff says, nodding, as he and the Captain stand at the bow looking out at the ocean, no land in sight.
'One day, we'll do just that, Taff.' Captain said, smiling. 'One day.'
'I planted a seed, captain?' Taff asks.
'No. I've steered, rowed and sailed many a ship in my time.' Captain said, looking to the sky, deep in thought 'But one ship I never had the pleasure of commanding or sailing is one of those classic three-mast sail ships from that time you speak off. I dream of it often. I'll do it soon enough, I'm sure.'
'Indeed, you will captain. In fact, I'm quite sure you'll do it, Captain.'

A young, newly acquired cabin boy comes running up to Captain and Taff.
'Captain!' Perkins, the cabin boy yells as he breathlessly bounds closer.
'Yes, boy?' Captain replies, with a look of concern.
'It's the Peruvians!' Perkins shouts, still huffing and puffing.
'What?' The captain asks.'What about the Peruvians?'
'They know who you are!' Perkins said, eyes widened.
The captain turns around, facing the sea only, with Taff and Perkin behind him.
'Taff..' The captains said, still gathering his thoughts. 'Who am I?'
'Why, you're Captain Smith, sir.'
'Yes, the Captain.' Perkins said, nodding with agreement.
'Deal with these troublesome elements, Taff. Locate the culprits – bound and tie them to the railings and the lone cannon. Flog some sense into them. I will have no mutineers on my ship.'
'Yes, sir.' Taff said, saluting, then walking off with a swift stride. 'Right away!'
'Please, report in full, Perkins.' The captain asks the lad, who's maybe no more than a adolescent still.
'[sign in to see URL] all have been singing music from the olden days, from times gone past.'
'What music is this?' The captain asks, turning to face the boy.
'You know.' Perkins says, pointing to the Captain.
'No, I don't.'
'Songs.'
'What were the words?'
'Oooohs and Aaahhhs, Captain. I swear.' Said Perkins, fear heard in his voice. ' Oldie music, sir'
'You're being vague, boy.' said Captain, tapping the boy on his shoulder in comfort.
'Prince music, Captain.'
'What is Prince music, lad?' Captain said, laughing.
'Why it's music you sang, Captain. In the olden days.'
'Like what?'
'Little red corvette, Kiss, Batdance. They were singing them songs, Captain. And dancing too.'
The captain turns away from the boy and leans on a railing. Facing the open sea again, his face is pale white and he quite visibly shaken.
'Are you going to take this ship?' Captain asks the quivering and scared boy.
'Take?' Perkins said, confused.
'Mutineer, aren't yah.' Captain said, sombrely. 'Seize my ship with the rest of 'em.. That's your plan.'
'What!' The boy shouts back in response. 'Never, Captain. I am loyal.'
The captain walks away from the railing, ignoring the boy. Strangely he starts to pace back and forth, mumbling to himself: 'They want the ship. They're gonna take my ship. I'll thrust my dagger in every mutineer.'
'Captain!?' Perkins shouts in shock, but to no response.
'Take that!' The captain said, thrusting an imaginary dagger into thin air. 'I'll kill you all!'
Perkins runs away, leaving the Captain to his mad pacing about.
'Damn mutineers, want my ship! They want my ship!' The Captain continue in his psychotic rage, still pacing back and forth. 'Come get it! I'll cut yah down!'
'Captain!' a dashing, young, high-ranking officer in uniform said, approaching the mad Captain.
'What is it, Sebastian!' The captain said, senses returning.
'We've got a slight problem, sir.' Said Sebastian with a posh, upper-class, English accent. 'It's the Peruvians, Captain. I'm afraid they've got Officer Taff.'
'What do you mean, sailor?' Captain said, with a look of concern.
'He went in the holding bay alone and the intake weren't too happy that he wanted them to stop singing. They are holding him prisoner, Captain.'
Two other sailors approach, grabbing the Peruvian Benny by the arms.
'A mutineer, eh?' Captain says, examining Benny. 'Want my ship, boy, do yah?'
'You singer. We know you are singer – the prince.' Benny said, in broken English, smiling and happy.
'Tie him to the cannon! A hundred lashes from the birch, leave for two day-'
'-But sir!' Sebastian cuts-in, angrily. 'This man has done no wrong.'
 'I want no mutiny aboard my ship! I am the first, you shall listen to me and do as I order, damn you.' Captain said, pointing angrily at Benny, whose face is sullen and panic-set, as he realizes and senses danger ahead.
'But sir!' Sebastian shouts back angrily. ' This man has done no wrong. You can't dole out this mistreatment, when he actually volunteered to help us.'
'Are you a mutineer, Sebastian Flynn?' Captain asks, to the shock of Sebastian.
'No I am not, Captain. How absurd.'
'You want my ship. You're in league with the rest of 'em! My doubts about your commitment to our endeavour have been confirmed!' Captain said, raising his voice. 'You are a mutineer!'
'Sir,' Sebastian said calmly. 'I can assure you I am not bloody mutineer.'
'You lie, man!' Captain continue in his rage. 'You'll take the ship, I know it. You're all the same. Want my blessed ship.'
'Think for a second, Captain. I am not a mutineer.' Sebastian begs.
'Tie that man to the cannon immediately.' Captain order the other two sailors, pointing at Benny.
'Sir, this is-' Sebastian said.
'-Then arrest this mutineer.' Captain said, gesturing with his head towards Sebastian.
Sebastian storms off.
'Mr Flynn, come back here.' Captain orders Sebastian loudly, as he continues to storm off. 'MR FLYNN, SIR, COME BACK HERE!'
'Captain Smith.' Sebastian said sarcastically, pausing and walking back to his captain.
'How dare you turn your back on me, Master Flynn!'
'For that I apologise, Captain. Yet you have no right to arrest and treat me this way.' Sebastian said, with passion. 'I am third in command of this ship, whether you like or not.'
'And I am the first! Commander by law!' Captain spits back, raising his voice.
'I protest.' Sebastian said, shaken.
'Insubordination!' Captain bellows, as two more sailors approach. 'Arrest this man!'
'To hell with you, Captain Smith!.. If you want mutiny, carry on as you are!' Sebastian barks back.
'See!' Captain Smith scoffs, arms in the air as Sebastian is dragged away by two junior sailors. 'Mutiny! The word right from his mouth. I knew it.'
'You want him tied up here, Captain.' A stern looking, young sailor named Huggins said, looking at a steel post.
'Yes, let him rot there. That'll be a lesson to all of you if you threaten mutiny on my ship, you bloody sea monkeys.'
'But I'm not a mutineer, Captain Smith!' Begs Sebastian in desperation, just as a cloth bag is placed over his head. Sebastian continues, but the sound is muffles and indistinct.
Captain Smith smiles, then assumes 'captain' body posture and strolls the deck proudly at his work of dealing with the 'mutineer'.

Last edited by knights, 11/28/2014, 1:56 pm


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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Continued..
In the holding bay, Taff isn't being held prisoner at all. He dances with two of the Peruvians, a dwarf and one-legged ladyboy. Around them the sound of pan pipes playing a whole medley of Prince songs, as smuggled beer is drunk and the finest Peruvian cocaine is snorted. There's a harem of smuggled Peruvian woman lurking in a corner, accepting sex for a price. Rogues selling cheap watches, fake dvd's and all manner of wares. All over, Peruvians sit, here and there, munching on raw potatoes. Yet, mostly they dance to the pan pipes and the small Peruvian man in make-up, made to look like prince, that dances and sings whilst atop of a large storage container. The holding bay, being the size of a large football field, has the air about it of small town in party atmosphere.
'Thank god for sound-proofed holding bays.' Taff said while he snorts a long line of coke off of cheap prostitutes arse, then violently pushing her away. 'PARTY 1999!' He bumbles, sweating profusely, stumbling all over the place as the pan pipers play '1999'.

At the top of the steps, in a darkened corner leading down to the holding bay, Perkins stares down at the scene below.
'My gawd.' He said, licking his lips whilst awestruck as he focuses on a woman being ravaged in the harem.
Another young sailor comes down through a hatch from behind Perkins.
'Captain won't be pleased, Perkins' Cyril, the other sailor said, creeping down the steps. 'What that flamin' idiot up there doesn't understand is that these poor countries are usually two to three decades behind the western ones. To the Peruvians, Prince is a god, most likely. On every boombox in every slum.'
'Look at them' Perkins said whispering, while pointing to the women in the corner in the harem, then at the pan pipers, then the Prince double on the storage container. 'It's mad. Have you ever seen anything like this before?'
'Isn't that, Officer Taff?' Cyril whispers back, pointing to a man now stripping his clothes off, as the crazed dwarf grabs at them and tosses them in the air. 'It is, Perkins – That's Officer Taff!'
'Holy !@#$!' Perkins said quietly but shocked. 'It is too!'
'Held prisoner is he? Doesn't look like it.'
'Crap.' Perkins said, jumping back as a mad-eyed Peruvian in drag spots Perkins and Cyril gawping down at the festivities below.
'Stay still, they can't see us. Relax.' Cyril said, sure of himself.
'That woman spotted us.'
'That was no woman. It's got a tadger.'
'Tadger?'
'A penis, Perkins' Cyril said, grabbing at his crotch.
'!@#$.' Perkins whispered to himself, still looking out at the he-she, licking his lips again. 'You can't tell these days.'

Taff, now naked, climbs awkwardly on to the top of the storage container with the Prince double. He dances as the crowd of Peruvians go more crazy. He stumbles all over the place, but holds his own as the pan pipers start their rendition of 'Raspberry Beret.'

'Yeeeeeaaaahhhhhhh!' Taff hollers loudly, as the crowds around the storage container swell and the noise becomes overwhelming. Drugged up, he's maybe unaware how stupid he appears, but the crowds love it.
As Taff stares up to the ceiling, still spinning his body around in this drugged up state, he catches a glimpse of Perkins and Cyril in the corner of his eye. The looks on their two faces said it all.
'What the hell am I doing' Taff thinks to himself, realizing his predicament. 'What the !@#$ am I doing. I'm second in command.' He thinks, mind racing, looking down at his naked body as his penis jiggles around, to much laughter from the Peruvians.
Taff immediately loses his concentration, then he loses his footing and falls haphazardly down from the storage container, but missing the crowd and landing instead on the hard concrete.
'God!' Yells the Prince double, as Taff's body splats on the ground, the horrible sound echoing the entire holding bay.

'Oh my.' Perkins utters softly, horror etched all over his face. 'Oh my.'
'Captain won't be pleased at all, Perkins. I'll let you explain this to him.' Cyril said, holding his head.
'Oh !@#$.' Perkins said, beginning to sob.

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11/28/2014, 1:57 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Pikestown, French Guiana – Two years earlier
Fergal Stott stands in the remains of what was once a thriving but isolated community. Mostly ruins by now, the fencing and the gate remain, but most of the buildings have been torn down for scrap. Except one. The Okracabana, a hotel and casino is now housed by the natives who moved in when the westerners left. Or so it's thought. A survivor of the horrors still lives there.
'You.' An elderly Irish man said, exiting the Okracabana, holding out a rifle at the intruder.
'Me?' Fergal said, jaw dropping. 'Don't shoot.'
'Hands in the air, !@#$.' The old man said, moving closer and patting Fergal down. He pulls a piece of paper from Fergal's breast pocket. 'What's this?'
'A picture of my brother – Connor. He was here with the lunatics.'
'Lunatics – Pike and Okra, eh?'
'Yeah.'
'Had a gimpy leg, didn't he? Your brother?'
'Yes! You saw him!' Fergal said with some excitement.
'Yep. Sad, sad story that.' The man said, lowering his rifle.
'Is he here?'
'My name is also Connor, the very last of 'em here. I survived by faking my death. I just died, I suppose. Heart attack, those idiots believed. Then I nipped out and came back when the coast was clear. They were gone by then, thank god. Shady place this was. Pike believed I was his Shamanic healer, gullible bastard. Right knob too, he was. And that other deluded one. Right morons.'
'Connor?' Fergal said, confused, hands now lowered and heading to the porch of the Okracabana.
'Connor Davis, is my name, son.' The old man says sitting himself on the porch.
'What happened to Connor Stott?' Fergal asks, sitting himself down on a step.
'Truth is, I don't know for sure, but I'm afraid you're brother is likely dead.' The old man said, patting Fergal on the back. ' When I came back, there were a few left behind. I heard something about a barn being burnt down with him in, then it was he was struck by a spear, run over, was shot by a firing squad. He's dead though, I'm sure. More blood on the hands of Pike and Okra.'
'They reap what they sow.'
'Revenge?' Connor said, turning his gaze to look at Fergals face.
'Yes.' Said Fergal, coldly. 'Both of those bastards will die.'
'You must be careful, my dear boy, these are dangerous men.' Connor said, standing again and looking out as a nude native comes in through the gate. 'I saw them enslave then butcher men. Brutal stuff, it was. Death and murder lingers round Pike and Okra. You must be careful.'
'Careful, you say.' Fergal laughs. 'I've met them. Had them fooled too. You're not the only man who supposedly died, Mr Davis.'
'You too?'
'Yep. For security and confidentially reasons, I can't divulge much. Yet, it was me that got killed by the spear, not my brother.'
'You with the government, huh?'
'Something like that, old timer. Had both of them fooled, I'll say [sign in to see URL] a convenient coincidence that you also died, Mr Davis.' Fergal said, chuckling.
'That is so. Must be written in the stars, that we meet like this, hey? It's the sort of thing that only happens in stories, where the writer runs out of ideas, I think.' Connor said, looking up to the heavens.
'Maybe.' Fergal said, standing up from the step. 'The loonies - You know what happened to them?'
'Surely you'd know. I'm mean with your credentials, contacts and everything? You'd know, right?' Connor said, confused.
'I've been away.' Fergal said, looking to ground anxiously.
'Hmmm, wait there.' Connor says, jumping up the steps and walking back into the Okracabana.
Fergal stands for a few seconds, then Connor reappears.
'Look!' Connor shouts returning, holding an old newspaper in the air. 'It's Okra!'
'Derek Okra.'
'The very same.' Connor says, veering closing to Fergal, opening the paper.
'His past caught up with him, then?' Fergal said, looking at the paper.
'No.' Connor said, turning the papers, then getting to the page with Derek on. 'He's an artiste!'
'Never!' Fergal said, angrily looking down at the newspaper on which a headline reads 'Okra hailed as greatest artist of his generation'.
Connor reads from the newspaper aloud: 'At Christies today, Derek Okra's artwork once again sold for a record breaking sum, netting the artist £15, 000, 000 for the masterpiece 'Lonely figure on the waterfront' brought by art collector Rikishi, former wrestler...'
'He paints!' Said Fergal, flabbergasted.
'Yes, the crazy bastard paints! With his tadger!' Connor laughs.
'Tadger? Is that a special brush, then, huh?' Fergal said, looking confused and also outraged.
'His penis.' Said Connor, laughing hysterically.
'Right then..' Fergal said, slumping down on the step again, grabbing at his knees. 'Let's cut the thing off.'

At the doorway of the Okracabana, a native walks out. He's dressed in a Turquise shell suit. One of hundreds that were left behind, when Pike and Okra left so abruptly.

'Tea for the guest' the native man said, clutching a tea tray with a teapot and cups on.
'What of Pike, then?' Fergal said, gasping at seeing the Turquoise dressed native.
 'You won't need to worry about him.' Connor said, grabbing a teacup and pouring the tea from the teapot. 'He's been locked away.'
'He'll be out.' Fergal said, as Connor passed him a cup of tea.
'When the time is right, we'll get then both.' Connor Davis said, extending his hand in friendship.

Back at Pikesworld
'Get back you bastard, I'll break your legs!' I screamed, losing more and more strength. I see Derek, as things continue to blur and fade out. He just stands there at first, shocked and helpless, then lobs another binder at the dogs. Paper flies everywhere. It does nothing but rile the dogs up more.
'!@#$ on you, Derek.' I mouth, but so quietly he cannot hear.

'Take that, you !@#$!' A distance voice shrieks.

I don't know who it is, as I'm fading in and out of consciousness, but I hear it, followed by a gun shot. The dog biting at my foot is shot, its head blown clean off. Another shot fired, the last three dogs scarper, barking like mad. I am saved. I drop my head back and faint as I feel the blood spurting from my foot. Have I been bitten or did the bullet hit my foot. I don't know, but time for a nap. Let Derek thank my saviour, whoever this mystery person is.


Last edited by knights, 11/28/2014, 2:17 pm


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11/28/2014, 1:59 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Lone Figure on the Waterfront
A year and half ago.
In the dead of night, a car parks up on a dirt road. A lone farmhouse sits isolated, behind an old wooden fence. A dog chained up outside the farmhouse, disturbed by the noise of the car starts to barks away. A light inside the farmhouse flickers on, a head in silhouette form looks out a window overlooking where the dog is and then the light goes off again.
'This is the place,' Connor Davis said, looking out from the side window of the navy blue hatchback. 'The painting is in there.'
'So this is it.' Fergal Stott said, lifting his head out of the sunroof to look at shabby, run down, farmhouse. 'Don't look much to me, Davis.'
'It's in there.' Connor whispers. 'Lone figure on the waterfront.'
'Right then,' Fergal said, lowering his head. 'Leave this to me.'
Fergal moves fast, grabbing for a shotgun and then exiting the car swiftly. He creeps to the gate, then jumps over it. He runs up the dusty driveway, getting closer to the farmhouse entrance. The dog, a rottweiler on a chain leaps up as Fergal passes and barks likes a beast.
'Piss off!' Fergal said to dog, as its chain halts any attack. Suddenly there's noise from inside the house. Movement. Feet running down steps. Fergal holds his shotgun up and he nears the door to farmhouse. The door bursts open. A male figure stands, freezing like a statue as he sees the shotgun pointing at him.
'What d'yah want?' The figure said gruffly, stepping forward into the moonlight, revealing it to be none other than the wrestler 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin in all but a pair of garish brown, Y-fronts and one single white sock.
'Lone figure on the waterfront.'
'No fuckin' way! I only bought that painting last month off Rikishi! Get lost!' Austin shouts back, scowling.
Fergal turns the shotgun towards the dog, while still menacingly staring Austin down, who now is only a yard away.
'Don't hurt him!' Austin said, panic in his wavering words.'P-P-Please.. I'll get it- Figure on the waterfront, right? Don't hurt my dog!'
Austin vanishes back in the house.
Minutes later the painting is tossed out the window above.
'Don't shoot my dog!' Austin pleads, hiding. 'Have the painting!'
Fergal grabs at the painting that's been rolled up. Dropping the shotgun, he unfurls the painting carefully, flashing a torch to check it over in the darkness. He smiles as it appears to be the real deal. He rolls it back up and thrusts it under his arm, stooping to ground and picking the shotgun back up.
The dog barks again.
'Bye pooch.' Fergal said, picking up pace and running away.
As Fergal reaches the car, he places the rolled up painting in Connor's lap. Sitting himself down in the passenger seat, Fergal claps his hands at a job well done. Still parked up by the front gate of 'Stone Cold ranch' according the sign, Connor tilts his head closer to the open window as he hears something.
'D'yah hear that, lad?' Connor said, shrugging, a look of confusion in his eyes as he gazes into the darkness through the window, looking back towards the farmhouse.
'The dog.' Fergal said, as the dog barks again.
'No, it ain't the bloody dog!' Connor insisted, wagging his finger up and down.
Fergal goes up through the sunroof again, as a noise coming from the farmhouse gets louder.
'He's smashing that place up, Davis!' Fergal chimes. 'Boy, I must really have pissed him off!'
Suddenly a deafening scream is heard from the farmhouse, as the sound of items being thrown around and destroyed intensifies. The glass windows smash on the upper floor as objects are lobbed all over by the man bald man. A TV is thrown out first. The dog barks like mad. Then a fridge is hurled out the window as it were a toy, then strength of the man so great. The dog lets out a horrifying squeal. The carnage in the house all but stops, as Austin yells 'Nooooo!' at realizing something bad might have just happened, the sound of the dog's squeal that piercing and painful.
Fergal stared out and focused his vision in the dark at where this dog was. It's gone. A slanted fridge just sits in the dogs place.
'Let's go, Davis.' Fergal urges, as the bald headed man emerges outside to look for his dog, the entrance spotlight flashing and then coming on.
Connor puts his foot down fast. As the car roars away, Fergal sees the bald man, arms in the air, the picture of tragedy as he looks down at his fridge. The bald man then sinks to his knees.
Being a good man, Fergal looks back at tragedy before him with a look of sadness, knowing he was the sole cause of it all. 'I'm not responsible for that.' He thinks, lying to himself, as the car moves further away and the farmhouse get more and more faint. Fergal lets out a loud sigh, ducks his head back down through the sunroof and slumps into the passenger seat. He cuts a depressing sight. 'Yep.' He mumbles to himself, trying regain some composure.

A little while later and some distance away now, Fergal revels at his antics in this 'art heist'.
'The man was a wimp.' He laughs,. 'Complete coward. I threatened to shoot his dog and he just practically handed me the painting.'
'Easy job.' Connor said, speeding the car away whilst nodding happily. 'We want easy jobs. Get us some easy dough. Nothing easier than that.'
'..Then he throws a wobbly, then throws a damn fridge out his window to kill the dog himself.'
'Fergal, you can't know for sure he killed that dog.' Connor said, obviously lying as he heard the squeal the thing made.
'Maybe.' Fergal said, tilting his head back into the headrest. Closing his eyes, he can't get the image of a distraught bald man of out his head, or imagining him picking the fridge up and finding his beloved and dead pet. Fergal then imagines a funeral, his mind still racing. The bald man is there, tossing dry earth on a specially made casket. Again, the bald man sinks to his knees like before. After a minute of uncontrollable tears, the bald man without hesitation dives into the grave, while anxiously screaming 'My dog! My dog!' as he clutches the small casket. The priest dog, a small Beagle dressed in a clergy cassock and robes, barks at the bald man in disapproval. The bald man pats the casket, kisses it and delicately places it back in the grave. Tears stream from his eyes, anguish covers his face, his posture that of beaten man as he pick himself up from the grave.
'It wasn't your fault.' The dog priest tells the bald man of his dead dog.
'You can talk!' The bald man exclaims, amazed at the talking dog.
'Why of course,' the dog priest said 'it is you humans that bark.'

'Fergal!' Connor said, slapping the dreary-eyed Fergal on the thigh.
'The dog talked!..What?!' Fergal snapped back, waking from a dream-like state.
'What you talking about?' Connor said, giving Fergal a disconcerting look.
'Nothing.' He replied, glumly. 'I just keep thinking about that poor dog.'
'Well don't. It was his fault, not yours.' Connor said, smiling, making Fergal feel more depressed.
'Who was he anyway?' Fergal asks of the man at the farmhouse.
'What, the baldy?'
'Yeah, the baldy.'
'Only a wrestler, Fergal.' Connor said, crunching his fingers on one hand into a fist.
'Explains how he through that fridge out the window then.' said Fergal, deep in thought.
'Very dangerous man we just robbed.'
'Big bloomin' wimp.'

---

12/4/2014, 9:14 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


continued...
Hours later, now early morning the car screeches to a halt. Connor gets out. He clutches the painting and walks off towards a deserted car park on the edge of an industrial estate somewhere. A man dressed in black stands under a blinking streetlight, briefcase in hand and anxiously puffing away on a cigarette. Connor gets closer. The man clad in black is dressed not be seen. A balaclava covers his face, a black baseball cap on top of that, dark sunglasses cover his eyes, he even wears black leather gloves to hide his hands.
'Don't come any closer,' The man in black said, muffling his voice with his hand. 'Pass me the picture, you get the case. And don't look at me, please.'
'Okay, kind sir. Very well.' Connor replied, passing the picture, arm outstretched, eyes looking only to the ground.
'Thanks.' the dark man said, dropping the suitcase on the floor and kicking it towards Connor. The man in black removes his sunglasses and unfurls the painting, briefly examining it. Connor opens the suitcase, smiling as he sees several gold bars shining back at him. Connor gives the dark man a thumbs up and leaves.
'Thanks, Irish man.' The dark man said, before awkwardly running off, showing signs of his age.

In the car, Connor exaggerates on the exchange.
'He said, if you mess with me or tell anyone about this, you'll be dead the next day. Fed to my hungry goats, he said.'
'Any idea who it really was then?' Fergal asks.
'Not a clue, Fergal. We'll never know anything other than the name he gave-Dorothy .'
'The dog.' Fergal said sadly, looking at the suitcase in his lap, opening it.
'If the dog is dead,' Connor said, stopping the car 'which it probably isn't - it's Dorothy's fault. Remember that, Fergal. It's Dorothy's fault. Not yours.'
'That's a lot of gold,' Fergal said, picking up a gold bar, 'screw the dog.'

Later the next day, Bill Cosby sits cross-legged on the white floor in his private art gallery. Masterpieces from every art movement around encircle him, all stolen of course - a couple of Van Gogh's, a Renoir, several Picasso's, a Rembrandt – yet he cares little for these now. He weeps as stares at the one right before him though 'Lone figure on the waterfront' by artist Derek Okra.
'It's just so...' Cosby said looking at the painting, before sobbing uncontrollably into a white silk handkerchief.
 

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12/4/2014, 9:30 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Continued...
The Diner
'Okay, old man-' Fergal said, smiling as he sipped a coffee in the quiet all American diner, Connor sitting opposite him, head deep in the days news, flipping through a paper.
'Less of the old, Fergal' Connor said, licking his index finger and then thumbing through the pages some more. 'You want a smack, I'll give you one for free.'
'What if we do chop his penis off then.' Fergal said, as a young waitress passed, giving him a disgusted look.
'Quiet, Fergal!' Whispered Connor angrily, looking around at the staff in this empty diner. A fat, little black man in a white cap who flips burgers, turns around and eyes suspiciously at the pair.
Fergal holds his hands as if there was a massive sword in them, dropping it in a slashing motion.
'How do you propose to do this, Fergal? Ambush him, order him on the spot to give you an erection and slice it off in one fell swoop of that invisible blade you carry.'
'Ah, maybe you've a point there.' Fergal said, staring to the ceiling in thought.
'He'd bleed to death most probably too. And as much as I detest him and that other loon, the thought of bleeding to death like that makes me squirm.'
'He killed Connor, my Connor. My brother, Connor' Fergal said then pointing at Connor. 'Connor.'
'You're a poet, Fergal? Too many Connor's though.'
'I will honour Connor.'
'Ha!' Connor laughs, sarcastically. 'A comedian too.'
'I want him to squirm though, Connor.' Fergal said maniacally, revelling in his imagination again as he pictures Derek dying in his mind's eye. He's lying naked against a bare white wall in an art studio, blood squirting all over from his groin with Fergal standing over him. Fergal holds Derek's severed penis aloft like a trophy in one hand and in the other the samurai sword that did the brutal deed.
Connor gives Fergal a disagreeable look, as Fergal continues: 'Him looking down, aghast at the blood that spurts out of the place where his dick was. It fills me with pride I'll have avenged my brother's murder, Davis. I'll be standing there, him on the floor squirming and spazing out in shock, I'll say to him this is for Connor Stott, you murdering !@#$. He look up at me and say who? in his pathetic, put-on, possessed voice. I'll shout back to him My brother, yah bastard! You's and that other !@#$, who I've to yet kill, killed my brother at Piketown. Remember now? He'll no doubt remember and say Ah, yeah. Sorry bout that, sunshine. He'll then bleed out. I'll do a little celebratory dance and then leave.'
'You're sick, man.' Connor said, shaking his head, then looking back at the newspaper as he reaches the arts section. 'Talking of penises.'
'What?'
'Here.' Connor said as he looks at the newspaper's art section. A sorry, upset looking picture of 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin stares back at him, under the headline which Connor reads aloud: 'Art thieves killed my dog.'
'The dog died then. Oh well.'
'The dog is indeed dead, I'm afraid' Connor said, giving Fergal a sympathetic look.'You killed the poor thing apparently.'
'I DID NOT!' Fergal shouted back, defiantly to the glares of the diner's staff.
Connor laughs as he reads from the paper: 'The thief was a coward, Austin said..'
'How dare he!' Fergal retorted, eyes filled with rage.
'..He forced me a gunpoint to lift the fridge and drop it on Busby's head. It will haunt me forever.'
'Lies.'
'..Austin said the thief, as well as being dressed a bit like action man, had the appearance of that of a man with severe learning disabilities, also with hair receding, bad British teeth and bulging eyes like Marty Feldman.'
'That !@#$-'
'-I'm axing to you keep it down, sir' A young black waitress cuts-in, with southern ghetto accent. 'We all hear yah, here. What you hiding, eh?'
'Why nothing.' Fergal said, shooing her away with his hand. 'Axing!?' he adds, confused staring to Connor, shrugging.
'It's how black folk say 'asking', Fergal?' Connor interjects.
The young black waitress, suddenly bites back, sensing a racist in her midst. She grabs at a vinegar bottle and hurls it to the ground, that smash making both Connor and Fergal jump: 'Racist!' She screams, eyes that of a deranged liberal now, high on Marx.
'Quick, Fergal! Run! We've angered them!' Connor said, jumping up, grabbing at several of the long life mini milk pots and sugar sachets, plopping them in his coat pocket. 'Now.'
Connor rushes past the waitress and goes for the door. The waitresses manager then step forwards and rushes also for the door, blocking any access. Fergal doesn't budge, he stays at the table, troubled by the paper's remarks on his appearance, no doubt. He holds his head in his hands, looking miserable.
'Out of my way, fatso.' Connor said to the diner's manager, a portly black man, small in height, with a thick moustache and wearing white cap that reads 'Dick's Diner'.
'Never,' the portly man obviously named Dick said, holding his arms out to prevent Connor from leaving. 'I'm calling the cops!'
'We did nothing!' Connor insists, angered by the threat.
'Tanisha heard talk of bodily organs being cut off, that ain't nothing, boy!' Dick rages.
'Oh.' Connor replied, turning back to Fergal who lifts his head up and wryly smiles. 'You idiot, Fergal.'
'So it's true, old man.' Dick said, grabbing at Connor now.
'Listen,' Connor said calmly while tussling with the man now. 'I paid for our drinks and the pecan pie, now let me please leave.'
'PEECAN PIE, !@#$!' Dick rages randomly. 'It's not 'Pecan' pie, you stupid !@#$'
'You what?' Connor said anxiously and troubled, utterly clueless as to how to respond to the little black man that still grabs at him.
'No!' Fergal screamed, standing to his feet and facing the window, looking outside. 'No!'
'What!?' Connor said back quite alarmed, as he's still manhandled by Dick at the entrance doorway, being pushed back.
Fergal points outside. Connor's car starts moving.
'You've got to be !@#$ kidding me!' Connor screeches.
Inside the car a black kid of about 10 years old, sits behind the wheel and drives off. Fergal bangs on the diner's windows, trying in vain to break the glass with his fists.
'The suitcase!' Connor shouted, grabbing at his chest, feeling faint.
''The gold!' Fergal hysterically yelped back, running for the door, pushing Dick over.

'I chased that kid for five blocks!' Fergal said, out of breath, sitting on a kerb.
'Well done, dipshit.. but did you catch the little !@#$!' Connor said, exiting a taxi.
'Nope.' said Fergal emotionally, as he begins to cry. 'The cops got to him first.'
'Got the gold, did they?' Connor said, standing over Fergal, giving him a hard kick.
'Whoa!' Fergal said, flinching at Connor's attack. 'I tried my best, Connor! No need for that.'
'Got the gold, did they?' Connor repeats, kicking again.

---

12/5/2014, 7:18 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Continued...
Cosby's last stand
Bill Cosby sits on a gold plated toilet, trousers down at his slippers.
'Ahhhh' He said, relishing at sound of a freshly evacuated turd hitting the water in the toilet pan. 'Damn that was good.'
A small toilet room, no more bigger than a portaloo, but with space for several National Geographic magazines on the floor and a couple more of his stolen art pieces that hang pride of place on the walls. One of the pieces is Derek Okra's 'Bob Hoskins' portrait, stolen by Cosby at a private gallery visit during a moment of kleptomaniac madness. The other the most precious of all missing art work, Vameer's 'The Concert' stolen to order by Cosby in 1990 from a Boston art museum.
Cosby's iphone starts to ring to the sound of The Jackson's 'Can you feel it' as the ringtone. He slouches down to his trousers, grunting angrily
'I'm having a !@#$. Go, go away.' He grumbles to himself as he grabs for the iphone with a Bill Cosby custom skin, a picture from his 80's heydays.
'Okay. Okay.' He said as he and tries in vain to answer the phone. Being old, it's highly technical stuff. He taps at the back plate not knowing it won't do a thing, before turning it around and pressing 'Answer' and lifting the phone to ear, wrong way round of course.
'Bill Cosby. Yes?'
'Bill Cosby? The Actor?' The other voice said, then hanging up.
'Yes.' Cosby said, turning the phone the right way round. 'Hello? Hello?'
Cosby takes the phone away from his ear, then blankly looks down at the screen. The word 'Irishman' on the phone hits like a bullet and he immediately bolts up from the toilet, tossing the phone to one side as though the thing were infected with the plague. Cosby then begins to stare at the Okra painting, trousers still round his ankles and yet to wipe his bottom. He seems on edge, agitated. The image of a crudely painted 'Bob Hoskins' makes him even more agitated.
'What have I done?' He said to himself as he starts panicking, heart beating like mad, sweat on his brow. 'What have I done?'


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12/6/2014, 1:32 am Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Continued
Sometime later that day...
'Bill fuckin' Cosby.' Connor said, looking out at the mansion in the Beverly Hills, as Fergal, gun in hand, has the massive door to it opened by a rather bemused maid. Fergal rushes past her and barges his way into the mansion. A commotion is heard inside. Connor hides behind a bush, badly sculpted to appear like the head of Bill Cosby, but it appearing more like Winston Churchill. Peering out, he sees the door wide open up the grand marble steps but won't venture any further.

Connor and Fergal had just driven a driven through the iron gates and time would be of the essence. This being a quick job. A chance job too. And rather silly job too, perhaps... On a whim while casing the place, Connor just drove through the gates and told Fergal to get the painting back. Handing Fergal, a handgun, he'd told Fergal he'd have to do this or they'd never get revenge. Getting the painting back, would be the only way of funding their revenge. The gold being gone this was it. Rob the man who gave the gold and has the painting. 'Any valuables, grab. Any other paintings, grab. Do what you must do, Fergal.' Connor told him, in a five second brief of the job. Fergal didn't know what to think, he was shocked at Connor's frankly reckless behaviour. 'Have you lost your mind? I'll do it, but I'm not happy about this rush.' Fergal replied, snatching the gun and hastily leaving the car. Fergal took one deep breath and bravely stormed the steps.
 
'Lone figure on the waterfront!' Fergal is heard yelling, as old man whimpers and cries, begging him not to shoot him. 'Take me to the !@#$ painting, Cosby! I'll blow your !@#$ brains out, if you don't give me that painting!'
Connor readies himself back at the car, opening the boot to there recently acquired volvo estate. Tan coloured, it's old and battered, but will do the job, providing Fergal can do his.
'Come on, Fergal. Get your arse back, lad.' Connors said, whispering to himself anxiously. 'Come on.' The door to the entrance ajar, Connor can only hope Fergal will appear at any second. The eerie silence now, makes him nervous. He keeps looking back to entrance. The iron gates on the floor, a couple of tourists gawk and take pictures at the carnage caused by the car ploughing through them. Connor, keen not to be seen by tourists taking photos, ducks behind the car.
Connors sighs. This is getting too much. Nothing happening. The cops will be here any second.
'Come on.' He repeats, panting impatiently. He stares at the car door, thinking of the getting out of the mansion alone. Maybe Cosby has killed Fergal, Connor thinks to himself. Then he looks all around, at the fences that would be too high to climb anyway, but would try to climb if Cosby came to attack him with what he imagines would probably be either a chainsaw or a massive great machete. The thought of being attacked by Bill Cosby wielding a machete makes Connor shudder. Suddenly the silence is broken. Noise from inside the mansion.
Connor turns back to the mansion, alarmed by a shrieking woman's voice. Two shots then fire out, followed by a familiar voice, ordering Cosby around: 'Get those !@#$ paintings in the back of my !@#$ car!'
'Okay.' A feeble, old voice crows back emotionally. 'Okay.'
Connor perks up immediately. 'Thank God.' He said, sighing with relief as Bill Cosby steps out the mansions doorway holding a stack of paintings, followed by Fergal.
'What took you so long?' Connor chirps happily, standing again.
Cosby, a man defeated. He looks an emotional wreck. Now he stands clutching not just Okra's 'Lone Figure on the waterfront' but several of the others too, as he staggers without much care down the grand marble steps to the driveway. Fergal holds the gun out in one hand but grips another Okra painting, the portrait 'Bob Hoskins' in his other.
'Quickly there, Dot.' Connor said to Cosby, pointing to the boot.
Cosby stares blankly at him, like the world has fallen in around him in an instant.
'Why?' Cosby utters under his breath, hopeless. 'Why me?'
'Yeah, Ghost Dad- Paintings in the trunk or I'll blow your !@#$ head off.' Fergal said, ordering him with nudges of the gun to Cosby's temple.
While Cosby places the paintings in the boot of the car, Fergal holds his other painting aloft with one hand.
'Another Okra.' Fergal said, smiling. 'In his toilet it was.'
'That's ten paintings, Fergal.' Connor said, adding them up as he looks Cosby's stack.
'Yeah. I think this is Okra's portrait of Danny Devitto too. Could be worth a fortune.'
'It Bob Hoskins, you fool' Cosby scoffs unheard, placing the last painting in the boot. 'Amateurs.'
'We should leave immediately.' Connor said, Fergal nodding in agreement.
Cosby steps back from the boot. Fergal lowers his gun. Connor opens the driver's door and sits down, now ready for a swift exit.
'Off we go!' Fergal said, as Connor closed his car door.
'No! Hold it, right there!' Cosby shouts, as he pulls out a bread knife from his trousers. Fergal laughs at the man, but Cosby is utterly incensed and wants war.
'A bread knife?' Fergal said, waving his gun.
'Those are my paintings.' Cosby continues, in fighting stance with the bread knife. 'I spent years collecting those paintings and you're just gonna show up at my door and rob me of them.'
'Try your worst, old man.' Fergal said, goading the man.
'C'mon Fergal, let's go!' Shouts Connor in the car. 'Leave him!'
'Leave me?!' Cosby rages, lunging forward at Fergal with bread knife. The old man, way to slow for the younger Fergal, lunges forward and Fergal moves out of his way fast, leaving the man helplessly flopping to the ground. Cosby lies on his back helpless as Fergal re-assumes his role as chief robber. He clutches the gun with both hands and points it at Cosby's head.
'No!' Connor urges Fergal, alarmed.
'No!' Cosby cries, wriggling around and then tossing the bread knife to the floor. 'I GIVE UP!'
'Give up, do yah?' Fergal said, lowering his gun. 'Okay, fair enough. Now !@#$ off!'
'You win.' Cosby said, even more defeated than before.
Fergal places his gun in the holster, but unexpectedly Cosby goes in for a second attack, grabbing at Fergal's legs: 'They're my paintings, don't you get it!' He cries.
Connor starts the car up, much to Fergal's confusion. Suddenly the car starts to move forward at some speed. Cosby grips harder at Fergal's legs adding to the confusion. For a second, Fergal believes Connor has double-crossed him but then the car reverses.
'What you doing!?' Fergal shouts at both Cosby and Connor, as the car veers back at some speed.
'I'm gonna chop of off you leg now son.' Cosby spits out, frothing, eyes widened and scowling like a mad man. Cosby grabs for the bread knife with his other hand, but Fergal isn't interested as he jumps away from the car that continues to reverse at great speed, leaving Cosby in it's path on the driveway.
Cosby let's out a bloodcurdling scream. The car has reversed over his leg. He passes out instantly.
Fergal shakes his head. 'Connor!' He said angrily, but is met with no response. Connor just opens the passenger door and gestures for Fergal to get in. Fergal steps over Bill Cosby and catches a glimpse of the mangled leg. The sight makes him gag a for second, but then he sees that Cosby is still breathing, which is a relief. For Fergal is a good man and though he wishes harm on Okra and Pike, he didn't really want to kill Bill Cosby, or at least play a part in his death.

'I'm sorry, Fergal.' Connor said as he drove at speed, out of the mansion.
'That was completely unnecessary.'
'You were going to shoot him, then he grabbed your legs. I just thought-'
'-Thought what!' Fergal said, crossing his arms and avoiding Connor's gaze.
'I had to act! I saw him with the machete too.'
'That was a bread knife, Connor. Put your glasses on next time.'
'A bread knife?'
'Yep, a bread knife.'
'!@#$! You've made feel really bad now.'
'Don't be.. That painting.' Fergal said, looking at the stack in the back of the car. 'It's part of very valuable series. Lone and Lonely. We have both. We stand to make a good profit.'

Last edited by knights, 12/6/2014, 2:00 am


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