by Halfdan Ingvarsson
As my eyes started giving me a classic George Lucas-style gradual fade-to-black I overheard Quattro Formaggio. "I must say Mik, that I haven't had such a splendid cappuccino since in Italy lo... time... ag... " He looked confused. "Sorry guys, my legs are giving in...". The whole of Edwardio's gang collapsed neatly next to each other on the floor, avoiding landing on top of each other. "Oh me deary..."
Then the fade was complete. I was passed out.
--
Mik looked down on the two gangs with the same pitiful eyes that one would give a junior animator's show reel.
"We have them all now, haven't we?" an eerie voice said from behind in the darkness. Mik looked back and rubbed his arm stub.
"Just as you wanted, Mr. Brimful"
"Good good". The terrifying image of Ashwan Brimful peered at the collapsed bodies on the floor. Ashwan had arrived in Soho from Russia where he had been a senior member of the mafia. His speciality had been overseeing their major criminal activities and animal torture. His own fetish was putting hamsters through the 'toothpaste'. He was The Executive Producer.
Soren was his biggest fan. He had the walls in his flat covered with blurred and blacked out newspaper clips of Brimful walking in and out of limos in non-existant Russian towns. He even knew what the 'tootpaste' was. He even had a small scale toothpasting device, mad out of a white tea towel wrapped around his brother's stuffed hamster, adorning his fireplace.
"I also trust that you have the Ident Job, Mik?"
"Yes. Yes. Of course. And the new 'Traumas' machine is ready as well. Mind you though that it is only a beta version."
"What does that imply?"
"Well.. There are certain features not completed yet. But the PR people at Softer Image assured me that it will work better than anything that has come before."
--
I was gently awaken by the noises of broken ventilation system and the muffled screams of runners piled under the grating in the floor. The only thing I could make out of the voices was a line that never will leave my mind: "I'm sorry I couldn't find that special Ulan Bator goat-cheese burger at 4pm, Mr. Producer sir". Reminds me of my office, I thought.
next week: Nothing planned. No, really