My head hurt. My back hurt and I could only see out of one eye. What a way to wake up. And why did I feel like this? My memory waded through mud to work out what had happened the night before. I'm pretty sure it wasn't an Unofficial Softimage Users' Group Meeting: My shirt was conspicuously devoid of Icelandic vomit and I didn't have the blood of Discussion list malcontents on my knuckles. Slowly, a picture began to form and I remembered.....
The meeting with the woman- Edna- had come to an abrupt conclusion when- just as she repeated "Very well indeed" for the 12th time I had slugged her with the empty whiskey bottle. She went down heavy, like a sack of complaint mail after a Softimage release. I never met a dame that didn't understand a slap inna mouth or a slug from a fwordy five. I went to rifle through her pockets when she came back for more: I felt my Larson desk calender cracking across my cheekbone. I ripped it out of her hands and pinched her ear quite hard. She retaliated by giving me a chinese burn on my spine. Finally I just picked up the bottle and hit her again. Rifling through her pockets and then her handbag- hmmm genuine Italian crocodile skin- I came up with a chocolate cigarette case inscribed with the initials Q.F., a lipstick- never know when that could come in handy, and a matchbook. The matchbook was from a Post Production facility downtown -"Aldis...and More!". Things were starting to fall into place...thank God for boxer shorts.
As I lay in bed I ran over my clues. Someone wanted me out of the way on a logo job. They'd sent some piece to convince me and then work me over. And someone who I apparently knew was involved. Not much to go on but I had the matchbook from "aldis...and More!".
"Aldis..." was run by a local type name of Mr Mik. Once an ex-Greco wrestler, he had gone rogue...setting up an effects house and sending his "Animators" around rainey Soho, reducing the competition. His reduction methods included bogus contracts promising lucrative and fulfilling jobs in the United States, which turned out to be painting textures for Real Animators, and hiring freelancers for non-existant facilities. Sometimes he would simply send "Da Boys" round to give someone the thrashing of a lifetime. What ever way you spread the butter- he was a nasty piece of work. As was his lieutenant, Soren "The Dog" Dippedy -probably the most violent animator in Europe. Soren had a reputation for buggering pets and forcing their owners to watch while tied up- with a last minute deadline change. I was going to have to pay a visit anyway.
Maybe I'd pick up some muscle myself on the way. A few of the boys owed me a favour or two. Wouldn't hurt to have a little back up in case it got rough.
------
My first stop would be The Souperie. An old friend ran the joint- name of Olaf DadiDadison. Once we had learnt our chops together, running wild through London's burgeoning FX houses. The world seemed like an uncloseable lobster until Olaf had run a bit too wild and fell down a manhole. Now nothing more than a drooling, gibbering alcaholic mentalist, it was all he could do to pour soups into bowls. Still, he had a strong right arm and very little brain activity and was ideal for absorbing a few body blows or a knife attack.
As I had presumed Olaf was very pleased to see the dog biscuits I held out for him and I led him out of the shop with ease. Chronic gastric troubles and dribbling idiocy was a small price to pay for such unquestionable loyalty. Next stop: The Drugstore.
Next Month: What is indeed in store for our hero and his gibbering, malcoordinated sidekick?