> frantically for help to the Mayor...

Gumshoe's cries for help reverberated around the hallway, along with sobs of
agony and occasional convulsive fits of hysterics. But both me and Zeigermann
were tied up. I wriggled on the floor, trying to free myself, but to no
avail.

Julie barked a command to one of the few Red clones which had survived
gumshoe's massacre. "Leave these three now. Start up one of the vans and get
ready to go to Mission Control. I will fetch Father Mike." With that she
turned away down the corridor.

Mission Control? And Father Mike! Of course! Only now could I appreciate the
full cunningness of the plan. But it was no good unless I could break free.
Zeigermann could help me out, if only he wasn't tied up like I was. He was
also struggling on the floor, with his back to me.

Then I had an idea. I cleared my throat several times, stretched my larynx
and put on my best dodgy Roger Moore voice: "The name's Bond, James
Bond.....Good Morning, Moneypenny.....vodka martini, shaken, not stirred."

The effect was instantaneous. Zeigermann let out a roar of anger, his muscles
started to bulge like a female tennis player's and for a moment he almost
turned green in colour. He snapped his bonds like they were made out of
tissue and started screaming vile obscenities, the likes of which I hadn't
heard since Inspector Allan had that run-in with the American Football Fans
Long Sigs & HTML Appreciation Society.

"Vhere is ze bastard Moore? I vill snap his neck like ein piece of zee dried
Bratwurst."
"Herr Baron, calm down. You must have misheard. But now you're free, untie me
and help gumshoe." I said.
He undid my bonds, and I blindfolded gumshoe, who was by now calling for his
mother. He calmed down considerably in the soothing blindness. We started to
make a run for it when suddenly Julie stormed back with a large gun,
accompanied by her accomplice in crime, Father Mike "Call me Mike"
Cunningham.

"Gentlemen, I must introduce you to the next Mayor of uksfopolis - Father
Mike Cunningham."
"Call me Miekkkk. 'ere, wha' are all these fookin soothern nancies doin'
eeere?" he said in his impossibly squeaky voice.
"Never mind the bitch and the biker. Grab the Kraut and let's go." said
Julie.
"Accrington Stanley? Ooooo are theyyy?" he replied.
Julie sighed in impatience. Cunningham brought out a hidden police baton with
a 'Courtesy of Kate Hoey' on the side, before cracking it across Zeigermann's
head. He was dragged away unconscious.

"You," she said to one of the few remaining Red clones, "Take care of these
two, properly this time." Then she and Cunningham walked off. In the distance
I could hear a van starting up.

The clone started smiling at me. I could hear the dribble hit the dusty
floor. I smiled back. Then I rolled down the shoulder of my top and revealed
one of my bra straps and winked. The effect was instantaneous - the tight
rubber/leather suiting the clone was wearing tightened around the groin area
and the tension cut off the circulation to his head. He fell to the ground
with a mighty squelch.

I led gumshoe out of the Hall of Palmer, and all the way back to Ron's cab.
He was managing to wake himself up with his sleeptalking, before falling
asleep five minutes later of boredom, before waking up again.

"What now?" said the still shaken gumshoe.
"I know what they're planning. Father Mike is to be installed as Mayor.
They've kidnapped Zeigermann - simple deduction. I've got it all sussed out."
"Did oi ever tell you of the toim I had me poiles operate on?"
"Yes Ron. Five times."
"But where do we go now? They've lost us." said gumshoe.
"We don't need to follow them. I have an idea...."


It was plain to see that gumshoe didn't like this at all. He hadn't worn a
suit since Snaps's Memorial Service and that had only lasted thirty seconds.
Ron was happy as larry, we'd gotten a chauffeur's outfit for him and one of
the Mayoral limos outside, he was busy telling a lamppost about the time he
was short-changed for a Guinness in a Nottingham pub and how it'd led to him
becoming the military dictator of a small Latin American banana republic.

Inside the hotel lobby, me and gumshoe waited for our guests. Presently they
arrived, dragged by Canadian huskies on two golden thrones with wheels and
angelic choristers lining the route, throwing rose petals down and chanting
the couple's initials over and over again. Their personal advisor was
standing nervously next to them, who turned out to be Camel. He looked
slightly exasperated with his job for some reason. I mouthed to him to help
us out in what we were doing, he nodded vigorously - either he understood or
he thought I was offering a quickie in one of the lifts after this was all
done.

"Right," I said to the couple "which one of you is the brains of the outfit?"
"Well ackcherlly, it's Brooklyn, know what I mean?" said one of them, "But
he's havin' a kip at the moment, y'know." she continued. Me and gumshoe gave
each other wary glances. This might be easier than we thought.
"Basically we come from a record company..." I started
"A wot?" said the bleach-blonde greasy-haired gimp next to her.
"A record company. We make records."
"Wot are they?"
"You know, those shiny metal round things that have music."
"Oh, right."
"...and we'd love you two to a do a duet..."
"Wossat? That one of 'em flashy cars?"
"Er..no..it's when you sing together."
"Oh singin'. That's Victoria's fing, 'cos she's a classy bird, y'know."
"Well, we'd like you two to do it."
"Two?"
"Yes, two. As in two is more than one, David, you must know that."
"Eh?"
"Well David, if my team scored two goals, and yours only scored one, then
we'd win because we'd scored more, right? Anyway, we'd pay you lots of money
for it."
"Money?"
"Yes."
"Wossat?"
"A uniform divisible means of exchange for goods and services." Gumshoe
opened a briefcase full of notes to demonstrate.
"Oh, magic paper. Right I'm wiv you."

Actually the briefcase was full of old copies of 'Polly's predictions for
wouldn't be able to tell the difference. We were right.

"Shall we do it then Mr Camel?" David asked his advisor.
"> >>> >> > me too" said Camel before shouting out "PLEASE UNSUBSCRIBE ME
FROM THIS STORY"
Then he said "I agree", answering Victoria's question before she asked it:
"So when d'you wannus to do it, like?"
"So's your momma" said Camel.
"We'd like you to sing straight away." I said, trying to inject some sanity
into the proceedings, while miming 'Shut the fuck up or you die' to Camel at
the same time.
"When's that?"
We let out another sigh of exasperation. "Mooooo, you suck" said Camel,
helpfully.

Two hours later, when the concept of time, past, present and future had been
painstakingly explained to the pair, and me and gumshoe had kindly knocked
Camel unconscious and thrown him into a skip to keep him quiet, we set off in
the limo.

Ron was still going on - "...well oi said, 'Comrade Pedro, all oi want is moi
ten pence back from da barmaid over dere', and den he said..." - but we'd
developed a knack of ignoring it. David and Victoria were enthralled though.
"So where we off to now then fadda?"
"City Hall, Ron. Fast as possible, please...." 
As Ron built up to a steady 7mph, something inside me told me a showdown was
imminent. I could see the same look of grim expectation on gumshoe's face as
well...

<HR WIDTH="100%">


On 2 Aug 1999 20:44:40 GMT, "Chris Applegate"
<chris@dialsquare.freeserve.cxo.uk> wrote:

<Yeah, I know I said I couldn't be arsed. So sue me.>

>As Ron built up to a steady 7mph, something inside me told me a showdown was
>imminent. I could see the same look of grim expectation on gumshoe's face as
>well...

Things were starting to fall into place. But I couldn't help feeling
that there was still one final piece missing. Chris(tina) seemed to
know, but then (s)he was remaining as tight-lipped as ever. Why
Beckham? There was still something there, just beyond reach.

We rounded a corner, and Posh tumbled to the filthy floor of the cab.
The poor thing had never quite understood the concept of seats.
Beckham giggled slightly, but stopped as Posh lightly tapped his calf
with her heel.

Of course! Now, it all made sense! I glanced at Chris, and he nodded
slowly. We pulled into the basement car-park of City Hall -
impressive, as Ron did it through one of the sky-lights - and Chris
quickly explained what needed to be done. Beckham was asleep now,
occasionally whimpering and making pedalling movements with his hands
and feet. Posh still on the floor, trying to work out why everyone was
taller than her. Chris hastily exited the cab, and disappeared until
it all blew over. This was going to be heavy.

I made my way up the stairs to the Great Hall. This was the nerve
centre of Uksfopolis, where the people met to discuss the pressing
issues of the day. Canon Chan was back, exuding piousness and probity,
in stark contrast to his normal foul-mouthed club comedian persona. A
fat sweaty bloke with a dodgy pudding-basin haircut was on the stage,
desperately trying to get attention, despite his inability to remember
even the most basic facts. Fights were breaking out over whether indie
music sucked arse or not.

Becks and Posh followed me, as I could speak in sentences. 

Suddenly, the doors flew open, and Julie stormed in. I pointed my gun
at her, and she looked shaken. "You managed to escape, I see."

"Damn right. Now how about you put down that Steps record and go stand
over there. Red, go get Goatman." Red hesitated, looked at Julie, who
nodded, and he gimped out to the van I could see through the
still-open doors.

Zeigermann seemed unharmed, apart from walking like a croquet hoop.

"Now then, we're nearly all here. Just one part of the puzzle missing.
And here he is now..." I said as Camel, still covered in detritus from
the skip, stormed through the door. 

"FOAD twat!" he shouted. "me too!" he added. He calmed when I waved
the gun at him.

"Now then, Ladies and Gentlemen. And Suzi." I started."Look at
yourselves. Go on, take a look. We didn't land on Uksfopolis,
Uksfopolis landed on us."  A sea of blank, uncomprehending faces
stared back at me. Okay, wrong speech.

"Something is rotten at the heart of our town. We used to be here to
discuss The Game. Now look at us... we talk about public transport,
sexual perversions, music, sexual perversions, films, sexual
perversions - anything to avoid The Game." Murmurs rippled through the
crowd. "Then I find myself killing people, taking up even more of our
time not talking about The Game. Thread drift, some say. Happens to
all groups. But no. Julie, for all her faults, is not naturally a
crime boss. Her mind has been perverted by another, even more evil
person."

With that, I turned to Beckham. Raised my gun. Placed it against his
temple. He looked, uncomprehending. "The Game itself is crumbling,
too. Instead of speaking up for us, the media instead find morons like
this interesting, beyond what they can do on a football field. Which
is odd. How can someone display *quite* so much talent with a ball at
their feet, but be incapable of saying more than three words?" With
that, I pulled the trigger. The gunshot roared through the room.

Instead of brains, though, or even blood, what erupted from the
cranium was circuitry, motors, and gears. Zeigermann seemed
unsurprised. I turned to him. "Well, our resident German. And living
in Cambridge. Plenty of opportunities for a smart boy there, eh?
Especially one who is an expert in cybernetics. But you;re not quite
as smart as you thought, are you? The droids go wrong occasionally.
You need to keep an eye on them. So why hang out in Uksfopolis?
Because you have many of them here. From the Mk1 J.Spaceman and
Burkinshaw models, to your most sophisticated one so far. Except he
goes wrong all too often, as well, doesn't he?"

I spun and shot Camel clean between the eyes. His head exploded, and
again expensive electronics showered the floor. 

"So why? Destroy The Game to allow The Fatherland to host the 2006
World Cup, but why Uksfopolis? Because you got a better offer. One you
couldn't refuse. You see, one person should be responsible for
stopping Uksfopolis' slide. Camel. Keeper of The Law. But he seemed to
be actively encouraging it. Because he was a droids. So where was the
original?" I turned to Posh, and grabbed her hair. A swift tug, and
her entire face slid off, to reveal... Camel!

He sank to his knees, crying.

"Alright, alright, I admit it! Do you have any idea how difficult it
was, maintaining the laws? Back in aseukville, it got too much/ All I
wanted was some peace. When I heard of The Spice Girls auditions, I
thought it would be an easy way to shack up with some other birds.
Little did I know that Geri, with her Girl Power, would brainwash me
into believing that I was woman, and blackmail me when she found out
the truth. There's oil under Uksfopolis. Not petrol type oil, but Oil
of Ulay. She needs two hundred litres a day just to avoid cracking up
like the T1000 at the end of T2. The current reserves will only keep
her going until next year.

"I disguised myself as members of The Committee, to try to get
planning permission refused, so Geri could get her precious fluids.
That failed, though.

"So, when I found out about Michael's plans, I realised that I *had*
to get close to the Beckham droid. I got him to make Michael build
another robot, to take over The Laws while I toured the world. He was
set to drag the group further and further off-topic, until The
Committee bulldozed Uksfopolis. But that wasn't enough. So I sent
Brolin after you and that weird Scottish twin you have, to get things
even more off-topic. Julie helped. But now... it's all out in the
open."

"That's right" I said. "And with that, I bring this thread to a
close."

"Thank fuck for that" said the assembled throng, and returned to their
conversations.