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RBB's Journal:
I found myself once again allied, apparently, with Wulfgar and his merry band of covert operatives. Great. Ms. Phan and Branagh helped me to my feet, ribs grinding together, as we hobbled down the stairs. They helped me into a rather sporty Jag, that was lined with all manner of armor plate, weapons, and stereo gear. Funny, it showed no signs of having been broken into.
Wulfgar pulled up in an old battered Econoline van.
"Follah me", was all he said.
"Well, Old Thing?" said Branagh to Ms. Phan, "Is the unwashed hairy brute trustworthy?"
"He's as trustworthy as any of us that are in The Business, Mr. Branagh-"
"Oh, DAMN-"
"AND", she continued, "Quite a bit more than most."
"Well, then-that'll have to do..." He began rummaging around in the back seat for some thing. I turned to Ms. Phan.
"So, what the hell's going on NOW?" I was in pain, my apartment had been trashed, I was on the lam again, and I was PISSED.
"It looks like there are rougue elements, in several governments' Black Ops Departments, that have been trying to cover up (eradicate, really) all evidence of the ScotIntel 13thknight program, mop up any loose ends (such as yourself), and tighten their grip on the backroom control of the post-Cold War world."
"Mr. Wood and I had been gathering intelligence-he'd actually been preparing for several decades for this juncture. His sources had been significantly better than the ones that the Crown and the Americans were listening to. He had forseen the collapse of the Old Soviet Union long before it came to pass."
"ROGUE elements of Black Ops Departments?!?" I sputtered, "Isn't that redundant?"
"No, he's not in this story..."
"Very funny, Mrs. Peel..."
"In any event, the blighters tried to do Mr. Wood in- Minister Britt was involved, and" -she paused- "Dick Stroker."
I almost lept up like a Jack-in-the-box. Stroker, of accursed memory! An old Nemesis, come back to haunt me. He'd murdered several people that I had...grown accustomed to. Any evil, vile, monstrous act imaginable could be contributed to him...and that would be conservative.
I felt a hand on my left arm, pushing the sleeve up. I turned to Branagh.
" Hold STILL, Mr. Bernstein, won't you?!?"
"Wht the goddamned pustulent HELL are you trying to do?!?"
"I've chanced upon a few doses of Morpheus' Elixir in the emergency med kit-at least, I THINK that it's morphine..."
"Are you a doctor, Shaggy?"
"Err-Well, no, not as SUCH...I did take a first-aid course..."
(Patiently) "Did it cover injections...?"
"Err, well, I had to go make TO THE LIGHTHOUSE, and missed that bit..."
"THEN STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT THING!!! The LAST thing that I need is to be *groan* killed by a British actor-"
"IRISH actor..."
"-that thinks that he's Joe Gannon!"
"I would have thought, Professor, that given the quality of Ms. Phan's driving, that you'd want to deaden the fucking pain as much as fucking possible!"
"One more comment like that upon the skill with which I manoever this vehicle, MR. Brangh, and you can bloody well walk back to England with two broken legs!"
'Great' I thought, 'I'm in the British version of an episode of MOONLIGHTING...'
(TBC)
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