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Wulfgar's Internal Log:
I came to slowly; my vision was fuzzy, with harsh light glittering off of metal and glass. I looked to my left, and to my right, trying to gain some sense of my surroundings. Richard, Philm Phan, and Branagh were on my left. To my right were Zero, 010, and "Monica", my sibs! My heart lifted for a moment, then I saw the tears in "Monica's" eyes, Richard's hate-filled expression, and Philm Phan's accusatory glare that cut through me. I briefly wondered about Lady Eboshi...
I felt...compelled to to turn my gaze behind me, where I saw an unGodly device, all gleaming steel, sparking wires, coloured glass, blinking lights, and bubbling chemicals in retorts; there I beheld a sight that chilled my blood...MY OWN BODY...strapped into the machine, eyes blank, features battered, and with a trickle of blood running from somewhere behind the head down the left shoulder and arm, to pool at the elbow. The chest rose and fell, but slowly.
"El Jefe", came a voice at my elbow, "are you not pleased with my handiwork?"
I turned, and espied a familiar face; Parca Mortem, rogue scientist, developer of the organic chainsaw, biological implantable stun-gun, and vat-grown flesh. He'd been kicked out of every reputable institute of higher learning and intelligence organization for unlawful genetic tinkering, necrophilia, blasphemy, bestiality, unpaid parking tickets, and onomatopoeia.
I started to remember...
Richard refused to speak to me, after the explosion that apparently took the lives of Ivan Leopold and The Princess. I hardly blamed him. Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer sensed something wrong, in their catty way, and attempted to offer him feline comfort. He absently scratched their heads in silence.
"Now what, barbarian?" Asked Ms. Phan.
"We bash on. For whatever reasons, Princess was willing to help in this matter. To stop now would dishonour her memory, and even that of Ivan."
Branagh chimed in "Say, old thing, where's your accent gotten to?"
I felt my face contort into a scowl. He whistled nonchalantly, whilst examining his fingernails.
"Ha, knew it all along, you fraud. You bloody Scots CAN speak intelligibly when you want to!"
"You're awfully glib, considering that we've JUST LOST TWO PEOPLE!!!", shouted Richard, startling the cats, "you goddamned smug Limey BASTARD!"
Branagh turned a level gaze upon him. "If you don't laugh, old cock, you've got to weep-I'll take laughter any day. And I'm a Mick; remember that."
Thus the situation continued as we made our way along the back roads. We were safely into Maine in a short time, passing over the majestic bridge at Kittery. We traveled along the coast on US 1, passing through "scenic" or "historic" villages and towns, where one could see a boat, lobster-pot, or both, displayed on each lawn proudly, as ornamentation. Luckily, the tourist season was over, and we weren't trapped behind any over-stuffed Winnebagos and caravans. We got many long and sometimes dark looks from natives as we passed them by.
We pulled into "Uncle Coaster's Service Station" in Rockport for fuel and supplies.
"Kindah late fowah th' Season, ahn't yah?" said the gum-chewing bleached-blonde teen crumpet behind the counter (her name-tag read "Miss Enthropic Bitch"), as I went to pay.
"Oh, we're more fond o' this time o' year, lass. The colours o' th' leaves turnin' an' the chiaroscuro effect o' the Autumn sun on the landscape are most strikin'."
"Hey, ah you Scottish? M' uncle Coaster is ah membeh of "Caledonians Of Maine"-when he comes back drunk from the meetin's he always talhks lahke that."
I attempted to distract her. "What are these, then, lass?", as I held up some dry, sticklike objects that I'd found on the counter.
"Those? Those'r 'hunteh's sassasges'; th' bowahs take 'em with when they goes out shootin'."
I viewed the items a bit doubtfully. "Ye mean that it's meat that they are?"
"Ayuh. One-fawty apiece, or fifteen dollahs fowah th' box."
"An' how minny boxes would ye be havin', thin?"
"We got ten rahght naow, but-"
"I'll take 'em; and as mich o' this 'Campbell's Scotch Broth', 'Dinty Moore Beef Stew", and Beefaroni as ye have. D'ye have a lage economy-sized bag or two o' cat-kibble?"
"Showah-" she started.
"Brother!!!" Came Zero's voice from the back of the small store, "they have GUINNESS!!! Bottled AND tinned!!! And Harp lager!!!"
"Damme, I'll take all o' that, as well, lass, and whatever ye have stored i' th' back. But why does a wee petrol station stop 'n' shop have Guinness and Harp?"
"Oh, Uncle Coaster likes the stuff. He was stationed in Germany fowah YEAHS in the 50s, an' went ovah tuh England on his furloughs, an' used to drink it all the time when he was theyah. He was on the 'Atomic Annie' project."
"Fascinating. I don't suppose that ye've enny Twiglets?"
She gave me a blank look.
"Ne'er mind, lass."
Zero had brought up an armload of Guinness, Harp, and all of the beef jerky that the place held, as well as several bags of what looked like wine gums. I paid with the Black Ops untraceable "VISA" card, that withdrew funds from a number of "offshore" accounts, set up by 010 and Zero. Phil Phan, Lady Eboshi, and Branagh all brought up some items.
"Put it all on my card, lass."
"Hold on, old man, I get tickets from Aer Lingus based on how much I charge on my card!"
"Belt up, ye Mick bastard-it's more...efficient...this way."
(I saw Zero mouth to him out of view of the lass "And UNTRACEABLE as well.")
"Fine" he said tightly, and added a few packets of crisps to his pile.
We added some Red Rose tea, a few 3-litre vacuum flasks of coffee, creamer, and sugar to round it all out, paid up and bid her good-by.
We were halfway up the state when night fell...
(To Be Continued...)
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