Sir Gregory here, accounting for my latest endeavour.
We begin at the HQ, with the team sat at the black marble table in the Meeting Room, discussing our next move on the Foe. After many hours of deliberation, Dame Bebelia suggested a ploy of a Music Festival playing the most favoured music of the Foe and all his followers. The team nodded in agreement, with Sir Fitzwellington expressing his abundant love for the plan rather eccentrically. Being the master of all things musical, I was fittingly appointed with making this plan spring into reality. I began work almost instantaneously.
Unfortunately, it was surprisingly hard to rent out any large venues for use in the near future, so I had to settle with my garage. As I neared the completion of the set up, Sir Jimothy and Mexican Gregory arrived at the venue via Winnebago with a rack full of the instruments we would require, ready to assist me in executing the operation. I announced to my colleagues that the three of us would be posing as local Indie/New Wave trio Commander Ian and The Stormtroopers, a popular La Roux cover band. “Are you sure this will work?” Queried Sir Jimothy. “I mean, La Roux is not a very musically excelling performer…” I was quick to smite Sir Jimothy’s worries. “La Roux is the most favoured and most treasured artist in the Foe’s iTunes library. Such a group could not be ignored by his weak minded followers.” Comforted, I gave my friends their outfits and we began our warm up and sound check.
As the night of popular beats and banging tunes progressed, a surprisingly high number of the Foe’s minions approached the dingy piss-stained venue. With Mexican Gregory on the mic and Sir Jimothy laying down phat beats on the drums, I soon finished my 3 hour bass solo and gave the signal to Dame Bebelia (who had turned up to the gig out of sheer interest, not strategy, after she had completely forgotten the plan) to release the trap. “Now!” Mexican Gregory shrieked, as the complex and visually pleasing mesh net made entirely from Adidas track suits and horse glue plummeted onto a small collective of the Foe’s followers. Seeing this, all un captured drones quickly fled, leaving their trapped comrades behind, as well as those in the mosh pit, who were, naturally, completely oblivious to the happenings around them. “Excellent work chaps! Bravo!” I proclaimed, expecting response, but it turns out Dame Bebelia was busy sucking face with Sir Jimothy, leaving Mexican Gregory to poke the trapped drones with a chicken drumstick. After being thoroughly chuffed by the success of my elaborate trap, I continued to interrogate each minion of the foe with the use of cheesy pickle sandwiches and a nine tailed whip. The process was long, but necessary. After long tiring hours of torture and many cheesy pickle sandwiches later, myself and my colleagues discovered that a forward base for the Foe’s operations is in fact underneath the High Street, using a local New Look store as a front. I should have known. The menswear section could never have been intended for actual men.
Utilizing my carbon fibre Unicycle, I left Sir Jimothy and Mexican Gregory to practice in my garage set up for their next gig at the Albion, and hastily made my way to the local branch of New Look. As I arrived, I initiated the coded conversation I acquired from the minions on the nearest unexpecting Till Monkey. I took a sip of smoked Earl Grey from my hip flask as liquid confidence before leaning on the pay desk and slowly re iterated the coded cipher I had discovered from the shoelace of one of the Foe’s easily lead followers. “Ehdhihss llikjimnio iudaiht eeaee ueiik'h'unhr...” a popular Romulan phrase – "The un laden Swallow flies south to see its mother in the summer." The Till Monkey, now aware of my presence, put her copy of Heat magazine on the desk, looked around cautiously, and leaned over to whisper fluent Russian into my ear; “его мать чувствует бремя разрушающейся экономики?” loosely meaning, “Is his mother feeling the burden of the collapsing economy?” A common subject of discussion in Russia. Happy that the cipher had worked, but more surprised that I’d be able to pronounce Romulan, I replied “Si”, thus completing the cipher. The Till Monkey, struck by an expression which crossed between humility and fan girl excitement, flicked her ponytail and hoop earrings back and began to grin from ear to ear, revealing she had in fact a lot of teeth missing, (possibly from excessive consummation of chode). The once dull mistress of the cashier turned flirtatious Biffa Bin queen suggestively chittered, “follow me, sir” through her many fillings.
I was lead slowly to a grungy underground freight station, where I observed the loading and unloading of many freights, containing such atrocities as Marble Tea Spoons and 10 cent Italian rent boys inside freights with the ‘China’, ‘India’ or ‘Swansea’. Seeing the nature of the staff - Brazilian Mafia - I quickly and instinctively reached for the inside pocket of my cerruti wool suit jacket. The Till Monkey may not have recognised me, but these men are far more intelligent and would spot me from a mile away. I fumbled through the pocket, desperately searching through the knives and pens, until successfully clutching my disguise. I strapped on my black leather gimp mask with haste. I did so in the nick of time; I was now hiding in plain sight. Not a single Brazilian would be able to tell me different from any other man in the building. I continued to follow the estranged woman, remaining as incognito as possible, until she lead me to a small office. Inside, the smell of rich mahogany struck my nostrils, as I saw a nothing but a short fat Mexican man sat behind a large desk, presumably made of aforementioned mahogany, clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels in his podgy ring covered hand. “Visitor for you, señor” said the woman, glancing at me excitedly, as though she was experiencing some form of stimulation. I decided not to continue that train of thought, as it may have left me ill or even incapacitated. The Mexican stood, and revealed he was not wearing any trousers. How vulgar.“Sí sí, le limpia tarta tonta!” He exclaimed, or rather slurred, at the young woman. I do not know what he said, but the Till Monkey soon left, hurt. I dismissed this, and advanced on the Mexican.
In his drunken state, the half dressed oaf faced me and said “Qué?” Again, not understanding his foreign tongue, I dismissed it. I had no time to waste, I would soon be discovered. I pushed the intoxicated would-be crime lord into his desk and reached into my pocket for a blade. Instead, I pulled a custom shiv made from the spine of a mummified Egyptian hamster and a platinum hilt that I found under the drinks cooler in Somerfield. Unable to alter this error without giving my assailant a chance to attack, I pressed the shiv to his jugular. The Mexican looked no so much afraid, but as if he believe I was making a sexual pass. I then remembered the gimp mask. Upon removal, his face was filled with fear. I asked him many questions, but received mere gibberish - possibly a combination of frantic babbling and Mexican.
There is no time for this” I monologued, “I need to know where he keeps his address book!” As I concentrated hard, I used the power bestowed in my fringe to read his mind and discover where he kept his address book (yes, I can do that, don’t ask how, just keep reading). My fringe glowed and my head span as I read his mind, seeing many things I wish I hadn’t. When I finished, he passed out rather sharpish from the strain of mental invasion. I left him on the table and put my shiv back into my pocket, thankful that I needed not to have used it. I moved his liquor cabinet to find a safe behind it, just as expected. I entered the combination; 0-7-7-3-4, and heaved the heavy yet small door ajar. Amongst the piles of money, Doritos and packets of cocaine, I eventually found the small cardboard cutting the Mexican oaf used as his address book. With a sense of success, I re-donned my mask and spoke with Sir Tarquin via my Action Man walkie talkie as I left the office.“I have the package. Plant the charges” I informed. As he heard my voice, Tarquin began to plant numerous C4 charges inside the freight station alongside Sir Fitzwellington, as they had followed me in and hid until I gave the signal. We left hastily, avoiding detection, and rendezvoused outside. Sir Tarquin looked confused, “what’s with the gimp mask?” I suddenly remembered the disguise, and removed it as it was no longer neccecary. I would have done so earlier, but I have grown accustomed to the feel of leather on my face. We then returned to HQ via Unicycle.
As the team watched the smouldering remains of New Look and the Oxfam next to it on the local news, I rubbed the cardboard between my fingers. I tried all the numbers on it, in hope that one was a higher ranking officer of the Foe, or even Dr. Arsehole himself, but all I received was the Tesco deliver hotline, unrelated drug runners and some local taco stands. Once again, the enemy had escaped me. My hand slowly formed a fist, crushing the shopping list that I had put my hopes into.
I will find him.