The Dastardly Unnecessary Adventures Of Sir Tarquin Lamb Pasanda And His Good Colleagues Sirs Fitzwellington Tikka Massala and Gregory Bacon Phaal!

From Russia, With Crusts

 

I'm on a solo mission this time chaps. The Head of Catering at Her Majesty's Secret Service had written “twat” on my bathroom window in toothpaste (of course, the head of catering, was actually the guy that stirs the pasta when the boss is on holiday). And of course I saw through his code immediately, and deciphered the word “twat” as “you must go to Russia to bring the Russian pasty industry to its knees”. After further deciphering all the piss he’d left all over my bathroom floor, I put together an elaborate hidden message, but my last parker pen I'd used to gut the squirrel I'd caught and eaten the previous evening so I couldn't write it down, so I wrote the solved code on my bedroom wall in tipex. It told of a cover corporation in Russia using a string of Russian Sandwhich bars as a ruse to bring down the sandwhich industry with an undercover illegal Pasty racket. As I ran to the door, eager to embark on my quest, I tripped over my diamond topped cane, and laughed at the thought of almost leaving without it. I donned my floor length purple fur coat, and feathered hat. After slipping into my platforms I dashed through the door and onto Baker Street.The pimp outfit was merely a guise to allow easy passage to Russia, I would of much preferred my Savile Row, of course.  I opened the Phone Box at the end of the street, and stood back to allow the piss and condoms flow out onto the pavement, then stepped inside. After keying in Chuck Norris’ birth date, the Phone Box sunk down through the concrete into a hangar underground.  I ran across the wet concrete and into the main hangar, as I was going to Moscow, I had to be as incognito as possible, so naturally I chose to take the Fitzenberg, my gargantuan hydrogen blimp. It was either that or The Fitzcopter, a miniature night flight buzzard helicopter painted black, and equipped with soft rotation rotors allowing for almost silent flight, but I figured it would attract too much attention.  My fellow noblemen had no knowledge of my vehicular acquirements, which is good, because I still can't quite remember where I got all the money for them, something involving shares in Woolworths, I think. 

I fired up the Fitzenburg and began my journey to Russia, after putting it on autopilot I went to top up the fuel with plutonium, and checked on the on-board nuclear reactor. I then switched on the Flux capacitor, and returned to my seat. I checked the time, it was 11 o'clock in the evening, local time. I straightened my coat collar and took hold of the controls.

Part of my usual attire was a single white glove, which my colleagues seemed to find peculiar for some reason. As I mused on this, the Radar bleeped incessantly. I was being fired upon! The Ruskys had fired two ballistic missiles at the Fitzenburg! Of course its destruction didnt matter much, I had another one under a Waterloo homeless shelter. But I had to abandon ship nonetheless! I grabbed my cane and ran to the back of the blimp, and took the security straps off of my 1905 model Rolls Royce, which had been refitted with titanium armour and NoS.  I opened up the floor of the blimp and started the engine, after donning my driving goggles and scarf, I took my Pfeifer .600 Nitro Express Magnum Revolver from the glovebox, ( I'd left my Desert Eagle 50. Cal in my bedside table), and drove the rolls royce out of the blimp. As I fell hundreds of feet per second, my hair whipping around me, I flipped the top of the handbrake and pressed the small button, at which point a huge Union Jack emblazoned parachute erupted from the boot and my descent rapidly slowed to glide. I would of used a solid black night parachute, for low visibility, but that would of been easily spotted, so the Glow in the Dark Union Jack chute seemed the logical choice. I peered over the edge of the car door at the approaching skyline below, my gasp caught in my throat as I looked down. My Rolls Royce was heading straight for The Kremlin, residence of the Russian President, priceless historical Russian artefacts, and his entire guard. I pulled back the hammer on my Pfeifer, and grinned. 


But then, a curious thought occurred to me, and friends, im sorry to deprive you of what I'm sure was due to be a spectacular bullet exchange, but I figured dropping into a multi-complex palace full of angry Russians was no more than a suicide mission. So on that note, my plan took form in my mind. I reached behind the steering wheel and pulled the small lever that sat there, activating my Rolls Royce’s Nitrous Oxide. The resulting tongue of flame that erupted from my exhaust pipe was enough to propel me away from the Kremlin, and I touched down a half kilometre away in an abandoned warehouse complex. The game was afoot.

The car was unscathed, a handy occurrence thanks to the titanium armour plating, so I put it in gear, and started my slalom through the many backstreets of outer Moscow. I was on my way to see Paddy McCrery O’Malley Conroy, an Irish man who ran an Irish pub in a predominantly Irish district of Eastern Moscow, he used to own a pasty stall in Red Square, and still had many knowledgeable  contacts in the business, and he seemed like a logical first step.

I pulled up outside Potatoes Galore ten minutes later, and stepped inside. I spotted Paddy immediately, a portly man in a green waste coat, with shockingly red hair and mutton chops, unfortunately conversation was out of the question, as he was face down on the floor  in a puddle of piss, beer, and vomit. I dragged him into the back room, and as I didn’t think a bucket of water would wake him up (a ridiculous notion), I promptly stamped on his testicles. His resulting torrent of angry mumbling and swearing  showed that it had done the trick. “Wha’ ye wan?” he slurred. 
“It’s me, Fitzwellington” I replied. “Fitzy? Feckin’ fantastic ya wanker, now wha’ ye wan?” he exclaimed, lighting a voluminous pipe. “Tell me what's happening with the pasty industry, I need information” I said. “Well, The pasty business is boomin’, they’ve taken over
 all'a these san’wich bars in Russia, but carryin on their advertising franchise, they're sellin' pasties on the side, they're makin a feckin fortune!” He proclaimed jovially. “Excellent,” I replied, “Anything else, old chap?” Paddy looked at me, then leant in and began to whisper “One of Dr Arsehole's top dogs is behind it, I knew ye’d come here Fitz ya’ fool, it was me job te’ keep ye’ here, ye’v got ter understand, they’ve got me kids, so they have, I'm sorry Fitz”. I was shocked, and just then, a thick Russian accent behind me said “Goodnight, pretty boy.” 

 And all went black.

 THE END