the adventures of tisiphone's angels

part five, scotland

here are we?" asked a very winded Paris of The Palaver.

"Well," said Dirk Nightshade, scourge of the venemous, "we appear to be somewhere in...well... you see that mountain over there? No... I mean... well, we're... we're on a road in the Highlands."

"That's just great," replied The Poet. "I could have figured that one out myself. What I want to know is where the hell are we? We haven't come across a single village since we left Edinburgh. Where's Aggy?"

"He's still back there."

"Well, next time Dirk, can we take a bloody car? I mean this whole going on a little bicycle ride idea is all well and good, but we're in a bit of a hurry!"

"Well, we'd be at the distillery by now if you guys didn't have to stop every half mile to catch your breath. Haven't you guys ever thought of losing a little weight?"

"Yes, but it ain't gonna happen. I like me my Sheperds Pie, and Aggy over there likes his beer too much."

"Well, its about bleedin' time," exclaimed The Palaver to the third member of the crime fighting trio as he cycled up the low rise to join his companions.

"Where are we?" asked The Preacher.

"Save it Agamemmnon, we've already been through that," said a disheartened Poet.

"Well, the man at the train station said that the distillery was just a few leagues this way," said The Palaver. "Its a good thing the government is keeping this whole thing from the Scots. Otherwise they'd be tearing the Continent apart searching for the recipe."

"You know," said The Poet as he remounted his bicycle and started heading further on down the road along with his cronies, " i saw this film the other day. It was about these three guys... Moe, Curly and Larry..."

"So what's your point?" asked the increasingly discomforted Preacher.

"Nothing."

After two more hours of hard riding up and down the ragged hills and crags of the breathtaking landscape of Burns' country, a small village appeared on the horizon of their vision. It was their destination. It was their Mecca. It was the home of the MacAllan. Upon beholding this sight, all three heroes stopped their bicycles in unison, and stared, in reverent silence, at their sole purpose for living.

"It's beautiful," exclaimed The Palaver.

The Preacher bowed his head and offered a small prayer up to the clouds, while The Poet's face became etched with the residue of a lone tear.

Before long, the trio were on their way racing with expectant speed to the grounds of the MacAllan.

The distillery was a largish building made of wood, but benefited of a stone foundation. Usually, the grounds would be abuzz with the sounds of skilled chemists and brewmasters purifying and perfecting the world's greatest drink. But today it was different. Today the distillery was silent. Abandoned. The workers too heartbroken to visit the building.

"Well, we're here," said The Palaver.

"Right," replied The Preacher, "Let's get to work."

Soon enough, and after much discussion as to how to jump the fence, the three had securely entered the building and were hard at work scouring for any clues.

"I found something!" shouted The Palaver from the office of Mr MacAllan himself.

The Poet and The Preacher rushed to The Palaver's side, recognizing that any minute lost could mean the end of civilisation

"What is it?" exclaimed The Poet gasping for breath.

"It's a flower of some kind. What is it Agammemnon?"

"How should I know?" replied the winded man of the cloth.

"Didn't you take Botany?" asked Dirk.

"It was Plants and Society."

"Well, its a plant, and we're in society."

"Why don't you ask Paris over there, he took Evolutionary Theory."

"Hey that was just insects having sex. If it ain't a rose, I don't know what it is."

"Well this is just great. Which one of us is supposed to be the nerdy scientific guy?" asked the peeved Palaver.

"I thought you were," said The Poet.

"No, I'm the nerdy historian type. And you're the nerdy bookworm. But Aggamemnon over there is supposed to be the brainy one."

"Hey I'm just the nerdy biblical guy."

"So you mean to tell me," asked The Poet of his companions, "that we've come all this way, and not one of us knows a single thing about science. None of us can identify a single God-damned plant. Sorry Aggy."

"Well, why don't we take it to the local florist," suggested The Palaver.

"Why do you figure this plant is so important," asked The Poet of Nightshade.

"Well, duh! It's obviously a calling card for some sort of master criminal bent on world domination!"

"What makes you say that?" asked The Preacher.

"Well, there's this note attached to the flower that says so."

"Shh!" silenced The Poet, "there's somebody else here."

The three heroes crouched down into their fully poseable action figure mode, and slowly slid across the room and peeked out the door into the floor of the distillery. Two figures moveed wround in the opposite side of the building, apparently searching for something among the wrecked carcasses of the copper barrels.

"Well, I'll be..." exclaimed The Palaver as he leapt out from behind the ajar door and rushed down at the two newcomers. Nightshade stopped a scant two feet away from the two figures. Within moments he was joined by his companions.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," said The Preacher.

"If it isn't Nature's Greatest Miracle, and his sidekick, The Weirdling," said The Poet.

"How ya'll doin'!" exclaimed the balding Jewish man, known only to those in the crime fighting business as Nature's Greatest Miracle. "It's nice to see you boys again. I dind't think you'd show your faces around a real crime scene after we showed you boys up back in Malta."

"Its nice to see you too Momus," said The Poet, "but why don't you leave the real crimes, for the real crime-fighters."

"And that would be you, Paris? Its good to see that you managed to interupt your busy schedule of doing nothing today. And, Dirk, its nice to see that you managed to get out of bed for a change. You know, if you hadn't slept in that day in Malta, you guys could have beat us out from saving the day. But as it stands, you guys will always come in second place to us.

"And why is that?" asked The Preacher.

"Because we're Jewish, God-boy. We're the chosen ones," replied Nature's Greatest Miracle.

"Look," interjected The Poet," we're wasting valuable time arguing over something that happened a long time ago. And every second we fight amongst ourselves, Hitler is getting closer and closer to producing his first batch of MacGoering 16 year old. Now you guys want to get that nazi bastard as much as anybody else, and maybe more. So what says we team up on this one. We shouldn't ber fighting each other, we're the good guys! Can't we all just get along!"

"I think that speech is copywrighted," said Nature's Greatest Miracle.

"Yeah, well still, what do you say?" asked The Poet.

"Alright. we'll hold your hand on this one. At least until we get to Germany. Then you guys can get your precious MacAllan, while we go do the real work."

"I found it!" exclaimed Momus' sidekick, from the shadows of one of the broken barrels.

"What is it?" asked The Preacher.

"This is what will lead us right to the German's stronghold."

"What is it?" asked The Palaver.

"There's no time to explain, slow-wits! To Aberdeen, and all will become clear!" shouted Nature's Greatest Miracle as he raced out the door.

"Who would have thought," reflected The Preacher, "The Weirdo finds what we're looking for. He's never even seen a bottle of the MacAllan, let alone tried it."

"Huh. Kind of weird," said The Poet.

Within minutes, they had all crowded into the Weirdo-mobile, and were racing down the backroads of the Highlands towards the North Sea port of Aberdeen. What's in Aberdeen, you ask, gentle reader? Well, only the ingenious method of transportation that will get our heroes safely across the North Sea, and into the baltic, and eventually to the port of Rostock in northern Germany, an hour away from Berlin!

By nightfall, the small group of would-be saviours of humanity were standing on a pier at the Royal Navy's Aberdeen Shipyards.

"This is what we're taking to Rostock?!" exlaimed the puzzled Palaver.

"We can't fly there. We can't take a ship. We can't go by train. we can't even walk there. Our only option is to sink beneath the waves and slip by unnoticed. we'll abandon the boat a little away from a deserted part of the shore, and swim the rest of the way." explained Nature's Greatest Miracle.

"Swim?" The Poet looked dubious. "In the water?"

"Oh don't be a big baby," scolded The Weird One.

"It's all my dreams come true," said The momentarily overemotional Preacher.

"Hey Momus?" asked The Poet of Nature's Greatest Miracle, "you're the nerdy scientific-type, aren't you? Can you identify this plant?"

"Nah, I took History and Philosophy of Science, and it was my lowest mark in University."

"Damn. What about the Weirdo?"

"I took Astronomy." replied The King.

"Moons for Goons," put in The Palaver.

"How can we know not one scientist!" exclaimed The Preacher.

"Well, there was Windex. Its a shame he's gone off to be a dentist," said The Poet.

"Nah, he took chemistry. Wouldn't know a fern if it bit him ion the ass," said The Preacher, ending the discussion for the time being.

The group of five Nazi busters were standing before a rusting miniature U-boat. A relic from the Great War. Yet the only means of transportation that would get them across the North and baltic Seas without being detected by the German Navy.

Our heroes piled into the cramped space, and after a few minutes of figuring out how the thing worked, they shoved off en route to start the major ass kicking of Nazis that this whole story is building up to.

On board the boat, as they drifted out of Aberdeen harbour, Agammemnon settled into the rotting chair that was clearly designated for the U-boat's commander.

"Mr Nightshade, make your depth 60 feet!" commanded the grizzled young clergyman.

The boat sunk below the waves, uneasily at first, but later assuredly, like an old pro coming out of retirement.

"Mr de Carnage! Right full rudder! All ahead flank! Let's go kick Hitler's ass!" Agammemnon's voice echoed through the bowels of the boat, inspiring our heroes, and assuring them that the day might still be won!

And it is here that part five of our adventure comes to a close. But why were the plans so easily attainable by Tisiphone's Angles? What mysterious criminal left the similarly mysterious calling card behind in Mr MacAllan's office? Will the pact between the Angels and their fiercest rivals hold until they reach Germany, or will they be at each other's throats before they even leave the vicinity of the isles? And what exactly did the King of the Weirdos find at the distillery? And what did happen in Malta? Will they ever find someone who can identify the plant? Or at least someone that didn't take a science course for dummies? And why am I rushing through the action to reach the super neat climax of this story? All of these questions, and more, will not be answered until the last chapter so, don't even think about it. Well, alright, I'll answer some of them next time, but don't expect major plot revelations until we get to the really cool parts of the narrative.

Until then, keep your head down, and the Facists out of your home!

Coming soon:

Part Six: Arrival in Germany (or, You're sweating an awful lot for a naked man.)


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