e rejoin our heroes now, at a small table in The Pharaoh, a pub on London's Oxford Street.
"But how will we escape Tisiphone's wrath? We've been ordered to remain here in the city, protecting the plans," asked the semi-intoxicated Preacher of the similarly intoxicated Palaver, once the witching hour had struck over the streets of London.
"I don't know... you're the brainy one. You come up with something," replied The Palaver.
"Well, let's see here now... our orders are to remain here and guard the plans for this "radar" business..."
"If you ask me," interrupted The Palaver, "this radar thing is a big waste of time. What's it supposed to do? Save England from the Nazis? Waste of time. They should be pumping that money and that research into something useful."
"Like what?" inquired The Preacher, momentarily distracted from the small seed of a plan that had just now been planted in his over abundant grey matter.
"Perfecting the pint glass. I mean here we are in Britain, the most glorious country in the world, and our beer comes in pint glasses. Yet over there, across the Channel, the German's are drinking beer out of these glasses that they call "Steins". We're falling behind. Losing to a bunch of sausage eating, Jew hating, blond haired no-wits."
"Well, I'm sure the boys at R&D are coming up with something to top this German... Stein," commented The Preacher as he took an appreciative swig of his MacAllan 12year old. This could be the last time that he ever tasted this wonderful concoction. Truly if the Scots were to be praised for one thing, it is their ability to make whiskey. In fact, thought The Preacher, that's probably the only reason we keep them around anyway.
"Besides," entered The Preacher, breaking the contemplative silence that had overcome the pair, " I've heard tales of this thing that our boys in Northern Ireland are coming up with. They call it a"Pitcher".
"What does it pitch?"
"No, you fool! It doesn't pitch anything. Rumour has it that it can hold the equivalent of three pints inside of it."
"Now that's impressive," replied The Palaver. "But enough of this witty banter, we're losing precious time!"
"Right. I think I've got it," exclaimed The Preacher, settling himself into his chair in his best 'ready for business' posture. "Now... Tisiphone wants us to make sure nothing happens to the plans for the radar, right?"
"Right."
"So... what if we could save the MacAllan, and still keep the plans safe?"
"What are you proposing?"
"I propose that we go to the museum, grab the plans, and take them with us," concluded The Preacher with a smile of appreciation for his own genius.
"What?! You mean to tell me that you think that we should steal the plans for the radar ourselves?" exclaimed The Palaver in shock at The Preacher's bold suggestion that they break one of God's commandments.
"No, no, no. We wouldn't be stealing them. Think of it this way, the Germans know where the plans are, and we know that they know. Furthermore, we know that they are intending to steal the plans from the Museum at any moment now. No?"
"Yes. Go on."
"Well, wouldn't you say then that the safest place for the plans, if we are to watch over them, would be out of the Museum, and on our very persons?"
"I suppose you have a point," said The Palaver, sinking back into his chair to take a sip of his own glass of MacAllan 12 year old, and absorbing the fullness of The Preacher's plan.
"Of course, we couldn't tell anybody that we were the ones that took the plans. If we did, we would be jeopardizing the safety of those very plans, and of England herself."
"But God, man, GOD!" exclaimed the Palaver.
"Where?!" said the Preacher in honest surprise and expectation.
"No, I mean what about your commitment to God? This all sounds very shady and dishonest. Don't get me wrong, I like it and I think we should do it, but what about your vows to God?"
"Well, first of all, I honestly believe that by taking the plans with us we will be protecting England from a great evil. God cannot object to that. And secondly, I need a reason to have a crisis of faith later on in the story," explained The Preacher.
"Alright then. When do we begin and how do we do it?"
"We begin right now. No time to lose! God save the King and the MacAllan!" shouted The Preacher with a tear in his eye. Patrons present at The Pharaoh that evening, witnessing this final outburst would have been inspired to join in on such a noble quest, had they known the full implications of it, instead of taking the two well dressed men as just drunken fools.
For three hours, The Palaver, and The Preacher hammered out a plan to sneak into the Museum and take the blueprints. The MacAllan, would have to wait at least one more day, while the brave lads of Tisiphone's Angels secured Britain's future and safety. After the plans were in their hands, they would travel north to the barbarous land of redbearded, kilt wearing, haggis eating, pipe playing, sheep loving, whiskey making, Englishmen that didn't call themselves Englishmen. Yes Scotland. Once there they would visit the MacAllan's birthplace, and take lots of snappy photographs, both for clue gathering reasons, and as keepsakes, since neither of them had been to this the most holy site in all of drinkingdom.
But I get ahead of myself, dear, kind, gentle, loving reader. The beginnings of one of the greatest adventures of all time have been laid. Heroes from a time long ago. Men with whom gods fear to tread! Men of action. Men of results. Men of destiny. Men that shape the world for the betterment of all mankind! And it is with this thought that we now change venues, and concentrate on their antithesis. We concentrate on one who is scoffed at by the gods. On one who does not know the meaning of the word "action". On one who's destiny lies only like the orchid, feeding off in a parasitic way from the greater, and sturdier trees of the primeaval forest. On one who's results are ambiguos, leaving scholars to ponder for generations on whether or not the world would have been better of without them. But on a hero, nonetheless. A hero hand picked by Lady Luck herself. It is now that we join The Poet, on the seamier side of London, in a seamier tavern, and with a seamier companion.
"Look," said The Poet in his best matter-of-fact voice, "the money is here. Well, not right here, but its on its way. I can pay you back tomorrow no problem. I just need you to give me that little bit of extra time."
The dark man from the interior of the African continent was not easily persuaded by The Poet's assurances. He had travelled far and wide to find the elusive man who wrecked his car on a lonely road of the Savannah so many years ago. The Poet would pay, and he would pay dearly.
"At first, the damage was only 10 pounds worth. But then you ran, and I was made the laughingstock of the village. And then, we realized that without that car, we could not get the supplies we needed to keep us alive. We realized that our existence, an existence that had lasted well over two thousand years, was gone. We would have to move to the city. To be assimilated by other peoples. You robbed us of that history. Of that right."
"I'm sorry, I truly am, but-" The Poet was cut off.
"But nothing. I followed you to the city, determined to get my 10 pounds. There I found a man who said that you had wronged his daughter, and he offered to pay me another 10 pounds if I brought back your head. And so I followed you to CasaBlanca. And there I found a man who said that you had burned down his bar, and he offered me 100 ponds for your head. And then i followed you to Rome, where I found a man that -"
"Alright. Alright already, I get the point."
"No. No you don't. I followed you from Rome, to Athens, to fifteen different Greek islands, to Istanbul, to all over Turkey, to Palestine, to Cairo, and back to Rome, and then to Paris, and now here. London."
"At least you got to see the world."
"And everywhere I went I found someone who had been wronged by you. Everywhere I went there were people who wanted you dead. And with every step i realized that you are the plague of the Apocalypse. That I must stop you before the whole world is anhialated by your incompetence."
"I think you may have the wrong man."
"I have the right man, Paris de Carnage. One million pounds. That's how much your holiday around the Mediterranean caused in damage to those good people. One million pounds. Today, or you die, right here and now."
"One million pounds! That's insane!"
"Well, I had to add my travel expenses, and I bought some souveniers along the way, and then I just rounded up for maximum effect. I mean its not as impresive when one says that someone owes you nine-hundred and fifty-two thousand, sixty-eight pounds, and four shillings, now is it?"
"You're right. One million, huh? Alright, then. Let me talk to my friend over there at the bar."
"Very well. I will wait here, in this sitting position with my back turned to the door. Oh, and could you get me a banana daquiri while you're up there? Thank you."
The Poet's head was swimming. One million pounds! As he walked ever so slowly to the bar, he reached into his pockets. Yup, four pence and one shilling, the sum total of all his wealth in this world.
The establishment that he now favoured was a little noticed pub on London's south side called The Cooked Goose. The floor was little more than a layer of packed earth, and the wainscotting along the walls had long since began to rot away. The bartender and proprietor was an honest man, who kept a rather large axe behind the counter in case things got out of hand. His reasoning was that firearms caused too much noise, and alerted the authorities, and the dirt floor would soak up the blood nicely, and there was an abatoir down the street where he could dispose of any bodies. Nobody messed with him. His name was Old Pete, and he was a veteran of The Great War. Legend had it that he killed an entire battalion of Germans using only his dinner spoon back in 1917. But that was a long time ago, where Old Pete was concerned.
"Peter," asked The Poet, "How's my credit here?"
"You owe me five-hundred and seventy four pounds," replied Old Pete without even looking up from the glass that he was wiping.
"So I don't suppose you could spot me, say, I don't know, about, a million pounds."
"Nope," replied Pete, still not even looking up, from his task. Old Pete had learned long ago, to filter out the sound of The Poet's voice. He knew that everytime Paris spoke to him was to ask for money, so he had programmed himself to reply simply with a statement of The Poet's current tab, and then a flat out no to whatever followed.
The Poet sighed, and slowly made his way back to the table.
"Well, Monsieur de Carnage? Give me the money and I will be on my way."
"Well, the thing is..."
At that precise moment, the door to The Cooked Goose, swung open, revealing the form of a tall man, dressed in a three piece grey suit, and wearing a bowtie. The stranger to this establishment sauntered in slowly, taking a long swig from the gleaming whiskey flask he held in his left hand.
The Poet returned his attention to the man across the table from him
"Look, as I was saying, the money is here, its just that... Hey! Put that away, somebody's going to get hurt!"
It was too late. The dark man had squarely placed a Luger handgun on the tip of The Poet's nose.
Ironic, thought the Poet. His goose was cooked.
"How I've waited for this moment, de Carnage!"
As The Poet heard the pistol's hammer slide back into the cocked position, and the bullet rise into the firing chamber, the man in the spiffy suit sat down beside him.
"Allo! What's going on?" asked The Palaver.
"I'm a little busy now, Dirk. I don't care what Tisiphone wants, I'm not doing it."
"Hi," said The Palaver to the dark stranger, "I don't believe we've met. My name is Dirk Nightshade, and you are...?"
"I am the man that is about to rid the world of the plague that is this man."
"Oh, I see. Well, the thing is, I kind of need Paris here for a few days, so if you would be so kind as to let him go for now, I'm sure that whatever it is that you have to resolve with him can be taken care of then. Alright then, c'mon Paris, we're going."
"No one's going anywhere," stated the dark man with dead seriousness in his voice. "I will get my one million pounds, or I will get his soul. Either way."
"One million pounds, huh Paris? That's pretty impresive, even for you."
"Well, I try."
"But, my good man," said The Palaver to the man with the gun, " I'm taking my friend here, and we're going home. We have a mission to do."
"Hahahahahaha!!!" laughed the antagonist.
"You see, " continued The Palaver, "While you have a gun pointed at my friend's head, I have a much deadlier weapon pointed at you."
"What do you mean?" asked the dark man.
"Not the... No, Dirk, not the... the .... the Rhetorizer!" exclaimed The Poet.
"Yes, the Rhetorizer," said The Palaver.
"What is this 'Rhetorizer'?" asked the dark man.
"The Rhetorizer," offered The Poet, "is a horrible weapon. You best put your gun down now, and walk out that door before he uses it."
"Never! There is no such weapon."
In fact, dear readers, there was such a weapon. A weapon so powerful that only one was ever made. It came in the shape of a pen. But it was no ordinary pen, though one could use it as a pen if need be. Say, if you had to write down your shopping list, or take down someone's address, or even if some brilliant thought crept into your mind and you wanted to write it down so you wouldn't forget and then spend the rest of the day kicking yourself for not remembering what that brilliant thought was. Yes it was a pen. But it also was an ingenious weapon. The Rhetorizer, when pressed in a specific spot, would emit a high pitched sound that would wreak havoc with the victim's brain. The victim would lose the ability to walk away from The Palaver, as the hero would begin a long diatribe on the age's greatest mysteries, or on some obscure reference or story that only The Palaver could understand. Yes, the victim was hopelessly paralized, forced to listen to every single word that The Palaver would say. By the end, the victim would be so desperate to have The Palaver shut up, that he would offer up anything, even going as far as to surrender unconditionally. And it was this weapon that The Palaver used now.
With one quick touch of the Rhetorizer, the dark man was ensnared! Instantly The Palaver lept into action. At first he began with a discussion on the merits of Talleyrand's foreign policy, which led him to an examination of the politics of Metternich and how they affected the European economy during the first half of the nineteenth century. An hour later, as The Palaver was beginning a contemplative statement about Plato's idea of the philosopher king, the dark man cracked.
"Stop! For the love of every god in the universe, Stop!" The Poet's antagonist broke down into sobbing tears, and collapsed on top of the table.
"Well," said The Poet, "That will teach you to mess with Tisiphone's Angels! And don't let me catch you around these parts again! That was only setting number one of the Rhetorizer! Next time you won't be so lucky!"
The poor man, just lay huddled around the table sobbing softly to himself, just glad that the man known as The Palaver, had now gone quiet.
"Alright," exclaimed The Palaver, striking his best super-hero pose, and raising his voice to its full volume, "And now, I must go. My potato is done!"
And with that bold statement, the battle cry of The Palaver, our two heros left The Cooked Goose with much flourish.
And it is here that this installment of the story comes to an end. But what of The Preacher, you say? What has he been up to? Well, gentle readers, I assure you that that great holy man's escapades are the focus of our next chapter. I feel that it would be unfair to his story, if I were to tell of his evening at the end of such an action packed chapter. For you see, while The Palaver was off rescuing The Poet from the clutches of an angry motorist, The Preacher had made his way to the house of God in search of guidance and advise, and for reassurance that the world would one day be safe again.
And so, until the next time, sleep soundly and with the knowledge that these exemplary heroes are watching over us, and protecting the common man from the evils of the world! And that concludes this episode.
Watch out for the next installment of THE ADVENTURES OF TISIPHONE'S ANGELS - Part Three: A Moment of Peace (or, He's on a mission from God)
