"The Affairs of Mr. French"
Our three friends, Tim, Dix and Rowan, having spent the previous few evenings
night-clubbing in a vain attempt to obliterate the memories of Tim's new
project, Family Affair, are recovering from the effects of too much champagne
too quickly...Dix, who has reached saturation point with the saccharine
sitcom, raises her head from the floor near the sofa and speaks...
Dix: "Right. I've reached saturation point with that saccharine sitcom.
We've got to do something before Tim's career goes straight down the
well-known receptacle."
Rowan: "Who stepped on my fingers when I came in this morning?"
Baldrick: "Me, my lord. I wasn't expecting you where the Welcome mat usually
is."
Rowan bites him in the ankle as a gentle reminder, then subsides and rolls
over under the coffee table.
Tim [rising carefully from an all-fours position, holding his head tenderly:]
"I move that we cross the Sailor's Rest Haven off our list of watering
holes...that grog was spiked with whale droppings if I'm any judge. Anyway,
I have a contract...can't just opt out of the series..."
Dix [taking an ice bag from Baldrick and draping it over one eyebrow:] "You
won't have to. I have ideas. Here's the new format..."
On the following Thursday, TV screens across America light up with the
familiar logo with a subtle change of title: "The Affairs of Mr. French."
Instead of the old music theme, the song "La Vie En Rose'" plays softly and
is interrupted by the sudden crash of gunfire as Tim appears from behind a
lamppost, fires two shots upwards and a falling body with a machine gun in
its hands slowly spirals down from a high window. Tim pockets his gun, walks
over to the body, laughs in a sinister way and pulls a black notebook from
the body's pocket. A blonde woman enters running from stage left; she has a
stiletto in her hand. Tim casually grasps her wrist and flings her end over
end and she lands on a parked car. The doorman of the hotel opens the door
for Tim and as he enters, the doorman reaches into the lapel of his uniform,
takes out a knotted cord and sneaks up behind Tim, who delivers a powerful
backward kick catching the doorman in the stomach and driving him through the
glass doors.
Tim strolls up to the desk and asks the clerk, "Any mail?" The clerk has
crouched down behind the desk; one nervous hand appears with a letter which
Tim takes, opens...and it fills the screen with the words: "French Kisses."
After the usual 18 or so commercials, the episode opens with Mr. French
handing a huge sheaf of airline tickets to his employer.
French: "Have a lovely time in Bucharest, Sir."
Davis: "Umm, why am I going to Bucharest? I didn't think we had any
projects there."
French: "Oh, Sir, don't you remember? You're building a replica of the
Parthenon for them...and then you move straight along to New Guinea for the
giant suspension bridge that will span the entire chain of islands.
Shouldn't take more than six years, twelve at the outside. Sissy will love
it there...native dances, singalongs with the missionary group."
Davis: "Uh, where are the twins...?"
French: "Master Jody and Miss Buffy are even now enjoying the winter sports
at Lucerne. Remember, you authorized me to take full charge of their...I
hesitate to use the word...educations, so I chose a hightly-recommended Swiss
penal colony,--[coughs]--ah,--boarding establishment. They will be returned
to us when they reach the age of civilized behavior. In their cases,
possibly 45. Or 50."
Davis, looking bewildered, starts to protest, but French stuffs three large
suitcases in his hands and with a huge smile on his face, pushes him out the
door and closes it firmly.
Muffled sounds from outside the door: Davis: "But...I don't WANT to go to
Bucharest!"
French opens the door briefly: "It's that or Walla Walla, and you know that
you're allergic to apple cider, Sir. Don't call me, and I can promise that I
won't call you." He re-closes the door, bolts it and fastens several chain
locks.
Alone (and loving it), French glances around the room. He draws the drapes
as night has fallen, then steps out onto the terrace. From under a seat
cushion on one of the wrought iron chairs he takes a small electronic gadget.
Aiming it toward another high-rise on the corner, he presses a button and
three small green flashes glow briefly. From a window on the thirtieth floor
of the other building, three replying flashes respond.
Satisfied, he is about to go back into the living room when he notices a
certain rag doll half-concealed in the shadow of a potted dwarf tree. He
picks it up, smiling, and pats it on the head.
Unhurriedly, Tim walks down the hall, opens a small metal door in the wall
with "Incinerator" marked on it, and drops the doll through the opening. He
listens for a moment to the reassuring crackle of flames, then dusts his
hands off and goes toward the kitchen.
Dix is sitting on the counter, a fresh mai-tai in her hand, and Rowan is
nibbling a canape' from a tray,-then putting it back with a sneer.
Dix: "Everyone disposed of? So far, so good."
Rowan: "Must you use liver pate' in these wretched things? They taste like
something Baldrick whipped up to kill vermin."
Tim: "Oh, yes. This sitcom is now ours, for better or worse. And Baldrick
did make those nasty little things, so I suggest that HE should be the one to
eat them. He's probably immune."
Rowan: "Or, if not, small loss."
Dix: "How did you like the title of tonight's episode? 'French' lends itself
to all sorts of puns."
Tim: "That's just what I'm afraid of...French Lessons, French Restaurant,
French Bread...where will it all end?"
Rowan: "Do I sense French Resistance? Let us raise our glasses in, yes,-a
French Toast."
Dix: "Well, there IS going to be at least one episode where you have to
infiltrate a strip club...I thought of titling it French Undressing..."
Tim: "Now wait a minute..."
Rowan: "No time. Even now, the immigration authorities should be on their
way up here. I warned you about decoying Sissy into that airconditioned
luggage trunk with the labels directing it to Afghanistan."
Tim: "That was before I found the great deal on Bucharest Airways... anyway,
she has her cell phone with her. I'm almost sure that she'll catch up with
her Uncle Bill at some point."
There is a thunderous knocking at the door. Our friends look at each other,
and with one accord walk down the hall and Tim pushes a wall button. A
trapdoor opens in the ceiling and an automatic ladder emerges. They hurry up
it and the trapdoor closes silently behind them.
As the closing credits roll, Tim, Dix and Rowan are seen in silhouette
climbing down the fire escapes from the thirtieth floor.
* * *
We left our friends making a clandestine exit from the 30th floor of a New
York highrise via the fire escape. They had just reached a point some two
floors from the sidewalk when they made a disquieting discovery:
Tim [Mr. French:] "Uh, oh,--this thing doesn't seem to go all the way down."
Rowan [above him:] "Awkward. They can't expect people to jump the rest of
the way."
Dix [above him, which Rowan appreciates:] "I think this section is supposed
to swing out somehow...either of you have a wrench on you?"
Baldrick, last in line, reaches into a pocket of his wretched garment and two
turnips fall out.
Dix: "Ouch! Watch it."
Rowan: "This is no time for a snack."
Baldrick tries to catch a third turnip which is getting away from him, loses
his hold on the guard rail and starts to plummet toward the sidewalk. He
reaches out for something to stop his fall and fortunately gets a firm
grip...on Mr. French's trouser leg. Unfortunately for Mr. French's decorum,
the seam splits and Baldrick continues to fall,--with the trousers.
Dix winces, waiting for the sound of impact. Rowan inspects his fingernails,
and Mr. French says, "Bloody hell! I just had those pressed." A squishy
"whump" sound breaks the stillness...Baldrick has landed in his spiritual
home: a garbage truck.
Rowan has found the release latch for the fire escape and the steps extend
down to the street, so our trio joins Baldrick on the sidewalk.
Dix: "Yuck! Go find a fire hydrant and scrub down!"
Mr. French: "Just a moment,--my pants, please. Or, no, perhaps not." He
sighs and hands Dix a key. "The Sutton Place flat is nearest...I'll meet you
by the Simon Bolivar statue in Central Park. Please hurry; it IS November
and I haven't had my pneumonia shots."
Three hours later, Rowan and Dix have scoured Central Park from end to end
without finding a trace of Mr. French. Rowan has a pair of Tim's trousers
and an overcoat, just in case, but they are beginning to wonder if he has
been picked up for indecent exposure.
Dix: "I wonder if he's been picked up for indecent exposure?"
Rowan [bored with the whole business:] "More likely he ran into a nest of
international gangsters and is convincing them of the error of their ways.
Or being dumped in the East River with cement overshoes."
Dix: "Gangsters,schmangsters. He can handle them with one hand tied behind
his back. What I'm REALLY afraid of is that he might have run into an even
more frightening organization..."
Rowan: "Girl Scouts?"
Dix: "Close...this city is a hotbed, if you'll excuse the expression, of
eager no-holds-barred ravening Timbos!"
Rowan: "Oh, yes. Well, if he's fallen into their clutches, this will be the
shortest sitcom series in television history. By the time they're through
with him, he'll be a white-haired gibbering imbecile eking out his remaining
miserable existence in a Home for the Incurably Assaulted."
Dix: "Stop smiling. We've got to track him down before it's too late!"
* * *
Ah, yes, what of the predicament of our pantless protagonist?...When Dix and
Rowan sped away on their mission of mercy, Mr. French (Tim) was left alone
with his thoughts. These concerned Baldrick and a vat of boiling oil.
Sighing regretfully, Mr. French begins to make his surreptitious way through
dark alleys in the direction of Central Park. As he is crossing the street,
he is suddenly caught in the headlights of a dark, low-slung foreign
car,--which speeds up and aims directly at him.
With a bound, Mr. French gains the opposite curb. Nearly at his feet is a
long trench guarded by sawhorses and red lanterns: the workmen have gone for
the day. The car reverses and turns back for another try; Mr. French
instantly picks up one of the lanterns and hurls it, hitting the car's
windshield which stars but doesn't break.
Mr. French: "Bulletproof. Wish _I_ were..."
Just then a police car turns the corner heading toward the park and the dark
car slides away trying to look like an innocent lost tourist.
Mr. French has ducked into the trench until the police car goes by. He
emerges, brushing dirt off his knees and thinking more censorable thoughts
about Baldrick.
Mr. French: "Just let me get my hands on that little cretin..."
Baldrick: "Did you want me, Sir?" He has appeared from the other end of the
ditch.
Mr. French: "Don't DO that. Yes, come a little closer; I want to,--talk
with you."
Baldrick: "Here's your trousers, all fixed up. It's lucky you was wearing
them nice blue fuzzy long underwear...might of caught cold."
Mr. French [through his teeth:] "I'm not wearing long underwear. That
'fuzz' is gooseflesh. And how did you get my trousers cleaned, pressed
mended and fumigated at this hour of the night?"
Baldrick: "You know them fancy gent's outfitters over on Astor Street, with
the big gilt sign what says they caters only to the upper classes? I told
them as how I reelly needed these pants done fast and I was willing to wait
under their sign till they was ready..."
Mr. French: "Ah, blackmail. Very efficient. How much did they charge you?"
(He is re-trousering himself with a sigh of relief as they speak.)
Baldrick [grinning:] "The tailor give me five dollars to go away and never
come back."
Mr. French steps into the street to retrieve the smashed lantern and notices
a small glittering object. He picks it up and examines it, a broken-off hood
ornament in the shape of a lobster.
Mr. French: "Oh, damn. He must be on the loose again."
Baldrick: "Who's that, then?"
Mr: French: "Lord Percy Mersey, the Crustacean King. The international
shellfish smuggler, if that means anything to you. Cold-blooded,
unscrupulous, totally ruthless."
Baldrick: "What's this selfish snuggler want to go around in his stocking
feet for? That's what's making his blood so cold."
Mr. French [clouting him on the head:] "I said 'ruthless,' not 'bootless.'
Go find your master, like a good dogsbody. I want to think, and your
presence seems to be a definite hindrance somehow."
Baldrick: "That's what my lord always says when he kicks me downcellar and
locks the door for a few weeks."
At this moment a large tour bus approaches the park. Mr. French glances at
it and freezes in horror: from every window an eager face is looking
straight in his direction. He glances down automatically; trousers all
present and correct. But then he begins to recognize some of those smiling
faces: Timbos!!
Mr. French: "Timbos!! I'll have to make a run for it..."
* * *
We left our hero, Mr. French, gazing in horror at a busload of overactive
Timbos. His demeanor is much like that of an apprehensively-twitching cobra
suddenly confronted by a horde of aggressive mongooses (mongeese? One
mongoose and another mongoose and another...yes).
The bus has screeched to a halt and the Timbos are disembarking in their
usual ladylike fashion: over the bodies of those in front. Mr. French
regains the use of his limbs and sprints for the dark center of Central Park,
the pack already on his trail...
Mary Ann [dislodging Christine's foot from her windpipe:] "(gasp) -- Hurry,
he's getting away!"
Melissa [calmly, considering that her arm is tangled in Cap'n Martha's purse
strap and her ankle is being bitten by a small desperate Timbo half-buried
under several others:] "I know this area well. We can head him off by the
south path. Ouch!!"
Meanwhile, Mr. French has reached the comparative safety of a workman's shack
near the street excavation. He whips inside and finds that he is in luck...
Several pairs of overalls and a large soiled windbreaker are hanging on nails
and it is the work of a moment for him to hurl himself into a quick disguise.
He stoops, picks up a handful of mud, grits his teeth and rubs it over his
face. Excellent. His own mother would direct him to the servant's entrance
without a second thought.
The sounds of merry little Timbo shrieks and curses are rapidly approaching.
Mr. French picks up a shovel, slumps his shoulders in the attitude of an
overworked city employee and makes his way along the sidewalk.
Suddenly his attention is distracted by the grinding roar of a loud motor.
He looks around, sees nothing,--then looks up. A giant helicopter is
hovering a few yards above the park. Nothing odd about that...except that it
seems to be shaped like an enormous black crab. As he watches, several heavy
cables with anchor-shaped hooks drop from the craft.
The Timbo contingent, nearly one hundred in all (they were packed like
sardines in that bus) meanwhile has reached the center of the Park and the
frustrated searchers are milling around blaming each other for having lost
the scent. They soon have other things to think about as the ground beneath
them gives a sudden heave and the entire group is enclosed in the meshes of a
gigantic steel net!
The net is being lifted into the air by the hooked cables and as Mr. French
watches from his safe distance, the entire catch of bagged Timbos is
swallowed up in the massive helicopter. The weight causes it to stagger in
the air, but it recovers and turns, regains altitude and roars off toward
Long Island Sound...
Baldrick [who has been standing unnoticed at Mr. French's elbow:] "That bird
must of been reely hungry, Mr. F."
Without glancing around, Mr. French gives Baldrick the usual clout on the
head.
Mr. F: "I don't like the looks of this. If they've fallen into the hands of
that dastardly Lord Percy, their situation may be precarious." (Cheering
up:) "On the other hand, HIS situation may be fatal."
* * *
When we left off, Dix and Rowan had been frustrated in their efforts to
locate Mr. French in Central Park. (Dix: "We searched everywhere too."
Rowan: "Oh, yes, indeed.") He, in the meantime, had been witness to the
unusual phenomenon of a vast flock of Timbos being aerially kidnapped by a
giant crab-shaped helicopter. (Dix: "We miss ALL the fun!" Rowan [toying
with her curls:] "Well, not quite all...")
Mr. French, following a hunch, returns to the erstwhile Davis apartment where
he finds Dix and Rowan, slightly mussed but ready for action. (Rowan:
"Perhaps ten minutes later, when I get my breath back.")
Mr. French: "...so that's the situation. And it's up to us to rescue those
poor ladies before the worst happens."
Dix [smiling broadly:] "Oh, I think your super-villain deserves everything
he gets."
Rowan: "It's about time, too. I mean, you've already turned Lord Percy over
to the British authorities, the Belgian authorities, the French authorities
and the Lithuanian aurthorities. Twice."
Mr. French: "Not to mention the Swiss, the Dutch and the Burmese. He keeps
getting off on technicalities."
Dix: "Besides, what's the worst that can happen? Now that New York is
temporarily a no-Timbo zone, we can get in some carefree sightseeing. I've
always heard that the Bronx is up and the Battery's down, etc., and I want to
go up to the top of the Empire State building, the Statue of Liberty, all
that good stuff."
Mr. French: "That will have to wait. Lord Percy is a fiend in human form
and unless we rescue the Timbos quickly I would hate to answer for their
safety."
Dix [leaning back in her armchair:] "Don't make my mouth water. Oh, all
right. But how do you expect to find them? He's had quite a head start in
that helicopter."
Rowan: "Oh, well, that's easy enough. His local base is an offshore island
with a big lobster-canning plant...hard to miss, actually."
Mr. French: "Yes, and lobsters, like crabs, are the scavengers of the sea.
They will eat anything, up to and including human flesh...we'd better get
down to the docks and hire a speedboat."
* * *
Four hours later, our intrepid trio disembarks from the hastily-commandeered
speedboat, the Flatbush Flash, and clamber over the wet boulders surrounding
the outskirts of their quarry's Lobster Plantation. Several low buildings
are silhouetted against the dark sky, and smokestacks send a steady flow of
steam skyward. A larger building with Gothic outlines shows yellow lights in
one of the first-floor rooms.
Mr. French [sotto voce:] "That's his headquarters. He must be running the
canning factory on a 24-hour schedule...Christmas orders to meet, no doubt."
Rowan: "Personally, I prefer my lobsters fresh and flavorful."
Dix: "Mmmm, my favorite is lobster thermidor."
Mr. French: "I like them split and dipped in melted butter..."
Baldrick: "I like turnips, wif or wifout butter."
Rowan turns and nudges him off the boulder. He falls a few feet to the
beach.
Rowan: "I told you to watch the boat. Stay put."
Unfortunately, he has forgotten to keep his voice down. Several bulky forms
bearing automatic rifles suddenly appear and surround our friends.
Mr. French [raising his hands:] "Oh, very well. Take us to your leader."
Dix [raising her hands:] "And I hope he has a good fire going...I'm
half-frozen."
Rowan [following suit:] "I could take care of that."
Mr. French [sternly:] "Let's not be diverted from the job at hand."
The gangster-types herd our friends before them into the sinister-looking
mansion and they find themselves locked in a small library.
Dix: "Look at the titles on some of these books: 'The Romance of
Shellfish,' 'How I Turned Barracudas into Cash - You Can Too,' 'Holiday
Herring Recipes,' 'The Truth About Trout,'..."
Rowan: "Yep, Lord Percy has a one-track mind, all right."
Mr. French [paying no attention to them; he has taken out a pocket toolkit
and has just finished unscrewing the hinges of the locked door:] "Help me
with this." (He and Rowan remove the door and set it aside.)
An oily voice greets them as they step into the hall: "Going somewhere? I
think not..."
* * *
For those who may have noted the paucity of posts from listmembers during the
past few weeks, there's an excellent reason: over a hundred unsuspecting
Timbos were recently as we know unexpectedly snatched up in a huge iron net
by a sinister giant helicopter and whisked away to the evil master criminal's
offshore lobster canning plant...
Horrors! you exclaim? Oh, I don't know; with careful preparation and the
proper seasoning, there's no reason to think that any diner in a fine
restaurant will suspect anything.
However, to rejoin our friends:
It is some time later in the Gothic castle of Lord Percy Mersey, the
Crustacean King, lobster-smuggler to the stars. Mr. French, Dix and Rowan
have not found the time to hang idly on their hands. Actually, all three of
them are presently chained to a wall by their wrists. Before them is a vast
tank sunk into the stone floor, in which thousands of restless lobsters are
milling in murky water.
Dix: "Wonder what happened to that herd of Timbos who arrived here before
us?"
Mr. French: "Baldrick located them earlier,--they're in a huge holding pen
awaiting their fate."
Rowan: "Ah, when you say 'fate,' I trust that you are not referring to
feeding time for the shellfish?"
Mr. French: "Lord Percy is noted for his shall we say, thriftiness. In other
words, he's too mean to buy lobster kibble. But all is not necessarily lost.
I happen to possess a certain little notebook which he would give his left,
ummm, tootsie-toy to get his slimy paws upon."
Dix: "You must be just a little nervous, to end a sentence with a
preposition."
Rowan: "Grammar aside, how long is this pestilence proposing to keep us
hanging here like sides of beef, Dix excepted? She looks a bit like
undressed lamb at the moment."
Dix glances down at her garments: black velvet slacks split from hem to
waist down one leg, a slightly shredded sweater with a few peekaboo gaps.
She had resisted being attached to the wall, as five members of Lord Percy's
gang could testify once they recovered from their injuries.
Dix: "You say the sweetest things, Ro."
From out of the shadows a tall gaunt master criminal strides toward our
friends, chuckling to himself.
Mr. French: "I see we're being joined by our host. How boring."
Lord Percy [in his oily voice:] "Comfy, I trust? Sorry about the
accomodations, but your visit was somewhat earlier than I expected. And the
last time we met, you dismantled my lovely guest rooms so thoroughly that all
I was able to salvage were these few poor implements,--" (gesturing toward
the handcuffs and chains) "--gone, alas, are my inventive and persuasive
little knicknacks..."
Mr. French: "The British Museum was delighted to get them all back,
especially the Iron Maiden and the Chamber-of-Little-Ease. Not to mention
the thumbscrews."
Rowan: "Not to appear rude, but when do we receive the customary
refreshments? I could do with a nice cuppa, personally."
Dix: "Wait. I think he has some more dialogue."
Lord Percy [noticing Dix's dissarray for the first time, he can't seem to
tear his eyes away:] "I...I haven't seen YOU before."
Rowan [sotto voce:] "If he says, 'Do you come here often?' I shall start
screaming and I don't think I'll be able to stop."
Dix [dropping her eyelashes and heaving a picturesque sigh:] "Well, you know
how it is. When a girl starts to go about with adventurous young men she
tends to become a bit of an adventuress herself..."
Lord Percy [loosening his collar, eyes still fixed on Dix:] "Ah, I'm a
comparatively wealthy man, but lately I've been feeling that there is
something missing in my sybaritic life."
Mr. French: "Right. A bread and water diet for the next ninety-five years."
Lord Percy snaps his head angrily around to face Mr. French. Then his eyes
turn irresistibly back to Dix, who prepares to follow up the advantage.
Dix: "These cuffs are chafing my wrists..."
Lord Percy's hand dives into his waistcoat pocket for a key, his lean face
reddening in embarrassment.
Lord Percy: "And lovely wrists they are,-" (as he quickly unlocks the cuffs).
Dix, rubbing her wrists to restore circulation, gives him a ravishing smile.
Dix [softly, so he has to lean over her to catch her words:] "So kind..."
(and she reaches up with one hand to caress his throat, the other hand
grasping his hand with the key still in it).
The next moment Lord Percy is spinning through the air, head over heels; with
a piercing shriek and a massive splash, he lands in the lobster tank. Dix
wastes not a second; she quickly opens Mr. French's and Rowan's handcuffs,
slips the key into her pocket just in case, and the three take to their
heels.
Rowan: "I hear reinforcements on the way...we'd better link up with the Timbo
reserves...they should be in a mood to do murder by now."
* * *
As the weeks drift slowly by, what of the plight of those milling Timbos in
their lonely cage awaiting the possiblity of being transformed into sea food?
In fact, have they themselves been reduced by hunger to cannibalism?....
Christine [pacing up and down inside the barred enclosure:] "If I EVER get
my hands on Dix, I'll pull out her entrails with my bare hands! Then, when
I've got her attention..."
Betty T. [calmly filing her fingernails:] "Take your place in line, Dear.
But don't forget,--last time you and Dix had a difference of opinion, she
bent an oar over your head."
Christine [feeling her head gingerly:] "She blind-sided me! Anyway, the
titanium plate is even stronger than my original skull. I've been taking
martial arts training...she'd better not mess with me."
Mary Ann [sidling up beside them:] "Umm, doesn't Dix have a gold belt in
karate?"
Christine: "I'LL give her such a belt!!..."
At this point, Mr. French, Dix and Rowan arive at the enclosure, a giant
holding pen reinforced with bars and a large padlock.
Dix: "Oh, look, aren't they adorable? I wish I had some peanuts to throw."
Mr. French: "They must be starving. You really shouldn't space these
episodes so widely apart,--look! Some of the smaller, weaker ones seem to
have eaten all the candy mints in their purses and are now looking hungrily
at each other."
Dix: "I supppose that's what is meant by 'survival of the fattest.'"
Rowan: "Isn't that 'fittest'?"
Dix: "Whatever. Well, how do you propose we release them? That padlock is
four inches square."
Mr. French, the Infallible, reaches into his inside pockets and takes out an
assortment of gadgets: a battery-operated acetylene torch, a folding gigli
saw and a welder's eye shield.
Dix [admiringly:] "You always have such interesting items concealed about
your person."
Rowan [jealously:] "I also am not without amazing resources. Wait till you
see my new film, 'Johnny English,' if you like special effects."
Christine [gripping the bars of the cage in annoyance:] "Ahem. We
incarcerated persons are getting JUST a bit edgy here."
Mr. French has finished adjusting his eye shade and is about to rev up the
torch.
Mr. French: "Right, then. Everyone stand well back against the wall; turn
your heads away and close your eyes. Dix, you and Ro close your eyes too."
Rowan and Dix immediately step behind him, embrace and kiss, closing their
eyes as directed. Mr. French, not noticing, turns on the torch and begins to
cut through the padlock.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, all the Timbos have been restored to freedom and are
milling around Mr. French in grateful appreciation. Dix and Rowan haven't
budged from their original position, Rodin's "The Kiss."
Mr. French [trying to fend off the warm attentions of his liberated
admirers:] "Yes, yes, thank you, ladies...I'll certainly place all your
telephone numbers in my file for future reference...please,--no clothing
samples!!!" (a few enthusiastic Timbos are starting to reach for little
souvenirs: Mr. French's necktie has already gone and one of his shoes has
been untied by a small enthusiastic Timbo) "--look, I'll send you something
later,--but we need to get out of here."
Herding the group before him, Mr. French happens to notice Dix and Rowan
still blissfully unaware of the mass exodus.
Mr. French: "IF you two can spare a moment from your private diversions..."
Dix and Rowan step apart, smiling, and join the group.
Dix: "Yes, I suppose we'd better park the Timbos somewhere safe while we
clean up this installation."
Timbos en masse: "No!! We want to help Tim,--umm, Mr. French!!"
Mr. French: "Uh-oh..."
By this time our milling herd has reached the open air. Except for a few
lights in the castle windows, it is pitch dark and the sea winds are cold and
clammy. At the dock, Lord Percy's yacht, Bluebell's Revenge is tied up.
Dix: "Wonder who Bluebell was? And why she wanted revenge?"
Rowan: "Possibly an old girl friend."
As the Timbos are grumblingly stored aboard the yacht, Mr. French promises
them that he will hurry right back and perhaps they will have time for a nice
cruise if they promise to behave. Some of them promise.
In the meantime, Lord Percy has not been idle. Out of the darkest recesses
of his evil black soul, he is even now preparing the ultimate weapon:
Petunia...
* * *
(Mr. French: "All right, who wants to help me get my wheelchair started?
Dix... you've been getting ve-e-e-e-e-r-r-r-r-y-y lax about chronicling our
adventures lately."
Dix [hanging her head in simulated shame:] "Sorry about that. Perhaps I
should have included the two orgies and the mass exodus from the Hollywood
Bowl. They,--umm,--sapped my strength somewhat."
Rowan [hastily:] "I thought that we agreed that just the merest touch of
censorship would be best for all concerned. Think of Cap'n Martha's
feelings. Who knew about her birthmark?"
Dix: "Very well; my lips are sealed. Let's wrap up the adventure in a seemly
fashion."
When we left off (of course I remember,--I have hard copies) :), our intrepid
trio had just freed the impatient herd of captive Timbos from their
incarceration and seen them aboard Lord Percy's yacht for safekeeping. Mr.
French, Dix and Rowan then set about reducing the installation of
evildoers...
Rowan: "In other words, through a combination of cool leadership,--" (he
bows elegantly) "--a cunning plan,--" (Baldrick starts to bow, thinks better
of it as Rowan eyes his posterior thoughtfully) "--and a bit of last-minute
bluffing,--" (he nods offhandedly at Mr. French, who is cradling a grenade
launcher on one arm and looking at his wristwatch in a meaning way), "--we
have rounded up the entire group and popped them into the holding pen."
Dix: "Actually, if Mr. French hadn't torched the lock on the door of the
armory, we would be in a tight spot by now."
Mr. French: "Enough exposition. Lord Percy is skulking around here somewhere
and I'm fairly sure that he won't give up without a fight. He never does."
Rowan: "Quite. And there must be SOME law enforcement organization somewhere
that will be able to come up with a charge that will hold him this time..."
An evil half-mad cackle screeches out of an overhead speaker:
Lord Percy: "Oh, I doubt that very much. Why don't we discuss it over a
drink or two? Just follow the passage to the door at the end."
Dix [softly to Mr. French:] "That sounds like a singularly bad idea. He
probably has an ambush set up. Let's circle the building and outflank him."
Rowan [looking at his wristwatch:] "Or we could go OUT for drinks. All this
crime-fighting is thirsty work."
Mr. French: "Come on. I've been wondering about that unusually large room
overlooking the Bay."
Dix [saluting him:] "Right. You're the doctor."
Mr. French [singing softly to the tune of Stormy Weather:] "'Don't know
why...all my patients seem to die...'"
Our friends slip cautiously out a side door and converge on the rear of the
mansion. Mr. French tries the handle of one of the French doors and finds it
suspiciously unlocked. He braces it open with a chair as they enter.
The room IS huge. It has a stone floor, very few furnishings and another
unusual feature: three doors at one end.
There is a swishing, clanging sound behind our adventurers and they swing
around to see that a steel door has slammed down behind them, crushing the
chair Mr. French had used as a door stop.
The speaker on the near wall makes a throat-clearing sound.
Lord Percy: "Alone at last (he giggles insanely). It's time to play for the
REALLY big prizes. You may select from Doors Number One, Two or Three."
Rowan: "Appealing to our greed, are you? Oh, well, I've been wanting a new
car. Door Number One."
Dix: "I could use a year's supply of cosmetics,--crime-fighting in all kinds
of weather plays hell with a girl's complexion. Door Number Two."
Mr. French: "As long as Family Affair has reached its well-merited and
overdue demise, I could do with a fresh project. (He aims the
rocket-launcher as he speaks.) Door Number Three."
All three doors slide immediately upward into the wall and our friends are
suddenly face to face with,---
Lord Percy: "MEET PETUNIA!!!"
* * *
(Two months later e-mail time...)
After one of the longest cliff-hanging exercises in recent memory, our
intrepid trio is about to face perhaps the biggest challenge of their
adventurous careers. Let's pick up where we left off...
Dix: "Good grief! So THAT'S Petunia!!"
Her companions do not respond. She looks around and sees that Mr. French and
Rowan are sitting propped against the stone wall of the great hall way, sound
asleep. Baldrick is also sprawled on the floor, a wisp of turnip green
hanging from his half-open mouth, snoring.
Dix: "I SAID, 'So THAT'S Petunia!!'"
Mr. French [rising slowly to a standing position:] "I'm delighted to be here
tonight for the great honour of receiving this prestigious award. When a
small English lad can rise in his profession to the point where his fellow
thespians see fit to bestow the Oscar in recognition of his poor efforts,--"
Rowan [raising his head and climbing stiffly to his feet:] "--'poor efforts'
indeed, but I don't think you'll be receiving anything here but possible
dismemberment accompanied by the usual shrieks of agony,--" (he gestures
toward Petunia, who is oozing in their direction.)
Petunia is quite the largest and most disgusting octopus in captivity. She
differs from the usual octopus in another way: instead of a beak, she
appears to have a huge red-lipped mouth. But what is even more striking in
her demeanor is her ability to move about on dry land rather than sea water,
natural habitat of her fellow disgusting octopi...
Dix: "Quick,--use the grenade launcher!!"
Mr. French: "That would be a mistake, probably our last. The explosive
force in this enclosed area would turn all of us into instant sushi." He
reaches into his pocket for a portable laser gun.
Baldrick slumbers on until Rowan gives him a wake-up kick in the ribs.
Rowan: "Look alive there. At least temporarily. We may need octopus
fodder."
Baldrick [rubbing his eyes sleepily:] "Don't the poor thing have a father, my
lord?"
Rowan raps him smartly on the head, then shrugs and turns to give his full
attention to the approaching monster.
Mr. French is applying his laser gun to some effect: one of the long slimy
tentacles that was reaching for him flinches back and recoils, then stretches
out in Dix's direction.
Our friends notice a strange mechanical humming sound.
Dix: "Hang on, I think that thing is a robot."
Mr. French [deftly lasering through another tentacle as he is forced back
against the wall by the slithering mountain of ersatz cephalopod:] "Yes,--a
BIG robot! How about giving me a hand here?"
Dix and Rowan look at each other in consternation.
Rowan: "With what? YOU have all the state-of-the-art defensive equipment we
brought along. Toss me your coat."
Mr. French wriggles out of his coat with some difficulty as more probing
tentacles strive to entangle him and pitches it toward Rowan. He and Dix
quickly go through the many hidden pockets:
Dix: "Hmm. Curling iron, moustache wax, three packs of nicotine-free
cigarette substitutes, address book,--"
Mr. French: "--Keep looking,--I know there are a couple of weapons of minor
destruction in there somewhere..." (a tentacle wraps itself around his
throat.)
Rowan [pulling a large metal canister out of a pocket:] "Ah, that's more
like it."
Dix [glancing at the label:] "Hair spray. Sorry, Mr. French, you appear to
be doomed this time..."
As two more slimy gray appendages whip forth and encircle Dix and Rowan in
their foul clutches, the sound of excited voices is heard nearby:
Voices: "This way!!" "Hurry!!" "Quit shoving!!"
And from around the corner comes the Marines: a vibrant eager fighting force
of determined Timbos. Petunia, metal monster though she is, seems to shrink
at their approach,--as who wouldn't? In a matter of moments, the avalanche
of outraged Timbos has borne the octopus to the ground and is tying her up
with her own tentacles.
Mr. French [hoarsely, as his throat is still tender:] "Now that's what I
call a lovely sight. Tell me, how may I reward all of our fair rescuers?"
Dix: "Oh,--" (Rowan has placed a hand across her mouth, thereby keeping the
script clean.)
Christine [jumping down from the now-hopelessly trussed Petunia:]
"Weeelllll, I for one would settle for a teensy lock of your beautiful
hair..."
Betty T.: "I'll drink to that!"
Cap'n Martha [edging closer:] "Now, ladies, let's try to conduct oursevles
with some semblance of decorum,--oh, heck,--first dibs on his moustache
hairs!!"
Oops. In a matter of minutes, several other Timbos have pulled nail
scissors, pocket knives and other cutting implements from their purses. And
in less time than it takes to tell, Mr. French's head presents the appearance
of a billiard ball!
Dix [sadly:] "Well, I always wondered how you would look bald..."
Rowan [running a hand complacently through his own abundant locks:] "Oh, it
will possibly grow back eventually."
Mr. French [to Dix:] "I was saving it for a surprise, but I may as well
break the news now: I've been offered the lead in a huge Broadway revival of
'The King and I', so all's well that ends well."
Baldrick: "Can I go back to sleep, my lord?"
Rowan: "Why not? The audience has."
The End
Y(sleepytime gal)FT,
Dix