So, here I am, enjoying my orderly life. I have been spending my evenings at my new Bob-Diamond-financed restaurant, Chez Sheila. I’ve decorated it, had Kill-More Carpets (I am a preferred customer) lay the rugs, and hired all obsessive-compulsive waiters, cooks and busboys. I’m very happy there. Of course, I miss Jack, so when he calls and says he wants to visit, I tell him I’ll even pick him up at the airport!
I take Jack to show him my new culinary haven. As he is oohing and aahing over pots and pans, menus, place settings, etc., we notice two men sitting at a table. One of them is Parris Roman, the PR man from the Crazy Nights club and the other is obviously a Russian. Now what are the tale of two cities and a Russky doing in my restaurant? We become suspicious, so we leave out the back and go to the street. There we see a car parking with two gentleman of the Russian persuasion inside. They have spotted us, so we use our extraordinary powers of evasion to lose them on the crowded streets.
We decide to go to the market to get the makings for a delicious serving of Sheila’s Rice Royale. As we approach my apartment building we see the stupid Russian from the restaurant. I tell Jack to go around the block, sneak up on him and conk him over the head. I watch to make sure the Russian doesn’t leave.
I’m trying to watch Jack’s progress and the Russian and, despite my acutely keen powers of observation (I recently updated my character sheet), I lose the Russian. Jack is out of sight around the block, so I head toward where the Russian was in order to look for him.
Suddenly, I realize that an impact is imminent, as the Russian is within a foot directly in front of me. I decide to go ahead and bump into him. Well, there was no branch handy for me to gently hit him with …
I flatten him. He seems stunned, so I reach into my pocket for my gun, only to have him pull his gun out and rudely stick it in my face. So, despite a 00 hit from Sheila the Sturdy, the little shit was only playing possum!
He tells me to take him inside. As we head inside, he is trying to reach into my pocket for my gun, so I crush his hand with my elbow. I try to stop short, but he avoids me. Okay, now I’ve had enough. Nobody is shedding anyone’s blood on my new carpets. As soon as we are on the stairs, I reach into my pocket, turn the gun under and shoot the idiot through my coat. I hit him in the leg and he spins the other way, so I kick him in the back. He tries to turn and shoot me, so I shoot him in the arm and the chest. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest, but he does fall down the stairs. He is fairly still, but I’m sure it’s a trick. I shoot him a couple of more times before my gun jams. I run around the corner of the landing to clear the gun. When I peek back, he is still pretty still, but I know he’s faking. I shoot him again.
Meanwhile, Jack has finally heard some of the shots and carefully crosses the street before trying to run toward the building. Unfortunately, two men are waiting for him. Luckily I had given Jack an extra gun that I had lying around the apartment and he is able to shoot one (I know, you’re surprised that he hit the guy, but that’s probably because it was my gun, not his own). As the bad guys prepare to shoot back, one of them experiences the ever-feared Paris, the agent not the city, broken gun syndrome (that’s a gun jam for the uninitiated). Jack then uses the handy dandy Sheila spare gun to finish off the bad guys with head shots. And through all of this, he manages to not drop the groceries. He must be really hungry!
He runs toward my building. I am in the stairwell debating whether or not to stash the Russian’s body somewhere, but I decide to leave it where it is.
I go downstairs, find Jack and we go to my apartment to make dinner. Jack tells me that he shot two men on the street. I berate him for killing people so close to my apartment, laugh at my contrariness, and eventually ‘fess up about the body in the stairwell.
Anyway, killing always gives us a good appetite, so on to dinner we go, after I hide the guns and the holy coat.
There is a knock at the door (not a completely foreign occurrence when Master Chef Sheila is at work – the wonderful aromas of my culinary classics tend to draw people from far and wide). This time, however, it is none other than Inspector Clusine, who wants to know why we killed all of those people. As Clusine downs Jack’s wine, Jack sticks to his denial, but I think Clusine has seen right through my protests about not having anything to do with the battered bloody body on the stairs.
Jack asks if he can kill Clusine, but the no-blood-on-Sheila’s-carpet rule is still in effect, so I tell him no. Clusine seems unfazed by our little argument.
Since Clusine is now threatening to call in the crime scene unit, and I just know that they will destroy my neat and orderly apartment, I finally admit that I may have shot the man once or five times. We offer him my coat with its diagonal bullet entrance/exit hole as proof that I acted in self-defense.
With a warning that Jack should leave France really soon, he leaves without even tasting Sheila’s rice royale.
As an afterthought, Jack grabs one of my (Up)Chuck Oiled and Flexing shots and tells Clusine to give it to (Up)Chuck’s gay detective admirer. Clusine snorts in disgust, but takes the photo.
Jack and I have a lovely dinner, snuggle under some Bonnie Prince Charlie blankets and turn out the lights.