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On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 08, 2002 02:06PM
<HTML>"Pierre de Brighton left a clue just before he died," said my human sidekick Sarah.
"Remind me," I replied, engaged as I was in the tricky business of washing the top of my head using a front paw.
"He said his lover had never forgiven him. We've got to find his lover. She's bound to talk."
"His lover?" I echoed, incredulously. "You know what you humans are like. Present company excepted, that is. Which one are we talking about?"
She shrugged. I wish I could do that. She just said, "We'll track 'em all."
"Could be a long job," I depurred.
"Well, you could start with Madame Bovary. She's bound to know something."
"Yes, but a cat asking questions is going to look suspicious. What if she finds miaowt?"
"She won't," Sarah assured me. "Just wander around in the background and look innocent. You know, like you do when you've just knocked a pile of papers on the floor."
I swished my tail in admonition. "There's no need to be cheeky about it," I warned.
"Well, there's no need to knock things on the floor either, not when you've got a perfectly good floor cushion to sleep on."
I diplomatically changed tack. "OK, I'll tackle the Bovary dame. So what are you going to do while I'm in Flaubert?"
"Me? Oh, I'll just pop back a few years and see if I can find Mlle d'Armentieres. I understand she's been seen with de Brighton on a number of occasions."
"Grammasite got your accent," I said, smugly.
She rolled her eyes. "Nope. It's a bug. Every time I try to type an accent, it sends me back a page and loses all my work."
"I'm good at catching bugs," I reminded her. "Let me at it."
"You just catch midges to show all the other cats what wonderful reflexes you've got. You ought to try the reaction time test for SO-5, you know."
I arched my back. "They wouldn't let a cat in. I'd just show them up, anyway."
"Probably," she agreed. "OK, are we both ready?"
"Damn well bring me some Moggilicious," I ordered.
"Tough luck, [embarrassing nickname - censored]. Wrong year altogether."
"Skrrrrrk," I said.
She blushed. "H'mm, looks like the Bowdlerisers round here don't speak Cat."
I didn't trouble to reply, but disappeared into Flaubert, pausing only to twitch the end of my tail at her in a calculatingly insolent fashion just before it vanished. She's a good human really, but she does need keeping in line...</HTML>
"Remind me," I replied, engaged as I was in the tricky business of washing the top of my head using a front paw.
"He said his lover had never forgiven him. We've got to find his lover. She's bound to talk."
"His lover?" I echoed, incredulously. "You know what you humans are like. Present company excepted, that is. Which one are we talking about?"
She shrugged. I wish I could do that. She just said, "We'll track 'em all."
"Could be a long job," I depurred.
"Well, you could start with Madame Bovary. She's bound to know something."
"Yes, but a cat asking questions is going to look suspicious. What if she finds miaowt?"
"She won't," Sarah assured me. "Just wander around in the background and look innocent. You know, like you do when you've just knocked a pile of papers on the floor."
I swished my tail in admonition. "There's no need to be cheeky about it," I warned.
"Well, there's no need to knock things on the floor either, not when you've got a perfectly good floor cushion to sleep on."
I diplomatically changed tack. "OK, I'll tackle the Bovary dame. So what are you going to do while I'm in Flaubert?"
"Me? Oh, I'll just pop back a few years and see if I can find Mlle d'Armentieres. I understand she's been seen with de Brighton on a number of occasions."
"Grammasite got your accent," I said, smugly.
She rolled her eyes. "Nope. It's a bug. Every time I try to type an accent, it sends me back a page and loses all my work."
"I'm good at catching bugs," I reminded her. "Let me at it."
"You just catch midges to show all the other cats what wonderful reflexes you've got. You ought to try the reaction time test for SO-5, you know."
I arched my back. "They wouldn't let a cat in. I'd just show them up, anyway."
"Probably," she agreed. "OK, are we both ready?"
"Damn well bring me some Moggilicious," I ordered.
"Tough luck, [embarrassing nickname - censored]. Wrong year altogether."
"Skrrrrrk," I said.
She blushed. "H'mm, looks like the Bowdlerisers round here don't speak Cat."
I didn't trouble to reply, but disappeared into Flaubert, pausing only to twitch the end of my tail at her in a calculatingly insolent fashion just before it vanished. She's a good human really, but she does need keeping in line...</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 09, 2002 12:16PM
<HTML>"Any luck, Minsky?" I asked, as my intrepid but somewhat crabby tabby emerged from Flaubert.
He swished his tail impatiently. "You might have told me you had the skrrrrrking original," he complained. "You know I don't speak French!"
I stared at him. "Minsky, I _don't_ have the original. Have you been on the catnip again?"
"Do I look like it? If you don't believe me, open it up and have a look," he retorted, sitting down heavily on his brother, who was too dopey to object.
I opened the volume, and, sure enough, Minsky was right. I drew in my breath sharply. "This is really serious," I said, lowering my voice in a suitably dramatic fashion. "It means that, for the moment, Merde is one step ahead of us."
"Better watch where we put our feet, then," replied Minsky dispassionately. "Anyway, what happened with Mlle d'Armentieres?"
I sighed. "No joy. She insisted she hadn't been kissed for forty years, and that was all I could get out of her."
He twitched his whiskers. "So what about that hot lead you told Gregorian about? You still haven't filled me in on that."
I coughed. "I was sort of hoping I might get Gregorian to play ball. It's a hot lead all right, but I'm not sure you and I have got the resources to handle it on our own."
"Why not?" demanded Minsky. "You and I, we make a great team. We don't need Gregorian and the ChronoGuard."
"Minsky," I reminded him, "I'm a vegetarian. When you've got a hot lead, what you need is a hot dog."
"I'm not a vegetarian," said Minsky smugly. "I'm a cat, remember?"
"As if I could forget," I muttered. I had just spent half an hour vacuuming cat fur off the sofa.
"OK. Let's get your friend with the car to take us round to McDonald's. He spends half his time there as it is."
"McDonald's?" I balked. "Isn't there a healthier alternative?"
"Stop wibbling, you stupid human! Bring your entroposcope and your rosary beads, and you'll be perfectly all right."
"Why the entroposcope?" I asked, rather weakly.
He looked down his nose at me, which is something I always wonder how he manages to do from ground level. "So that we can immediately detect any hot dog that missed out on the E-numbers, of course," he explained patiently. "Do you think I'm some kind of idiot?"
"OK, OK, point taken," I said hastily. "Now I've just got to explain to David why it is that we've got to take you down to McDonald's. Er... would you by any chance like to do that?"
"No," replied Minsky, settling down comfortably to wash his tail.
I sighed again. "I thought not."</HTML>
He swished his tail impatiently. "You might have told me you had the skrrrrrking original," he complained. "You know I don't speak French!"
I stared at him. "Minsky, I _don't_ have the original. Have you been on the catnip again?"
"Do I look like it? If you don't believe me, open it up and have a look," he retorted, sitting down heavily on his brother, who was too dopey to object.
I opened the volume, and, sure enough, Minsky was right. I drew in my breath sharply. "This is really serious," I said, lowering my voice in a suitably dramatic fashion. "It means that, for the moment, Merde is one step ahead of us."
"Better watch where we put our feet, then," replied Minsky dispassionately. "Anyway, what happened with Mlle d'Armentieres?"
I sighed. "No joy. She insisted she hadn't been kissed for forty years, and that was all I could get out of her."
He twitched his whiskers. "So what about that hot lead you told Gregorian about? You still haven't filled me in on that."
I coughed. "I was sort of hoping I might get Gregorian to play ball. It's a hot lead all right, but I'm not sure you and I have got the resources to handle it on our own."
"Why not?" demanded Minsky. "You and I, we make a great team. We don't need Gregorian and the ChronoGuard."
"Minsky," I reminded him, "I'm a vegetarian. When you've got a hot lead, what you need is a hot dog."
"I'm not a vegetarian," said Minsky smugly. "I'm a cat, remember?"
"As if I could forget," I muttered. I had just spent half an hour vacuuming cat fur off the sofa.
"OK. Let's get your friend with the car to take us round to McDonald's. He spends half his time there as it is."
"McDonald's?" I balked. "Isn't there a healthier alternative?"
"Stop wibbling, you stupid human! Bring your entroposcope and your rosary beads, and you'll be perfectly all right."
"Why the entroposcope?" I asked, rather weakly.
He looked down his nose at me, which is something I always wonder how he manages to do from ground level. "So that we can immediately detect any hot dog that missed out on the E-numbers, of course," he explained patiently. "Do you think I'm some kind of idiot?"
"OK, OK, point taken," I said hastily. "Now I've just got to explain to David why it is that we've got to take you down to McDonald's. Er... would you by any chance like to do that?"
"No," replied Minsky, settling down comfortably to wash his tail.
I sighed again. "I thought not."</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.nv.iinet.net.au)
Date: December 09, 2002 01:31PM
<HTML>Brilliant!! very very funny. I like it. Do more, I wanna know what happens next. Please please please!</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: December 09, 2002 01:38PM
<HTML>I second that emotion ... I promise not to tell M. Merde who's after him ....</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 10, 2002 11:12AM
<HTML>In the end, Sarah chickened out of explaining things to David, and for once I'm not entirely sure that I blame her. After all, he has what you might call a rather literal attitude to his faith, so he'd probably have thought it was somehow unscriptural.
So, instead, we formulated a plan. I was to hide in a collection of short stories by Algernon Blackwood, where I could easily pass unnoticed among all the other cats in one of them, and Sarah was to bring the book with her when David gave her a lift into town. Since David is incapable of driving any significant distance without stopping at McDonald's, I would easily be able to carry out my mission. She was then to contrive to leave the book at McDonald's and have to go back for it, by which time I would be back inside it with the precious hot dog.
All went neatly according to plan, though I did have a rather uncomfortable moment at one point when David, who weighs over eighteen stone, accidentally sat on the book. But, at last, when we returned home and David eventually left, I emerged proudly from the book to display my trophy.
"Eeeeeew," observed Sarah.
"I've brought worse things into the house," I reminded her.
She gazed at the hot dog in a kind of morbid fascination. "I'm not sure that's true," she replied, rather faintly. "Anyway, we'd better get on with it. Hop back into the book and take that revolting object with you, and I'll whisk you off to 2015."
"Why do I have to travel in the book?" I asked. "I should be OK as long as you're carrying me."
"It's for your own protection," she explained. "If you don't have a natural talent for time travel, it can make you feel very sick."
"You mean you don't want me to throw up all over your nice white trouser suit," I translated, sardonically.
"Well, there is that too," she admitted.
"There's just one thing I want to get clear before we go," I said. "Are we still trailing de Brighton's lovers?"
"Only if this doesn't work. This is a lead on Merde himself," she replied. "You see, I have some pretty strong evidence that he was actually born in 2015 and sent back in time soon after that, so that he could grow up to found SARF."
"So who sent him?" I asked, intrigued.
"That is what you and I, with the help of that disgusting piece of junk food, are about to find out... I hope," replied Sarah, trying to set her jaw squarely in the approved sleuthing fashion. Unfortunately her jaw, though pretty definite, is more triangular than square, and all she ended up doing was biting her tongue and yelping in a highly undignified fashion. She'd never make a good cat.
"Oh, just one more question before we go," I said, sensing that this was not yet the moment to sally forth in pursuit of our villain, at least not till Sarah had stopped yelping and had a hot drink. "Why does Wilfred the penguin keep saying 'plick'?"
"Well... you know about his little problem?" she asked, carefully.
"Stop beating about the bush. What you mean is he's a rampant alcoholic."
"Er, well, if you must. Anyway, he normally says 'hic', but he's practising his dodo impersonation for the Fforum Christmas dinner. He's actually trying to say 'plock', but it keeps coming out as 'plick'."
"Ridiculous noise," I scoffed.
"Bless him," she said, "at least he's trying."
"Harrumph. How come that sot gets to go, but I don't?"
"Because you're more likely to cause trouble. Now get back in the book, there's a good moggy."
I flattened my ears back, but I did what she said anyway, because it was the only way I was ever going to get to travel in time. Cause trouble, indeed! One day, she'll be sorry for that remark... skrrrrrrrk...</HTML>
So, instead, we formulated a plan. I was to hide in a collection of short stories by Algernon Blackwood, where I could easily pass unnoticed among all the other cats in one of them, and Sarah was to bring the book with her when David gave her a lift into town. Since David is incapable of driving any significant distance without stopping at McDonald's, I would easily be able to carry out my mission. She was then to contrive to leave the book at McDonald's and have to go back for it, by which time I would be back inside it with the precious hot dog.
All went neatly according to plan, though I did have a rather uncomfortable moment at one point when David, who weighs over eighteen stone, accidentally sat on the book. But, at last, when we returned home and David eventually left, I emerged proudly from the book to display my trophy.
"Eeeeeew," observed Sarah.
"I've brought worse things into the house," I reminded her.
She gazed at the hot dog in a kind of morbid fascination. "I'm not sure that's true," she replied, rather faintly. "Anyway, we'd better get on with it. Hop back into the book and take that revolting object with you, and I'll whisk you off to 2015."
"Why do I have to travel in the book?" I asked. "I should be OK as long as you're carrying me."
"It's for your own protection," she explained. "If you don't have a natural talent for time travel, it can make you feel very sick."
"You mean you don't want me to throw up all over your nice white trouser suit," I translated, sardonically.
"Well, there is that too," she admitted.
"There's just one thing I want to get clear before we go," I said. "Are we still trailing de Brighton's lovers?"
"Only if this doesn't work. This is a lead on Merde himself," she replied. "You see, I have some pretty strong evidence that he was actually born in 2015 and sent back in time soon after that, so that he could grow up to found SARF."
"So who sent him?" I asked, intrigued.
"That is what you and I, with the help of that disgusting piece of junk food, are about to find out... I hope," replied Sarah, trying to set her jaw squarely in the approved sleuthing fashion. Unfortunately her jaw, though pretty definite, is more triangular than square, and all she ended up doing was biting her tongue and yelping in a highly undignified fashion. She'd never make a good cat.
"Oh, just one more question before we go," I said, sensing that this was not yet the moment to sally forth in pursuit of our villain, at least not till Sarah had stopped yelping and had a hot drink. "Why does Wilfred the penguin keep saying 'plick'?"
"Well... you know about his little problem?" she asked, carefully.
"Stop beating about the bush. What you mean is he's a rampant alcoholic."
"Er, well, if you must. Anyway, he normally says 'hic', but he's practising his dodo impersonation for the Fforum Christmas dinner. He's actually trying to say 'plock', but it keeps coming out as 'plick'."
"Ridiculous noise," I scoffed.
"Bless him," she said, "at least he's trying."
"Harrumph. How come that sot gets to go, but I don't?"
"Because you're more likely to cause trouble. Now get back in the book, there's a good moggy."
I flattened my ears back, but I did what she said anyway, because it was the only way I was ever going to get to travel in time. Cause trouble, indeed! One day, she'll be sorry for that remark... skrrrrrrrk...</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 10, 2002 05:42PM
<HTML>"All right," said Minsky, emerging cautiously from Blackwood. "I know when we are, but _where_ are we, exactly?"
"We're hiding in a cupboard," I whispered. "And keep your miaow down, for goodness' sake!"
He twitched his whiskers. "Why?"
"Because I've just spotted two of the Time Mafia. And if I'm not mistaken, it's Enrico Grotti and Rosa Graffiti."
Minsky's yellow eyes widened. "This is more serious than I thought," he said, purrturbed. "Do you think they're the ones responsible for taking Merde back in time?"
I shrugged. "Why would they do that? They're Italian, not French. It wouldn't be in their interests."
"They're all European," replied Minsky, who's never really got the hang of the idea of nationalism. After all, it doesn't apply to cats.
I was thinking fast. "I suppose it's just possible that someone could have paid them to do it. But it takes a lot of money to buy the services of the Time Mafia, and they'd charge well over the odds for a job like that. So either we're looking for a very rich supervillain, or else Grotti and Graffiti are here for some other reason. We'd better tail them, Minsky."
"They don't _have_ tails, you stupid human," he pointed out superciliously.
"That's not what I meant, you stupid cat," I retorted. And I deftly rolled him over and started tickling his tummy before he could swear at me.
"That's just not fair," he purred ecstatically.
I grinned. "Since when did _you_ ever object to that? Anyway, it looks like the coast's clear. We'd better get after Grotti and Graffiti."
I opened the door cautiously, and we stepped out into the corridor. "Isn't this some kind of vet's?" asked Minsky suspiciously, sniffing the air.
"Sort of. It's a vet's for humans. A maternity hospital, in fact. After all, where else would you expect someone to be born?"
"Oh, I don't know. A basket, maybe, but I do have a good friend who was born in a wheelie bin."
"You know what?" I said. "I'm not in the least surprised."</HTML>
"We're hiding in a cupboard," I whispered. "And keep your miaow down, for goodness' sake!"
He twitched his whiskers. "Why?"
"Because I've just spotted two of the Time Mafia. And if I'm not mistaken, it's Enrico Grotti and Rosa Graffiti."
Minsky's yellow eyes widened. "This is more serious than I thought," he said, purrturbed. "Do you think they're the ones responsible for taking Merde back in time?"
I shrugged. "Why would they do that? They're Italian, not French. It wouldn't be in their interests."
"They're all European," replied Minsky, who's never really got the hang of the idea of nationalism. After all, it doesn't apply to cats.
I was thinking fast. "I suppose it's just possible that someone could have paid them to do it. But it takes a lot of money to buy the services of the Time Mafia, and they'd charge well over the odds for a job like that. So either we're looking for a very rich supervillain, or else Grotti and Graffiti are here for some other reason. We'd better tail them, Minsky."
"They don't _have_ tails, you stupid human," he pointed out superciliously.
"That's not what I meant, you stupid cat," I retorted. And I deftly rolled him over and started tickling his tummy before he could swear at me.
"That's just not fair," he purred ecstatically.
I grinned. "Since when did _you_ ever object to that? Anyway, it looks like the coast's clear. We'd better get after Grotti and Graffiti."
I opened the door cautiously, and we stepped out into the corridor. "Isn't this some kind of vet's?" asked Minsky suspiciously, sniffing the air.
"Sort of. It's a vet's for humans. A maternity hospital, in fact. After all, where else would you expect someone to be born?"
"Oh, I don't know. A basket, maybe, but I do have a good friend who was born in a wheelie bin."
"You know what?" I said. "I'm not in the least surprised."</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 11, 2002 01:14PM
<HTML>"This is definitely the right place!" exclaimed Sarah, with considerable satisfaction. "Did you spot that orderly who just went round the corner there?"
I twitched my nose. "You mean the one with the extremely @#$%& and nasty aftershave?"
"I can't smell it from here," she said, rather apologetically.
"H'mm. Sometimes I envy you humans your almost complete lack of a sense of smell. Well, was the orderly anyone I should have recognised?"
"You bet! That's Reg Office. He's not exactly a member of the ChronoGuard, but he still does a lot of unofficial work for Gregorian. He's a freelance spy." She paused. "That means we'll have to be extra careful. I'm not having Gregorian's flunkeys fouling things up for us now we've got this far."
"He could be after Grotti and Graffiti," I pointed out.
She shook her head. "I doubt it. They're small fry from his point of view. Gregorian's vowed to have me looped, and he won't rest till he does it."
"Then the cat he works for is very lucky," I said, rather sourly. I have given up trying to get Sarah to let me out during the night. She wilfully persists in sleeping through my most penetrating miaow.
"Gregorian's a dog person," replied Sarah, as we cautiously rounded a corner.
I sniffed. "Oh. One of _those_. Evidently he has no breeding whatsoever."
"Umm, actually he breeds dachshunds... Quick, Minsky, get back into Blackwood!"
But I was already halfway there, having leapt for the book as soon as I smelt the overpowering stench of Reg Office's aftershave heading back towards us. I hardly had time to settle down on a sunny windowsill in the village for a good bask, when I heard a strange unlocalised noise and realised that Sarah was trying to attract my attention by tapping on the cover.
I popped out cautiously. "Did you deal with him?... oh," I said, rather taken aback. Office was lying still and prone in the corridor.
"I thought you hated killing things," I added, after a brief accusing silence.
She laughed. "He's not dead! I simply used an old mathematical trick. I performed a substitution and changed his limits accordingly."
I stared at her. "You did _what_?"
"Come on, Minsky, haven't you ever done any integration? If you run across an integral you can't handle any other way, you can often substitute a different function in the integral, but you then have to remember to change the limits to solve the problem."
"I hate to mention this," I said slowly, "but he's not an integral."
She shrugged. "He is now. Actually, he was easier than I thought. You ought to see his brother Microsoft."
I gazed thoughtfully at the fallen spy. "So why does integration have that effect on him, then?" I asked.
"Because he's got no integrity of his own. The worse they are, the harder they fall."
"He'll recover?" I enquired curiously.
She nodded. "Eventually. Come on, Minsky, give me a paw pushing him into a cupboard."
"Stinking like that? You must be joking!"
She sighed. "One of these days, Minsky, I'm going to get you a gas mask."
"I defy you to find one to fit," I replied, thoughtfully batting the discarded integral sign across the corridor.</HTML>
I twitched my nose. "You mean the one with the extremely @#$%& and nasty aftershave?"
"I can't smell it from here," she said, rather apologetically.
"H'mm. Sometimes I envy you humans your almost complete lack of a sense of smell. Well, was the orderly anyone I should have recognised?"
"You bet! That's Reg Office. He's not exactly a member of the ChronoGuard, but he still does a lot of unofficial work for Gregorian. He's a freelance spy." She paused. "That means we'll have to be extra careful. I'm not having Gregorian's flunkeys fouling things up for us now we've got this far."
"He could be after Grotti and Graffiti," I pointed out.
She shook her head. "I doubt it. They're small fry from his point of view. Gregorian's vowed to have me looped, and he won't rest till he does it."
"Then the cat he works for is very lucky," I said, rather sourly. I have given up trying to get Sarah to let me out during the night. She wilfully persists in sleeping through my most penetrating miaow.
"Gregorian's a dog person," replied Sarah, as we cautiously rounded a corner.
I sniffed. "Oh. One of _those_. Evidently he has no breeding whatsoever."
"Umm, actually he breeds dachshunds... Quick, Minsky, get back into Blackwood!"
But I was already halfway there, having leapt for the book as soon as I smelt the overpowering stench of Reg Office's aftershave heading back towards us. I hardly had time to settle down on a sunny windowsill in the village for a good bask, when I heard a strange unlocalised noise and realised that Sarah was trying to attract my attention by tapping on the cover.
I popped out cautiously. "Did you deal with him?... oh," I said, rather taken aback. Office was lying still and prone in the corridor.
"I thought you hated killing things," I added, after a brief accusing silence.
She laughed. "He's not dead! I simply used an old mathematical trick. I performed a substitution and changed his limits accordingly."
I stared at her. "You did _what_?"
"Come on, Minsky, haven't you ever done any integration? If you run across an integral you can't handle any other way, you can often substitute a different function in the integral, but you then have to remember to change the limits to solve the problem."
"I hate to mention this," I said slowly, "but he's not an integral."
She shrugged. "He is now. Actually, he was easier than I thought. You ought to see his brother Microsoft."
I gazed thoughtfully at the fallen spy. "So why does integration have that effect on him, then?" I asked.
"Because he's got no integrity of his own. The worse they are, the harder they fall."
"He'll recover?" I enquired curiously.
She nodded. "Eventually. Come on, Minsky, give me a paw pushing him into a cupboard."
"Stinking like that? You must be joking!"
She sighed. "One of these days, Minsky, I'm going to get you a gas mask."
"I defy you to find one to fit," I replied, thoughtfully batting the discarded integral sign across the corridor.</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.nv.iinet.net.au)
Date: December 11, 2002 01:22PM
<HTML>Bravo!! *stands up and cheers wildly* Encore!!! MORE!!!</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Jacques Merde (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: December 11, 2002 01:25PM
<HTML>By the holy blue! Species of cabbage! The cat is getting closer - Lavoisier, I think it's about time we raided Minsky's .....</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 11, 2002 10:07PM
<HTML>"What happened to the hot dog, Minsky?" I asked. "You haven't eaten it, have you?"
He gave me a withering look. "Who do you think I am - my brother? I left it in the book for safe keeping."
"Whereabouts in the book?" I asked dubiously, thinking of all the cats.
"Oh, one of the other stories. Do stop panicking. Would you like me to go and fetch it?"
"Yes, please," I replied. "This hospital is full of babies. We're going to need it to determine which one is Merde."
"Wouldn't following Grotti and Graffiti be easier?" asked Minsky.
I sighed. "Easier, maybe, but we've got to get there before they do. Out with the hot dog, O faithful tabby."
He disappeared back into Blackwood muttering feline imprecations, and a few moments later he was out again with the hot dog between his teeth. "It'sh thish way," he announced, waving a paw down a corridor leading leftwards.
"Cool stuff!" I said enthusiastically.
"No, it'sh shtone cold by now," he complained. "And the shaush is going all down my whishkersh."
"You can have a good wash as soon as we're finished, Minsky," I promised, but I was thinking hard. I might have integrated Reg Office, but there was still something here that simply didn't add up. Why would Gregorian send in a freelance like Office rather than a uniformed patrol? Was Office perhaps working for someone else on this occasion? And where exactly did the Time Mafia fit in? To tell the truth, although I wasn't going to admit this to Minsky, I was rather worried about Grotti and Graffiti. I mean, my Italian's not bad, but I really wasn't sure I felt confident enough to do maths in it. I would probably have to resort to one of my other secret weapons, or else leave them to my redoubtable cat.
A curse from Minsky snapped me immediately out of my thoughts. "Shkrrrrrk! They've beaten ush to it. Look!"
I peered round the door he indicated. As usual, Minsky was right. It was a small ward containing a number of incubators for premature babies, and the two Time Mafiosi, dressed as a doctor and a nurse, were leaning over one of the incubators in a decidedly predatory way. It was impossible to see exactly what they were doing.
"Are you sure that's Merde in there?" I whispered.
"Poshitive. Can I eat this shkrrrrrking hot dog now?"
"Yesh... I mean, yes. Of course. I do wish you'd stop swearing, Minsky."
He glared at me. "A moment like this and you're bothered about my language already?"
I shrugged. "If you've just changed your religion, Minsky, I think it's my duty to warn you that hot dog probably isn't kosher."
"What are we going to do about those two?" he demanded, ignoring me.
I squared my shoulders, paused, and waited for the dramatic music. "We're going in there," I decided.
It really would have looked so much better if Minsky hadn't still been licking tomato sauce off his whiskers.</HTML>
He gave me a withering look. "Who do you think I am - my brother? I left it in the book for safe keeping."
"Whereabouts in the book?" I asked dubiously, thinking of all the cats.
"Oh, one of the other stories. Do stop panicking. Would you like me to go and fetch it?"
"Yes, please," I replied. "This hospital is full of babies. We're going to need it to determine which one is Merde."
"Wouldn't following Grotti and Graffiti be easier?" asked Minsky.
I sighed. "Easier, maybe, but we've got to get there before they do. Out with the hot dog, O faithful tabby."
He disappeared back into Blackwood muttering feline imprecations, and a few moments later he was out again with the hot dog between his teeth. "It'sh thish way," he announced, waving a paw down a corridor leading leftwards.
"Cool stuff!" I said enthusiastically.
"No, it'sh shtone cold by now," he complained. "And the shaush is going all down my whishkersh."
"You can have a good wash as soon as we're finished, Minsky," I promised, but I was thinking hard. I might have integrated Reg Office, but there was still something here that simply didn't add up. Why would Gregorian send in a freelance like Office rather than a uniformed patrol? Was Office perhaps working for someone else on this occasion? And where exactly did the Time Mafia fit in? To tell the truth, although I wasn't going to admit this to Minsky, I was rather worried about Grotti and Graffiti. I mean, my Italian's not bad, but I really wasn't sure I felt confident enough to do maths in it. I would probably have to resort to one of my other secret weapons, or else leave them to my redoubtable cat.
A curse from Minsky snapped me immediately out of my thoughts. "Shkrrrrrk! They've beaten ush to it. Look!"
I peered round the door he indicated. As usual, Minsky was right. It was a small ward containing a number of incubators for premature babies, and the two Time Mafiosi, dressed as a doctor and a nurse, were leaning over one of the incubators in a decidedly predatory way. It was impossible to see exactly what they were doing.
"Are you sure that's Merde in there?" I whispered.
"Poshitive. Can I eat this shkrrrrrking hot dog now?"
"Yesh... I mean, yes. Of course. I do wish you'd stop swearing, Minsky."
He glared at me. "A moment like this and you're bothered about my language already?"
I shrugged. "If you've just changed your religion, Minsky, I think it's my duty to warn you that hot dog probably isn't kosher."
"What are we going to do about those two?" he demanded, ignoring me.
I squared my shoulders, paused, and waited for the dramatic music. "We're going in there," I decided.
It really would have looked so much better if Minsky hadn't still been licking tomato sauce off his whiskers.</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 12, 2002 12:37PM
<HTML>"OK, hold it right there," ordered Sarah, striding into the ward. "I've got a pair of coupled differential equations here and I'm not afraid to use them."
"Eh," said Grotti. "How come you don't speak-a the Italiano?"
She bridled. "I speak it perfectly well, Agent Grotti, but I've just checked the subtitles and they're not working."
He shrugged. "Oh. Is-a fair enough, then. Why you bring-a the cat?"
I made a V-sign at him with my ears. "If you think I'm just any old cat, Grotti, you're about to start on the fastest learning curve you've ever met in your life."
Graffiti grinned. "Is-a cute," she observed. "He gotta da wonderful tail."
It was the biggest mistake of her Time Mafia career. A very crowded five minutes later, the two terrified Italians were squeezed uncomfortably into a medical supply cupboard, hanging onto the inside handle for dear life. Every now and then I gave the door another good scratch just to let them know I hadn't gone away, and I watched the blood with interest as it trickled gently out from underneath.
"Cute indeed," I said, with pardonable satisfaction.
Sarah, meanwhile, was standing over the incubator with a frown on her face. "Minsky," she said, "we have a problem."
"What sort of problem?" I asked, idly clawing the paintwork.
"There are two babies in here. It looks as though the Time Mafia were trying to substitute another baby for Merde before he was taken back in time. The trouble is, we don't know which is the real Merde and which is the substitute."
"Sounds like a bad attack of Gilbert & Sullivan to me," I observed. "Are you two still nice and cosy in there?" I added, raising my voice.
Sarah laughed. "I doubt it. Graffiti's a lesbian."
"Unfortunately I've eaten the hot dog," I said, returning to more serious matters. "So we really have no way of telling."
"H'mm." Her frown deepened. "And the other baby's got to belong to someone, who will certainly want it returning. This case is getting more complicated by the minute."
"Has Merde any distinguishing characteristics?" I asked. "Like, you know, a birthmark?"
"Not that I know about..." She broke off, and I whirled round to see what had caught her attention.
"Gregorian!" I muttered. "This is all we need."
"Ah, Goode-Evans," said Gregorian calmly. "So we meet again!"</HTML>
"Eh," said Grotti. "How come you don't speak-a the Italiano?"
She bridled. "I speak it perfectly well, Agent Grotti, but I've just checked the subtitles and they're not working."
He shrugged. "Oh. Is-a fair enough, then. Why you bring-a the cat?"
I made a V-sign at him with my ears. "If you think I'm just any old cat, Grotti, you're about to start on the fastest learning curve you've ever met in your life."
Graffiti grinned. "Is-a cute," she observed. "He gotta da wonderful tail."
It was the biggest mistake of her Time Mafia career. A very crowded five minutes later, the two terrified Italians were squeezed uncomfortably into a medical supply cupboard, hanging onto the inside handle for dear life. Every now and then I gave the door another good scratch just to let them know I hadn't gone away, and I watched the blood with interest as it trickled gently out from underneath.
"Cute indeed," I said, with pardonable satisfaction.
Sarah, meanwhile, was standing over the incubator with a frown on her face. "Minsky," she said, "we have a problem."
"What sort of problem?" I asked, idly clawing the paintwork.
"There are two babies in here. It looks as though the Time Mafia were trying to substitute another baby for Merde before he was taken back in time. The trouble is, we don't know which is the real Merde and which is the substitute."
"Sounds like a bad attack of Gilbert & Sullivan to me," I observed. "Are you two still nice and cosy in there?" I added, raising my voice.
Sarah laughed. "I doubt it. Graffiti's a lesbian."
"Unfortunately I've eaten the hot dog," I said, returning to more serious matters. "So we really have no way of telling."
"H'mm." Her frown deepened. "And the other baby's got to belong to someone, who will certainly want it returning. This case is getting more complicated by the minute."
"Has Merde any distinguishing characteristics?" I asked. "Like, you know, a birthmark?"
"Not that I know about..." She broke off, and I whirled round to see what had caught her attention.
"Gregorian!" I muttered. "This is all we need."
"Ah, Goode-Evans," said Gregorian calmly. "So we meet again!"</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: December 12, 2002 12:52PM
<HTML>oooh... cliffhanger ..... I used to hate those; you had to wait until next Saturday to find out how the Doctor gets out of it this time.</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 13, 2002 12:48PM
<HTML>The Number One rule of being a fictional detective is never to appear disconcerted, whatever the circumstances. So, although inwardly I was having a major-league panic, I forced my features into my best James Bond smile and drawled, "Ah, Gregorian. Here in person? I'm flattered."
"Save your breath, Goode-Evans," he snarled. "When I get you back to HQ, I'm going to have you looped for a hundred years in a ticket queue and <i>then</i> you'll be expunged from the chronological record."
"You'll have to get me back there first," I countered. It was nothing more than bravado and both of us knew it, but I was desperately stalling for time. There was something wrong here, and it was hammering away at my subconscious like all the dwarfs in all the Wagner operas ever written. I had to know what it was.
He snorted, then he noticed Minsky. "What the devil's in that cupboard?" he demanded, eyeing the blood on the floor suspiciously.
I shrugged. "Feel free to open it. You may as well."
"Not with that damned chimaera sitting there, I won't," he retorted. "That cat's half sabretooth or I'm a Frenchman."
"Don't be so stupid, Andrew!" I exploded. "He's just a big cat. His brother's even bigger, but he's a complete wimp. No sabretooth there."
"I am not <i>just</i> anything," said Minsky, with consummate dignity. "This gentleman is quite right to be afraid of me."
I sighed. "OK, Minsky, let him open the cupboard. He may as well pick up those two Italians while he's about his business. It's no skin off my nose."
Gregorian stared at me. "Italians?"
"Yes, Andrew. Italians. Agents Enrico Grotti and Rosa Graffiti of the Time Mafia, to be precise."
"What the devil are they doing here?" demanded Gregorian angrily.
"You'd better ask them," I replied calmly... and, at that very moment, the penny dropped. I held up the two babies. "They were trying to perform a substitution, which incidentally is pretty much what I did to Reg Office a little while ago, but never mind that. The burning question we have here is... which one's Merde?"
"Why, that one," said Gregorian, pointing in astonishment to the baby in my left arm. "But I've no idea who the other one is."
I grinned in triumph. "Got you, Gregorian!"
He blinked. "What?"
"You're in this up to your sorry neck," I said. "I should have spotted it as soon as you walked into the room. You didn't have a hot dog. That means you must have already known where to find Merde. And you were able to identify him as a baby without the slightest hesitation. Therefore, <i>you</i> are the one who takes him back into the past, and I think I can guess your motivation."
"Go on," he murmured, with reluctant admiration. "You know, you're so good it's a real pity I'm going to have to kill you."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Andrew," I replied coolly. "I think you set up this whole French Revisionist thing to give you and the ChronoGuard more power. After all, what's the use of a police department without a good enemy? If the French Revisionists didn't exist, the ChronoGuard would have about half the amount of work it does now, at a guess. That would mean reducing staff numbers, even closing whole divisions... not too good for you, eh?" I paused for effect. "No wonder you landed me with that wild goose chase over the sprout curry. You thought it would keep my hands full, didn't you?"
He pulled out a gun. "Correct," he snarled. "But you're not going to live to enjoy your success, and neither is your suspiciously intelligent feline friend. And don't try your mathematical tricks on me, either. I can differentiate anything you can integrate."
"I know," I replied. "But I have just one trick remaining." And, so saying, I started to remove my jumper.
"You won't seduce me!" he warned. "You know I like 'em young."
I laughed. "Oh, that's not the intention at all, Andrew. You just watch."
The jumper fell to the floor. I started to remove my trousers.
"Nooooooooo!" screamed Gregorian, and crashed to the ground in a dead faint.
I smirked. "I knew there was a point to keeping all that old thermal underwear I used to wear in the St John Ambulance," I observed.</HTML>
"Save your breath, Goode-Evans," he snarled. "When I get you back to HQ, I'm going to have you looped for a hundred years in a ticket queue and <i>then</i> you'll be expunged from the chronological record."
"You'll have to get me back there first," I countered. It was nothing more than bravado and both of us knew it, but I was desperately stalling for time. There was something wrong here, and it was hammering away at my subconscious like all the dwarfs in all the Wagner operas ever written. I had to know what it was.
He snorted, then he noticed Minsky. "What the devil's in that cupboard?" he demanded, eyeing the blood on the floor suspiciously.
I shrugged. "Feel free to open it. You may as well."
"Not with that damned chimaera sitting there, I won't," he retorted. "That cat's half sabretooth or I'm a Frenchman."
"Don't be so stupid, Andrew!" I exploded. "He's just a big cat. His brother's even bigger, but he's a complete wimp. No sabretooth there."
"I am not <i>just</i> anything," said Minsky, with consummate dignity. "This gentleman is quite right to be afraid of me."
I sighed. "OK, Minsky, let him open the cupboard. He may as well pick up those two Italians while he's about his business. It's no skin off my nose."
Gregorian stared at me. "Italians?"
"Yes, Andrew. Italians. Agents Enrico Grotti and Rosa Graffiti of the Time Mafia, to be precise."
"What the devil are they doing here?" demanded Gregorian angrily.
"You'd better ask them," I replied calmly... and, at that very moment, the penny dropped. I held up the two babies. "They were trying to perform a substitution, which incidentally is pretty much what I did to Reg Office a little while ago, but never mind that. The burning question we have here is... which one's Merde?"
"Why, that one," said Gregorian, pointing in astonishment to the baby in my left arm. "But I've no idea who the other one is."
I grinned in triumph. "Got you, Gregorian!"
He blinked. "What?"
"You're in this up to your sorry neck," I said. "I should have spotted it as soon as you walked into the room. You didn't have a hot dog. That means you must have already known where to find Merde. And you were able to identify him as a baby without the slightest hesitation. Therefore, <i>you</i> are the one who takes him back into the past, and I think I can guess your motivation."
"Go on," he murmured, with reluctant admiration. "You know, you're so good it's a real pity I'm going to have to kill you."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Andrew," I replied coolly. "I think you set up this whole French Revisionist thing to give you and the ChronoGuard more power. After all, what's the use of a police department without a good enemy? If the French Revisionists didn't exist, the ChronoGuard would have about half the amount of work it does now, at a guess. That would mean reducing staff numbers, even closing whole divisions... not too good for you, eh?" I paused for effect. "No wonder you landed me with that wild goose chase over the sprout curry. You thought it would keep my hands full, didn't you?"
He pulled out a gun. "Correct," he snarled. "But you're not going to live to enjoy your success, and neither is your suspiciously intelligent feline friend. And don't try your mathematical tricks on me, either. I can differentiate anything you can integrate."
"I know," I replied. "But I have just one trick remaining." And, so saying, I started to remove my jumper.
"You won't seduce me!" he warned. "You know I like 'em young."
I laughed. "Oh, that's not the intention at all, Andrew. You just watch."
The jumper fell to the floor. I started to remove my trousers.
"Nooooooooo!" screamed Gregorian, and crashed to the ground in a dead faint.
I smirked. "I knew there was a point to keeping all that old thermal underwear I used to wear in the St John Ambulance," I observed.</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: December 13, 2002 01:03PM
<HTML>encore! (whistles) more! (makes silly whooping noises) bravo! (stands to applaud)</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Adam (212.137.30.---)
Date: December 13, 2002 02:45PM
<HTML>ditto</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 13, 2002 10:26PM
<HTML>I scratched my ear thoughtfully with my back leg. I don't think I'll ever work out why that old thermal underwear trick has that effect on male humans, but as long as it does, I'm not complaining.
"You want me to carry on keeping those two amused while you tie him up?" I asked helpfully.
Sarah nodded. "I like your turn of phrase, Minsky."
"All part of the service," I said.
"Hang on, didn't you pinch that from somewhere?" she asked, as she neatly trussed up Gregorian like a Christmas turkey. Not bad work for a vegetarian.
"Me?" I said, innocently. I gave the door another scratch, and there was a moan of <i>"Accidenti!"</i> from within. I was just about to explain that there was nothing accidental about it, when the subtitle "Oh blimey!" flashed up in front of me.
"Subtitles are back on," I observed.
"Oh, good!" she said cheerfully. "You never know, they may still come in useful."
"We must be pretty near the end, though," I pointed out. "After all, you've caught the real villain of the piece."
"We are," she replied, "but there are still a few loose ends to tie up. For a start, we need to restore the other baby to his rightful parents. And don't forget, Office is still in a cupboard further down the corridor."
I twitched my whiskers. "Well, then, we'd better find out who the child's parents are. I've got two people in here who should know."
She strode over. "I'd better interrogate them, then. My Italian's better than yours."
"Hadn't you better get dressed first in case any more men walk in here and pass out?" I suggested.
"Good point." She replaced her outer layers, rapped on the cupboard door, and called out, <i>"Chi sono i genitori del bambino?"</i>
The subtitle rippled gently in front of my line of vision: "Who are the child's parents?"
<i>"Non ti diciamo!"</i> retorted Graffiti defiantly. I didn't need the subtitle for that one; it was pretty clear she wasn't planning to play ball.
Sarah was just opening her mouth to suggest that Graffiti might like to reconsider this remark in view of the savage tabby <i>(soriano feroce,</i> in case anyone needs to explain me to an Italian-speaking friend) outside the door, when the door to the ward burst open and a furious-looking woman burst in, waving a hot dog as if it were a blunt instrument.
"Where is my baby?" she demanded, in an appalling French accent.
"Would this be him?" asked Sarah, holding up the infant who wasn't Merde.
She flew up to Sarah and grabbed the child protectively. "Alfonse! It is really you!"
Sarah took out her entroposcope and shook it. The rice and lentils separated into two neat sections, and, just to make the point, one lentil rose a little way into the air and performed a kind of solo waltz.
"Right," she said. "This can only mean one thing. You were Pierre de Brighton's lover."
<i>"Oui!</i> You are correct, madame, and Alfonse here is his son. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Margot de la Grenouille-Sechee... by the holy blue, what 'appen to the accent?"
"There's a bug," I explained.
She stared at me. <i>"Tiens! Un chat qui parle!"</i>
"Oh, I do more than that," I replied, in the most smoothly disquieting voice I could muster. I waved a paw nonchalantly in the direction of the blood coming from under the cupboard door.
She fainted, leaving Sarah only just enough time to catch the baby. "Did you <i>have</i> to do that, Minsky?" she asked, rather reproachfully.
"Sure," I replied. "After all, they don't make thermal underwear for cats."</HTML>
"You want me to carry on keeping those two amused while you tie him up?" I asked helpfully.
Sarah nodded. "I like your turn of phrase, Minsky."
"All part of the service," I said.
"Hang on, didn't you pinch that from somewhere?" she asked, as she neatly trussed up Gregorian like a Christmas turkey. Not bad work for a vegetarian.
"Me?" I said, innocently. I gave the door another scratch, and there was a moan of <i>"Accidenti!"</i> from within. I was just about to explain that there was nothing accidental about it, when the subtitle "Oh blimey!" flashed up in front of me.
"Subtitles are back on," I observed.
"Oh, good!" she said cheerfully. "You never know, they may still come in useful."
"We must be pretty near the end, though," I pointed out. "After all, you've caught the real villain of the piece."
"We are," she replied, "but there are still a few loose ends to tie up. For a start, we need to restore the other baby to his rightful parents. And don't forget, Office is still in a cupboard further down the corridor."
I twitched my whiskers. "Well, then, we'd better find out who the child's parents are. I've got two people in here who should know."
She strode over. "I'd better interrogate them, then. My Italian's better than yours."
"Hadn't you better get dressed first in case any more men walk in here and pass out?" I suggested.
"Good point." She replaced her outer layers, rapped on the cupboard door, and called out, <i>"Chi sono i genitori del bambino?"</i>
The subtitle rippled gently in front of my line of vision: "Who are the child's parents?"
<i>"Non ti diciamo!"</i> retorted Graffiti defiantly. I didn't need the subtitle for that one; it was pretty clear she wasn't planning to play ball.
Sarah was just opening her mouth to suggest that Graffiti might like to reconsider this remark in view of the savage tabby <i>(soriano feroce,</i> in case anyone needs to explain me to an Italian-speaking friend) outside the door, when the door to the ward burst open and a furious-looking woman burst in, waving a hot dog as if it were a blunt instrument.
"Where is my baby?" she demanded, in an appalling French accent.
"Would this be him?" asked Sarah, holding up the infant who wasn't Merde.
She flew up to Sarah and grabbed the child protectively. "Alfonse! It is really you!"
Sarah took out her entroposcope and shook it. The rice and lentils separated into two neat sections, and, just to make the point, one lentil rose a little way into the air and performed a kind of solo waltz.
"Right," she said. "This can only mean one thing. You were Pierre de Brighton's lover."
<i>"Oui!</i> You are correct, madame, and Alfonse here is his son. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Margot de la Grenouille-Sechee... by the holy blue, what 'appen to the accent?"
"There's a bug," I explained.
She stared at me. <i>"Tiens! Un chat qui parle!"</i>
"Oh, I do more than that," I replied, in the most smoothly disquieting voice I could muster. I waved a paw nonchalantly in the direction of the blood coming from under the cupboard door.
She fainted, leaving Sarah only just enough time to catch the baby. "Did you <i>have</i> to do that, Minsky?" she asked, rather reproachfully.
"Sure," I replied. "After all, they don't make thermal underwear for cats."</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 14, 2002 01:36PM
<HTML>"You don't have to be quite so indiscriminately unpleasant," I scolded, gently fanning Mme de la Grenouille-Sechee with Gregorian's handkerchief.
"Why not?" asked Minsky. "I've got a reputation to keep up, remember."
"Down, more like," I grumbled. "This lady's very probably on our side."
"She's no lady! She's one of de Brighton's lovers," retorted Minsky.
I let it pass, since after all Gregorian was starting to come round. He groaned as he realised he couldn't move.
"Damn and blast you, Goode-Evans," he cursed. "If I ever get out of this, I'll... I'll..."
"Report me to SO-1?" I asked mildly. "Just you try it. By the time <i>I've</i> reported <i>you,</i> you're going to have fewer legs to stand on than a condiment carousel."
"You wouldn't!" he pleaded.
"Oh, I would, Andrew. Unless, of course, we could come to some kind of mutually satisfactory arrangement. After all, I'd hate to boojum one of Mr Fforde's plot elements."
"Bleedin' glad to 'ear it," came a reproachful cockney voice from the doorway. I turned, and there was an extremely groggy-looking Reg Office.
"What are you doing up and about?" I asked, astonished.
"Me boss found me and differentiated me," he explained. "Did you 'ave to use a bleedin' trig function? Them irrational limits do me 'ead in."
"Just be grateful I didn't integrate you by parts," I retorted. "Your boss, eh?" I gave Gregorian a searching look. "Clearly not you, since you were otherwise engaged at the time."
"No, <i>not</i> me," agreed Gregorian. "I was going to ask what you were doing here earlier, but circumstances rather prevented me. I wouldn't mind hearing the story from the horse's mouth."
"I'm working for the man 'imself," replied Office smugly. "Mr Jasper Fforde."
"Nonsense!" I exploded. "Mr Fforde wouldn't dream of employing someone like you, Office. You haven't got the morals of a cat."
"I resent that remark," said Minsky coldly.
"Would you have preferred it if I'd said he <i>had</i> got the morals of a cat?" I demanded.
"Ah," replied Minsky thoughtfully. "Yes, good point, that human."
"Well, it just so 'appens I 'ave got some bleedin' morals now, 'cos Mr Fforde is payin' me good money to 'ave 'em," said Office. "And wot 'e is employin' me to do is to stop any of you lot from the Fforum from stickin' the proverbial spanner up any of 'is plots."
"Do you have any proof of that?" I asked suspiciously.
For answer, Office reached into the pocket of his rather grubby jacket and produced a cheque, which he flourished under my nose. The amount was large, and the signature was unmistakable: Jasper Fforde.
"Ah," I said carefully. "Well, yes, that does rather make a difference. Sorry I integrated you. I thought you were working for Gregorian here as usual."
Office laughed. "Nah, not that big pansy! Glad to see the back of 'im if you want my 'umble opinion. You can still report 'im if you want, you know. 'E ain't in any of the books, so it don't matter what 'appens to 'im. Just give me the nipper an' we'll call it quits."
"Wait a minute, Office," put in Minsky. "Jacques Merde isn't in any of the books either. He's a subplot set up by the Fforum."
Office sighed. "You're a clever moggy, but it don't work like you think, see? <i>Someone</i> 'as to set up the French Revisionists, an' it just so 'appens that if it ain't Merde, it probably won't be no-one. Your parcelled-up ChronoGuard mate 'ere knows all about that. So we need Merde."
I nodded. "OK, Office. You've convinced me. Here's the baby."
"And there goes your evidence," observed Gregorian drily.
"I've still got witnesses, Gregorian," I threatened.
"Yes, Goode-Evans. The same ones who'll testify to the fact that you handed Office the baby, which means that <i>you</i> have now effectively committed the crime that you set out to prevent <i>me</i> from committing. Believe me, that isn't going to look good."
"Yes, but it's not a crime any more, is it?" I pointed out reasonably. "It's an essential plot device."
"Oh, do stop arguing, you stupid humans!" said Minsky. "Look, it's perfectly simple. We give Gregorian the two Italians, so he gets some kudos, and in return Gregorian agrees to stop hassling us. There might even be room for the occasional unofficial exchange of information between us and the ChronoGuard in future."
"And what if I don't agree to that?" demanded Gregorian.
"May I draw your attention to the blood which is still trickling under that door?" asked Minsky calmly.
"Ah. Well. If you insist on putting it like that..."
"Oh, but I do," said Minsky. I'll swear he's been taking lessons from Paul Darrow.
After that, it didn't take long at all to get a written agreement out of Gregorian. Mme de la Grenouille-Sechee, who had by this time recovered, left with her baby, and was so relieved to have him back that she was only mildly annoyed about the fact that Minsky had eaten her hot dog while she was out cold. Office went off with Merde, who by this time was definitely needing his nappy changed, but what the heck, that was Office's problem now. Gregorian, now untied, hauled the two Time Mafiosi out of the cupboard and handcuffed them. For some reason they didn't seem to mind what he did to them as long as Minsky wasn't involved. I left them all to it, beckoned Minsky into the book, and slipped gently backwards through the time stream. We were going home.
The house was pretty much as we'd left it, apart from some mysterious bloodstains on the kitchen ceiling and a more than usually smug expression on the face of Klinsmann. "Looks like someone tried raiding Minsky's," observed my tabby thoughtfully.
"Excuse me," I said. "This is <i>my</i> house, cat."
Minsky ignored me. "Who was it, Klinsmann?" he asked.
"Meeeeeow," replied Klinsmann in his most irritating fashion, and rubbed himself up against Minsky ingratiatingly. Minsky clipped him round the ear and disengaged himself.
"You'd be better off asking Wilfred," he said, dismissively.
I walked over to the radiator and extracted the penguin's beak from the whiskey bottle in which it currently resided. "Wilfred," I asked, "do you have any idea who tried to raid the house while we were away?"
Wilfred looked up at me in cross-eyed bewilderment, aware that something was being asked of him. For a few seconds he struggled to unscramble his addled brain, and then he replied proudly, "Plick!"
Oh well. Either I'm now on the trail of Herr Plick of the Gestapo, or this case is closed.</HTML>
"Why not?" asked Minsky. "I've got a reputation to keep up, remember."
"Down, more like," I grumbled. "This lady's very probably on our side."
"She's no lady! She's one of de Brighton's lovers," retorted Minsky.
I let it pass, since after all Gregorian was starting to come round. He groaned as he realised he couldn't move.
"Damn and blast you, Goode-Evans," he cursed. "If I ever get out of this, I'll... I'll..."
"Report me to SO-1?" I asked mildly. "Just you try it. By the time <i>I've</i> reported <i>you,</i> you're going to have fewer legs to stand on than a condiment carousel."
"You wouldn't!" he pleaded.
"Oh, I would, Andrew. Unless, of course, we could come to some kind of mutually satisfactory arrangement. After all, I'd hate to boojum one of Mr Fforde's plot elements."
"Bleedin' glad to 'ear it," came a reproachful cockney voice from the doorway. I turned, and there was an extremely groggy-looking Reg Office.
"What are you doing up and about?" I asked, astonished.
"Me boss found me and differentiated me," he explained. "Did you 'ave to use a bleedin' trig function? Them irrational limits do me 'ead in."
"Just be grateful I didn't integrate you by parts," I retorted. "Your boss, eh?" I gave Gregorian a searching look. "Clearly not you, since you were otherwise engaged at the time."
"No, <i>not</i> me," agreed Gregorian. "I was going to ask what you were doing here earlier, but circumstances rather prevented me. I wouldn't mind hearing the story from the horse's mouth."
"I'm working for the man 'imself," replied Office smugly. "Mr Jasper Fforde."
"Nonsense!" I exploded. "Mr Fforde wouldn't dream of employing someone like you, Office. You haven't got the morals of a cat."
"I resent that remark," said Minsky coldly.
"Would you have preferred it if I'd said he <i>had</i> got the morals of a cat?" I demanded.
"Ah," replied Minsky thoughtfully. "Yes, good point, that human."
"Well, it just so 'appens I 'ave got some bleedin' morals now, 'cos Mr Fforde is payin' me good money to 'ave 'em," said Office. "And wot 'e is employin' me to do is to stop any of you lot from the Fforum from stickin' the proverbial spanner up any of 'is plots."
"Do you have any proof of that?" I asked suspiciously.
For answer, Office reached into the pocket of his rather grubby jacket and produced a cheque, which he flourished under my nose. The amount was large, and the signature was unmistakable: Jasper Fforde.
"Ah," I said carefully. "Well, yes, that does rather make a difference. Sorry I integrated you. I thought you were working for Gregorian here as usual."
Office laughed. "Nah, not that big pansy! Glad to see the back of 'im if you want my 'umble opinion. You can still report 'im if you want, you know. 'E ain't in any of the books, so it don't matter what 'appens to 'im. Just give me the nipper an' we'll call it quits."
"Wait a minute, Office," put in Minsky. "Jacques Merde isn't in any of the books either. He's a subplot set up by the Fforum."
Office sighed. "You're a clever moggy, but it don't work like you think, see? <i>Someone</i> 'as to set up the French Revisionists, an' it just so 'appens that if it ain't Merde, it probably won't be no-one. Your parcelled-up ChronoGuard mate 'ere knows all about that. So we need Merde."
I nodded. "OK, Office. You've convinced me. Here's the baby."
"And there goes your evidence," observed Gregorian drily.
"I've still got witnesses, Gregorian," I threatened.
"Yes, Goode-Evans. The same ones who'll testify to the fact that you handed Office the baby, which means that <i>you</i> have now effectively committed the crime that you set out to prevent <i>me</i> from committing. Believe me, that isn't going to look good."
"Yes, but it's not a crime any more, is it?" I pointed out reasonably. "It's an essential plot device."
"Oh, do stop arguing, you stupid humans!" said Minsky. "Look, it's perfectly simple. We give Gregorian the two Italians, so he gets some kudos, and in return Gregorian agrees to stop hassling us. There might even be room for the occasional unofficial exchange of information between us and the ChronoGuard in future."
"And what if I don't agree to that?" demanded Gregorian.
"May I draw your attention to the blood which is still trickling under that door?" asked Minsky calmly.
"Ah. Well. If you insist on putting it like that..."
"Oh, but I do," said Minsky. I'll swear he's been taking lessons from Paul Darrow.
After that, it didn't take long at all to get a written agreement out of Gregorian. Mme de la Grenouille-Sechee, who had by this time recovered, left with her baby, and was so relieved to have him back that she was only mildly annoyed about the fact that Minsky had eaten her hot dog while she was out cold. Office went off with Merde, who by this time was definitely needing his nappy changed, but what the heck, that was Office's problem now. Gregorian, now untied, hauled the two Time Mafiosi out of the cupboard and handcuffed them. For some reason they didn't seem to mind what he did to them as long as Minsky wasn't involved. I left them all to it, beckoned Minsky into the book, and slipped gently backwards through the time stream. We were going home.
The house was pretty much as we'd left it, apart from some mysterious bloodstains on the kitchen ceiling and a more than usually smug expression on the face of Klinsmann. "Looks like someone tried raiding Minsky's," observed my tabby thoughtfully.
"Excuse me," I said. "This is <i>my</i> house, cat."
Minsky ignored me. "Who was it, Klinsmann?" he asked.
"Meeeeeow," replied Klinsmann in his most irritating fashion, and rubbed himself up against Minsky ingratiatingly. Minsky clipped him round the ear and disengaged himself.
"You'd be better off asking Wilfred," he said, dismissively.
I walked over to the radiator and extracted the penguin's beak from the whiskey bottle in which it currently resided. "Wilfred," I asked, "do you have any idea who tried to raid the house while we were away?"
Wilfred looked up at me in cross-eyed bewilderment, aware that something was being asked of him. For a few seconds he struggled to unscramble his addled brain, and then he replied proudly, "Plick!"
Oh well. Either I'm now on the trail of Herr Plick of the Gestapo, or this case is closed.</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Jon (---.proxy.aol.com)
Date: December 15, 2002 11:22AM
<HTML>Right ... what I want to know is, why aren't your books piled up alongside Mr. Ff's in Waterstones being eagerly snapped up by discerning punters, eh?</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: December 15, 2002 11:29AM
<HTML>Wow... that's really kind of you, Jon, but I'm having trouble getting an agent.</HTML>
Re: On the trail of Jacques Merde
Posted by: Jon (---.proxy.aol.com)
Date: December 15, 2002 11:49AM
<HTML>Nil desperandum - remember Mr Ff and his 76 rejections - which I think I am right in saying were largely a result of his not having a decent agent. As soon as he got one, a publisher actually read TEA and the rest is our good luck. Just think of how many talented writers gave up after 75!
My own personal philosophy is that while it is nice to earn money from writing, it is a thing worth doing just for the pleasure of it, especially if it give pleasure to others, which yours certainly has. Having said that, I'd never put anything on the net I actually thought I'd make money from ...</HTML>
My own personal philosophy is that while it is nice to earn money from writing, it is a thing worth doing just for the pleasure of it, especially if it give pleasure to others, which yours certainly has. Having said that, I'd never put anything on the net I actually thought I'd make money from ...</HTML>
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