The End of the Affair

Dark Flo SThrowing the van door open, Dark Flo sprang onto the street, dressed in full oyster-grey Ninja kit and armed with an 18inch feather duster crowned with pheasant plumage. She took off after a small cluster of Les Chats Souterrains that looked as if it might rally.

“And what exactly does she intend to do with that?” queried Slasher McGoogs.

“Don’t ask. The last man to face the feather duster of Dark Flo spent the next eight weeks in a full body cast and still has to suck his sustenance through a straw,” muttered Boz.

Above the retreating Chats the menacing, angular dazzle camouflaged, Merovingian Flying Frisbee had doubled back and was moving slowly and systematically towards the partisans, waiting for them to come within range of its death-ray. Then it met the full, reverberating force of the ‘Wall of Din’©. It tottered, dropped suddenly, partially recovered in time to avoid hitting the ground and withdrew, spinning erratically. It also started to glow – an unhealthy, bilious glow – as its magneto-shield overheated and the stricken craft wobbled away towards the doom-haunted cleft of Winnat’s Pass. A writhing bundle of Kittens of Chaos fell out of the Vicecream van, the trumpeters and a lone soprano saxophonist now playing an unbridled Marseillaise whilst the remainder threw their sombreros into the air, jeering, mooning and making rude paw gestures after the retreating UFO.

As Cross Street began to calm, and the action moved into the distance, Snowdrop returned; the horses were lathered up and panting, the machine gun overheated and out of ammunition, Ginsbergbear and Phoebles babbling in adrenaline fuelled over-excitement. Aunty Stella, in matching honey-beige pith helmet, snake boots and safari suit, climbed down from the cab of the Vicecream van. She pushed her Halcyon Mk49 goggles up above the rim of her topee and met the charging rush of squealing cats and dodo. There were relieved hugs and enthusiastic welcomes all round, then she explained to the group that Googleberry had gone missing again. Before she had become really worried however she had received a text message from him saying that he was visiting relatives at Chatsworth Hall and to come up, urgently, with the Vicecream van, the Kittens, Consuella and Dark Flo, all would be required and much would be revealed.

“Who’s running the shop?” enquired a fiscally worried Boz.

“Doo not deesturb yoorselv Meester Bozzz,” chipped in Consuella Starcluster, “Sam assurrres us hee ees ayble to hold thee forrrt forrr ay day orrr two.”

“…We were met, en route, by the Zapatistas,” continued Aunty Stella, “and so here we all are.”

“That’ll be ginger beer and lemon meringue all round then. Job well done,” exclaimed Phoebles, fresh from the fray. “Is there a litter tray out the back? I may have got a bit over excited.”

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