20

A Chink In The Armour.

Relief from bursting need is always wonderful, and although Sage was feeling dreadful about letting the moustache get away from them, even he could not help but grin as he emptied his bladder. Nine hours stuck in the cellar without that sweet relief had been hard. He had virtually ground his teeth to dust during the time and he swore that once they had uncovered the evil that was working against them, he would send the ringleader his dentist's bill. When he finally emerged from the toilet and went back down to the basement he found a sorry scene. The place was covered in shaving foam, discharged during the struggle with the moustache of doom, and the floor had been showered with broken glass. The desk clerk was still in shock after his nightmare experience - to have one's mind taken over is nasty at the best of times, but when it's done by a homicidal thicket of facial hair, well... Sage looked kindly at the man who shook his hand vigorously:
“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you so much!” Cried the desk clerk, refusing to loose his grip on Sage's hand. “It's been in my head for weeks. It made me torture those plants... I didn't mean to...” The poor devil broke down into a flood of bitter tears. Sage took the chance to wrench his hand free.
"For sure, it must have been like super brain washing – kind of brain dry cleaning with free steam ironing thrown in.” Greta patted the man on the shoulder.
"It was terrible..." Silvio (for 'twas his name) began in a faltering voice, heavy with emotion and Queens.
"It happened one night... I got to the end of my shift... headed home, but I heard this strange noise... From the back alley... So I goes to investigate... I mean, I know my shift's ended, but what the hell... That's when that... That thing jumped me. Next thing I knows I'm on an onion only diet - and me with an ulcer! It was hell! It was like I was tied to a chair watching TV, but the TV was, like, real life. I could see what I was doing, but I couldn't do nothing about it... The cruelty..."
He started to sob again, then through the tears
"It made me put tulips in the office shredder!"
The others winced at the thought of firm young stems being slashed up... Of the chlorophyll spattering onto the carpet... Of the mess it would have made of the mechanism.
"I didn't wanna do it... You gotta believe me... I tried to stop it, but every time I wanted to move, it would hurt me... Y'know... In the head. Then you fellers came... It'd been waiting for that... It was all planned from the start."
At this their attention - which had started to wander because they were heroes, not agony aunts, and had heard enough of his whining on - suddenly snapped back.
"Planned?" Dredly probed.
"Yeah. The moustache knew all about you... Knew when you were getting in... It had been given instructions to make you unwelcome... Kept talking on the phone to this guy - called himself Number 1 - he had some weird accent, kinda high like Art Garfunkel but without the perm..."
"Cheshire accent?" Sage looked to Dredly.
"Or Lancashire." He replied. So their adversary was English!

"This guy, he kept calling the moustache Number 4..."
"Number 4? So it's a bigger organisation than we thought!" Sage exclaimed.
"He told the moustache he didn't want you killed... Looks like the moustache had other ideas."
"Did he say anything that might give you an idea of where he was?"
"No... Nothing I can think of... Far as I can tell, the moustache had his money put straight into a Swiss bank account. When he'd finished with you he was gonna go to Europe - Bavaria... Wait a second... There was one time they were talking and the big guy, this Number 1 guy, he says... He says that the Moccasin Man's comin' and we're to make him welcome..."
"Moccasin Man?" Sage crinkled his nose. Dredly snapped his fingers:
"The Shoe Whisperer? Did you meet him?"
"Yeah sure. Met him at the airport and stayed with him to make sure he got his connecting flight... Went on to Billings, Montana... Didn't say much... When he did I couldn't hear a word of it... Guy kept mumbling - he should'a turned the volume up! Thin guy, old, but rich - y'know great clothes - had amazing eyes... Kinda like an eagle's eyes. Only called the moustache Number 4. Moustache just called him 'sir'. Anyways he got his flight. That's it. That's all I know."
"It is the Shoe Whisperer!" Dredly cried. "But, y'know it kinda, like, looks like he's... y'know, kinda working for the bad guys." Greta interjected.
"Yeah, but now we've got the drop on them. We know the truth!" Dredly's mind was racing. "If he's gone to Billings, we're going to have to follow. It's the only way I can get out of these shoes."
"But Dredly, this sounds really heavy. These guys have got a numbering system and everything!" Greta was afraid they'd bitten off more than they could chew.
"Just because they're numerate doesn't mean we can't beat them!" Sage didn't want to hear any defeatist talk.
"Look at what we've done today. Isn't this a victory? Aren't we sending a pretty strong message to these thugs? Don't send a moustache to do a man's job! We're tough and we can beat them!"
"Yeah!" Dredly yelled.
There ensued a short burst of yelling and whooping, which had very little purpose, but made them all feel a lot better. Once they'd all calmed down a bit, Dredly spoke:
"Now we've got them on the back foot, we've got to strike! Let's get down to Biff's. There might be someone there."
And with that they left the clerk to clear up the mess on his own.

When they got outside it was raining and despite all their best efforts they were unable to hail a cab. It would be a long walk and within minutes the rain had become harder and colder. Dredly's shoes hurt like hell, but at least he could take solace from one thing: It was unlikely they would be attacked on a day like that. New York street thieves and muggers usually can't be bothered to ply their trade in the cold and wet, they're fair weather fiends. However, that was the one nugget of solace in a great pile of horridness. Their walk soon became a trudge through the grimy streets.

After forty minutes of silence Sage could take no more.

"Are we there yet?"
"No." Dredly replied.
"I need to go toilet." Sage whined.
"Just cross your legs!" Dredly snapped.
A second later there was a muffled thud and Dredly turned to see Sage sprawling face down on the sidewalk. He had clearly forgotten one of the basic rules of perambulation - never try to walk and cross your legs at the same time. Sage scowled up. Dredly sighed.
"I meant metaphorically." He said, shaking his head.
"Well I wish you'd be more specific. I'm not a mind reader you know! I can't just magically know when you're talking in metaphors and when you're not."
"Maybe if you hold one hand in the air before you use a metaphor - would that help?" Greta suggested.
"Works for me." Sage agreed.

The ensuing argument about private language and the legacy of Wittgenstein ended in a 2-1 vote in favour of Dredly raising one of his hands whenever he was using a metaphor. Then, with their linguistic differences amicably settled, they continued on their long march to Biff's and the mouth of danger.

What will our heroes find at Biff's? Any thoughts? First person to email a fun answer to minons@dredly.com will win a super Pinch Of Sage And Dredly mug. And no, Steve, you can't enter the competition... Neither can any of you Koala bears out there.

Find out what happens in the next mug-tastic chapter...