I originally posted this on short stories, but got some reviews that suggested the Comedy forum would be good for it too. Also BRN has been advising on multi-postings...so here goes...Do I cut the mustard in the comedy stakes...? Comments appreciated

“Jenny, move the condom a bit to the left on that one…”

I obliged, for it was my job to do so. And no, before you ask, I’m not on a porn set, neither am I engaged in sexual relations of any kind. Well, not at the moment, anyway!

I’m actually working as, what’s commonly known ‘as something in media!’ The truth is if I had a real title, the oh-so-cool agency I’m with would have to pay me a real wage, not the meagre morsel they kick out begrudgingly every month. And that 12 year old in front of me putting prophylactics on pigeons’ heads is Stevie Harrington-Boothroyd. He’s apparently the hottest thing the ad world has to offer. Won all kinds of awards, accolades even received the Palm D’Or for a short he did on the benefits of being a tin can…Don’t ask! I don’t know. He never speaks to me, just flings out orders like a Prima Donna in need of good shag.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you useless bitch, can’t you control them. They keep flying out of shot?”

Well, what do you want me to do, fly after them?

Of course, I wouldn’t dare say that to the little prick, I need the money. Leaving University with a debt mountain that would cripple a small country I was desperate for any lucre I could lay my hands on.

It was either this job, or the offer from the Russian loan shark. I must say, it was tempting, the hand cuffs and the nipple clamps were okay, but I drew the line at marmite. A girl has principles, you know.

So here I am, in Trafalgar Square surrounded by johnnie-adorned flying vermin, expelling their creamy, slimy excrement over the stoic stone lions. Their eyes staring impassively, totally impervious, as the crud slips down their massive, magnificent faces.

I felt sorry for the pigeons. There they were, minding their own business, eating any old pavement crap, dodging tourist feet, flying about in their usual haphazard pattern, nodding their heads in that mesmerising but somewhat nauseating way when suddenly some trendily dressed tosser grabs them and sticks a lump of tight-fitting rubber on their bonces.

Of course, Stevie hadn’t just gone to the local chemist and picked up a pack of 3. Oh no, these were handcrafted, multi-coloured, sequin encrusted pieces of art that had been sized specifically for avian craniums. Somebody somewhere could actually claim this feat of rubber par excellence on their CV!

It’s my entire fault. Why hadn’t I taken a good solid degree like business, or accounting or Strategies in Manchester United? Something that would have offered a progression path. Or at least a bread crumb trail.

I had to be stupid and big headed.

“I dare you to take two Ologies!” my best friend had said, knocking back the fifth mojito.

“How much?” I slurred, totally pissed, after getting my much coveted 3 straight A’s.

“£50”

“Done!”

And boy, was I…Two ologies, I could have chosen anything. Why I chose palaeontology and psychology escapes me. Maybe the excessive amounts of alcohol imbibed that evening played a part, or maybe my ‘I can do anything’ nature surfaced and helped determine my pathetic future.

So, in the absence of Neanderthals needing a spot of ‘analyse this’, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t include those poor creatures stumbling out at closing time, they’re beyond analysis, I’m stuck here, faffing around with Stevie Wunderkind and his amazing fornicating pigeons.

“You stupid bint. Bring them back into shot. What the hell do I pay you for?”

I don’t know, you tell me, genius, just what do you pay me for? Running your errands, liaising with you ‘coffee’ supplier, cleaning up after your little accidents (she was the oldest 15 year old I’ve seen M’Lord!).

Only yourself to blame, Jenny. That’s my conscience talking. Piss off. Leave me alone, I want to wallow in self pity.

“Right, that’s it. I’ve had it with you. Either keep the birds in shot or fuck off!”

Is that an offer? I open my mouth to say something fawning and subservient, but my phone beat me to it sounding loudly my Black Eye Peas ring tone “Just Shut up, Shut up”. Answering it, amidst the shouts of ‘turn that bloody thing off,’ I can hear a strict, firm and highly authoritative voice on the other end.

“Miss Jenny Warren?”

“Er…yes”

“A car is coming within the next few minutes. Get in. Do not ask questions.”

“Whooa…who the hell are you?”

But the strange, stern voice had vanished. I stared at the phone, incredulous. Must be one of my mates taking the mickey, surely, that’s what it is.

“Are you working or…”

Wunderkind abruptly stopped screaming. I follow his eye line and met the blackest Range Rover I’ve ever seen pull up by the kerb. The paint was heavy matt black, refusing to reflect light at all. The windows were completely opaque, resembling thick coal black walls than glass. Even the wheels, where normally stainless steel was seen were black throughout. Two giants, dressed equally as dark as the vehicle they emerged from headed towards me. Christ! What the hell had I done?

“Miss Jenny Warren?” asked the first tree trunk in black.

“Yes,” I said instinctively, then wished I hadn’t. I trawled my mind frantically, to uncover what law I’d breached to warrant such a visit. Then it hit me: the congestion charge fine. God, Kenny-boy was certainly coming down strong on us poor mortals. Pity he couldn’t use the same tactics on the foreign embassies owing millions.

“I’m Rogers, he’s Parkwood. You need to come with us.” Boomed, the black tower suddenly springing to life, his huge chest heaving as he spoke, bursting to breaking point the slick suit he must have shoe horned himself into.

Before I could say a word, Parkwood pushed me into the yawning ebony of the car’s open doorway. I slipped into the leather seat, and felt engulfed and somewhat claustrophobic, within its comfiest luxury. Through the open door, I could see Wunderkind open his fat lips to protest, but Rogers shot him a look. You know a ‘I know where the bodies are buried ‘cause I buried them’ look, and said coldly:

“Miss Warren is taking the rest of the day off.”

It was a command not a request.

“Well, I’m not sure I…” stuttered Stevie, raising himself up on his tip toes, but his small frame couldn’t match the Greek Gods intruding his set. Flicking between Rogers and Parkwood, he issued a nervous sneer.

Rogers obviously wasn’t a man used to being refused, stared at little Stevie like he was an unfortunate genetic accident, and bellowed:

“Got a problem with that!”

Rogers upped his glare at Stevie to ‘I can take you out, here and now, and no one can touch me.’ Pushing back his jacket with ‘TV cop’ panache, he flashed his Walter PPK. Stevie stepped back, visibly trembling, his usual supercilious smirk wiped off his face.

“Um…no not at all.”

Wunderkind got the message. Rogers nodded and climbed back into the Range Rover.

I watched the driver slam the gear into reverse, turning the steering wheel hard to the right, he mounted the broken pavement, kicking up dirt and gutter-housed sweet wrappers right in front of Stevie’s terrified face.

Straining to look through the window, as the car sped away I noticed a small dark patch erupting on Wunderkind’s MacQueen cream combats. I smiled, pleased that this sudden event had had a positive outcome. But my moment of merriment belied the fact I was in their car, and had no idea what was happening.

Sandwiched between two oaks of onyx, I felt small and extremely vulnerable. What the hell was all this about. This was more than just an unpaid fine, this was different, this was serious, really serious…Before my thoughts could gather sufficient steam, Parkwood offered unexpected enlightenment.

“Miss Warren you wrote a thesis: “An Investigation of the Mind of Homo Erectus in Modern Man through Regression Hypnotherapy.”

“Well, yes I did, I got a first too. How did you know about that?”

“We know everything.”

And from Parkwood’s expression, he wasn’t joking.

“Err…right everything.” 

At that moment, my mind fixed on an article I’d read that said spy satellites could see through concrete and could even pin point a person sitting on the loo. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling that these people before me knew more about me, than I did.

“We need your assistance,“ ventured Rogers almost sheepishly.

“My assistance, how could I possibly help you?”

“There’s been an accident,” added Parkwood with cautious enunciation.

Rogers shot Parkwood a glance of apprehension, then resigned to the situation, shrugged and nodded approval for Parkwood to continue.

“A very unfortunate accident, and it would appear, Miss Warren you are, at least in this country, the only person who may, potentially have the appropriate knowledge to help.”

The Range Rover hammered down Whitehall, like it was fission-fuelled. A funny feeling saturated, like a hundred butterflies crawled from their chrysalis’ simultaneously and made a home in my stomach. Taking a hard right into a very small, but world renowned street, I knew that my suspicions could well be correct.

“Just who is it that’s had an accident?” I asked slowly, looking intently at Parkwood, then Rogers.

“It would appear that…”

Parkwood’s words were lost in the rush of air and flurry of activity that followed as the door flung open. There, standing cocooned amid a press of sharp suits wearing ear pieces was the Deputy Prime Minister, John Prescott.

“Thank Christ you’ve found her!” spluttered Prescott, his face ballooning beetroot, his bulbous eyes stalking with manic anxiety.

Parkwood gripped my arm, pulled me out of the car and pushed me through the famous front door I’d seen a million times on the news. Everything happened so fast, my head whirled faster than a centrifuge, with confusion and excitement. Sounds of phones, people talking hurriedly, snippets of information picked up told me someone very important had fallen down somewhere.

“It’s her fucking Manolos to blame!” shouted Prescott, somewhat incoherently.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Prescott was stuck at my side, puffing and walking fast, and not making any sense.

“Cherie’s shoes, bloody menace!”

“Shoes?!”  I muttered more confused than ever. I was a modern day Alice and around me was a madhouse of craziness, an unintelligible babble of words with no continuity or meaning, they held no logic in the real world.

“Haven’t you told ‘er,” shouted Prescott irritably at Parkwood, “It’s Tony, he fell over Cherie’s new shoes, hit his head on the side of the door and now the poor sod thinks he’s a cave man. Been through two chickens whole this morning, tried to pull Cherie around the dining room by her hair, and attempted to rip apart the local guard dog in hand combat, you’re our last hope Jenny.”

I was going to wake up in a minute, realise it’s all been a dream. Stevie was going to yell his usual abuse at me for day dreaming. Yes, I’d wake in a moment. I blinked hard, and then opened my eyes quickly, as if the rapidity of movement would jog my brain back to my normal environment.

Prescott was still there. I was still in Number 10, and everyone was looking to me for answers.

“That essay you did…”

“You mean thesis.” Christ, I was correcting the Deputy Prime Minister.

“Whatever the fuck it’s called, the stuff you wrote in it…regression hypnotherapy, and all that malarkey, it’s our best chance to return him to normal, at least normal enough to run the country. Can you do it?”

I looked at Prescott, his desperation and perspiration colliding across his face. They needed me. I couldn’t believe it. After everything, the ologies came through. If I succeeded I’d be a national treasure, probably knighted (do they knight women?). Well, certainly I’d be honoured, and money wouldn’t be a problem any more.

“Can you do it?” pleaded Prescott, his beady eyes imploring me for an answer. His fat, stubby hand resting on the door, where beyond our leader of state waited for my deliberations.

“Well, put it like this, I’ll have a bloody good go. It sure beats the hell out of putting condoms on pigeons.”

For the first time, probably in his entire life, Prescott was speechless.

In puzzled silence, he led me through the door to my patiently awaiting new life.