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Great Writing - Home > Village > The plot thickens ............
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| The plot thickens ............ | |
| By Bagheera | ||||
| 03 August 2006 | ||||
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Coscience forces me to take time out and elaborate on a scene I set up a while back ...... are you sitting comfortably? Maybe, but not for long! "Le Sergéant Bagheera?" "Oui, d'accord." Fine beads of sweat appeared without warning on Bartolini's brow. Desperately he glanced through the window fronting the lavishly (and expensively) refurbished shop. It seemed that the village had adopted the Gallic tradition of an afternoon siesta: not so much as a sparrow disturbed the tranquil scene on the village square. He appeared to make a decision: crossing the floor swiftly, he lowered the blinds and locked the door, remembering to turn the sign so that it now read "Fermé" to any passerby or casual customer. From force of habit, and to give his nervous fingers something to do, he began a slow, thorough grooming of his so-far-unidentified customer's hair. Though long and thick, he could see that it had been well cared for, clean and grease-free. "Right, mate: there's nobody within earshot, so it's mitts off, an' we can stop poncin' abaht wiv diss Froggie non-suns!" Any villagers catching a glimpse of Bartolini in this shocking retrogression to his Bert persona would have recognised the face they had known for so many years, but definitely not the accent. Pure Cockney, and definitely not someone to trust very far .... He leaned closer to his customer, making sure he put just a fraction too much pressure on his unguarded throat with the back of his steel comb .... "Never try anything like that again: not with me, anyway!" Without quite knowing how or why (or indeed when, or any one of a number of pertinent questions), Bert found himself in the chair. Instantly he realised that there was a period he couldn't account for and no memory of how he had finished up exchanging places with his visitor. Millimetres from his face, two eyes surrounded by an impenetrable mass of curls glared at him from behind a row of steel teeth: he realised that he was now being threatened (promised?) with precisely the same treatment he had scant seconds before intended to mete out. Bert tried to move, and discovered that his arms and hands were trapped under the nylon cape normally draped over a customer's clothe. On this occasion, hopwever, he had been as neatly trussed as an oven-ready Christmas turkey. He glared at his opponent, helpless but far from tonguetied. "You'd better have a damn' good explanation!" he growled. "You're not exactly in a position to demand anything, are you? Oh, and by the way, it's pointless trying to wriggle out of that Small Package: it will only get tighter the more you struggle!" For a second a suspicion of a smile crossed the assailant's face. He straightened himself, took a step backwards and assumed a false French accent as he said: "Listen very carefulleeeeeeeee ...... I vill say ziss onleeee vonce." Switching again to a deadly serious tone of voice, he continued: "This is the message you will deliver to your tame pussycat Sergéant, and you will make sure he understands that it comes from Le Chien ..."
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