Cue some jazzy intro music. Perhaps – no, definitely – a saxophone solo. And some maracas. Yes…that’s about right. Actually, the maracas are rubbish. Lose the maracas. Marimba? Surprisingly nice.
Mood funky – check, panning camera panning – check. Fade into…
Irritated, he gives a terse shake of his head. That should sort it, he thinks.
I stood up, crumpling the paper angrily, and threw it with the abandon of an overtly sensual basketball player throwing a ball whilst dead. It missed the basket.
I paced, my mind a whirl, or a whorl or something.
The paper I had discarded had printed upon it (with some sort of typeface and ink magic) a telegram. It said the following:
Sir stop Sir Kenneth Badger is dead stop Now we will have our revenge upon you stop
I’d known Sir Kenneth for thirty years. His death had shaken me to my rabid and infertile core. And on top of that, suddenly they were after me.
If I’d been any sort of a man I would have thrust out my chin, found some cloth and girded my loins, then stood with my noble feet apart and a grisly look in my eyes.
But I wasn’t just any sort of man. I was the man who brought the world to it’s knees after the interview of the century. Sigh…THE INTERVIEW OF THE CENTURY. So long ago it haunts me yet. With Kenneth’s passing I was the only one left who could stop the inevitable. But I was old. So old.
But age changed nothing. I needed to save Belgium or the world would end and it’d be my fault. And the Badgers were after me.
Cue pause for melodramatic sting and fade to a justly vapid green.