We're Havin' a Party

Having confirmation from Vogue that she is *in* on this assignment, Lace flips her cell phone closed and begins packing at the speed of light. As if in 78 rpm motion she tosses a suitcase onto the bed. Opening a dresser drawer she begins tossing clothing back over her head into it. As the drawer empties, she moves to the closet and begins tossing blouses, jeans, pants and skirts. Moving to the bathroom she throws things from the medicine cabinet across the room scoring every shot. The girls BB team didn't call her *Bullseye* fer nuthin. A flying hairdryer lands on top of the mound covering the suitcase in a grand finale.

Coming to the bathroom door, Lace appears, one hand on it's doorway, the other wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Huffing, she moves slowly to the bed. Flipping the suitcase closed she sits atop it, clothing bulging out from it's 1/2 closed lid. Lace buries her face in her hands wondering how she will ever manage to fasten the suitcase locks.

Within the hour she tumbles out of a yellow car. The cab driver beeps his horn and curses her for leaving no tip among the handfull of bills she threw like confetti into his front seat. Tripping in 4" black velvet wedgies, she flies through glass doors and spots Vogue standing in the middle of the ariport. She grab's Vogues arm as she flies by, heading for the line, jabbering something about missing parties and the Queen. As she is swept up, Vogue notices Lace is wearing a floor length velvet coat and carrying only a scrunched black velvet sachel.

Once seated in the plane, Lace drops her head onto the back of the seat. Seeing it coming, she swipes a drink from the tray of a passing flight attendant and drains it in one long swallow. Expecting at least wine, she frowns as it was non-alcoholic. Rolling the glass under her seat, she dabs at the corner of her lipstick with a gloved finger, smoothes her hair and, finally inhaling and exhaling one long breath, turns to look at Vogue sitting in the seat beside her. At the back of the cabin an American zookeeper smoothes his own skirt and leans out into the aisle a bit, looking for the flight attendant with his juice.

Vogue lowers her Hepburn shades and looking Lace up and down, blinks. "Why are you wearing evening wear? Now?"

Across an ocean a cast of characters begins ready to assemble. Little Jon, sporting a new hairdo, a shiny plastered number with a middle part, how Shemp, walks at a clip through the hallway of Ballard's fabulous abode. Slavco and Ricardo, having knocked off early from gyrating in cages and chasing Seth and Austen, sit aboard a flight heading to the same London location.

"Ith thith thupposed to be thome kind of reunion? Or do you think that Jerry hath changed her mind and we're going to be kept?" Ricardo just rolls his eyes towards the small cabin window. Slavco is beginning to get on even his nerves.

Rachel and Jerry step back to admire Seth in a monkey suit, resplendent with George Bush mask. Jerry glances back to Suzanne sitting on the couch, her head tilted, looking at their finished product.

"Do you think the Queen will recognize him?"

"Not if he doesn't open his mouth."

"Shaddup ya old broads, me and Bushie always say what's on our minds. My biggest problems are how do I eat and how do I go to the can?"

"It's loo", admonishes Rachel. "And for heavens sake do not comment if you find yourself again sexually attracted to the main course. Now I must be going to my own room. I have to prepare. Pete is accompanying me and Jerry as musical guest. I've also got to check to see that my band has arrived and my drummer has not lost an arm, been killed in a freak accident or vomited in his sleep."

Across town in a private suite of London's most prestigious psychiatric hospital a white haired woman sits quietly in bed. Newly dressed in a grand gown (and matching purse) her diamond earrings dangle, catching a sparkle from the overhead fluorescent lights. Oddly, all of the clocks, VCRs and DVDs on the entire floor are unplugged. Dr Freudrogerserikson sits in his office, a huge burgundy leather executive chair enveloping him. Drumming his fingertips on a shiny mahogany desk, rather like Laces, he checks his watch. He speaks to a young blond woman seated across the desk in a smaller version of his throne.

"Dr Lace should arrive by 4 pm. The reverse hypnotic suggestion should take no more than one hour. At the most. The Queen and her entourage shall then proceed to the fabulous party at Mr Ballard's. Will you be accompanying her?"

X replies, "Yes, as will Lace and her expert assistant, Vogue, hypnotherapist extrodinaire. We are taking no chances this time."

Spotted Mick

"This had better be good." Vogue sputters into the phone, not having bothered to look at the caller ID to see who could be calling such a late hour.

"Oh, it's you, Lace. Sure. No problem. No, no, I was just... uh... sleeping.. What's the problem?" She sits up in her bed and listens intently to the amazing tale of rabid monarchs and crossed signals her friend unfolds, in, seemingly, one long and anxious breath.

"You're kidding? A trip to London? Crazy Queen? Potential furniture abuse? I'M THERE!" Vogue bolts out of bed and throws enough together to last her through what she hopes to be another wild weekend with her neurotic therapist and running buddy--Lace.

"Let's see... elegant dinner attire... check.... stealthy trench coat with matching boots, hat, and Audrey Hepburn shades...check, check, check...tiara...check...oh, and just a few more things..." Three suitcases later, Vogue dashes to the awaiting car and to her ticket for adventure-- London style.

"Where did I put that hypnotherapy for dummies book anyway?"

Meeting Vogue at the airport is a frantic Lace, "Hurry, hurry, we've no time to talk. We have to get to that party--pronto-- or we'll miss our opportunity with the Queen."

"But, I'm not so sure I know how to "unhypnotize" someone, Lace. You've read the headlines. Mauritzio has been arrested ten times already for verbally assaulting Kept autoqraph seekers. The poor boy's oedipal outbursts are legendary."

"Don't worry about that, Vogue, we'll figure it out. We have to."

Mikus Ballard, ever the social maven, had meticulously prepared for this night and what was to be THE hottest social ticket of the year. He had gone to extreme lengths to hire the hottest new event planner on the scene, known only as "little Jon" to those in the know. He wanted things to be perfect and wasn't taking any chances. Even the bartenders were being flown in from France that very evening. The Queen would be in attendance and he could not afford another fiasco like the one eight years ago that claimed his distinguished and rare set of Louis XVI Empire Fauteuils a la reines.

Just to be sure, Mikus was also flying in an animal behaviorist, specializing in big cats, from an American zoo to control any "special circumstances" should they again arise.

...

Meanwhile, a reluctant keepee is being dressed and readied. Jerry, Rachel and Suzanne stand waiting for his answer to their last question.

"Hot, hot, hot" he says, sighing loudly. "How many times I gotta tell you broads you look hot before you'll let me out of this monkey suit?"

"Oh, hush dear, and be the beautiful fool you are--only quietly. Here, wear this." Jerry hands Seth a mask to cover his face.

"I didn't know this was a costume party?" He says, his excitement growing. "Cause I wanna go as a chick with big ole bazoongas! Dis one time, I went to a party as a cheerleader..."

"No, it's not a masquerade, but the Queen is going to be at this party tonight and I don't want her to recognize you, not after the whole banana thing. Mikus almost didn't let me bring you, but his event planner didn't see anything wrong with it, so he's allowing you-- WITH the mask, of course."

"Aw, this Sucks!" Seth shouts as he places the George Bush mask over his head. "Howm I gonna eat with this stupid thing on!"

....

Oh What a Tangled Web We Weave

As all of Scotland yard and 15 mountees spread out across London, a white haired woman sits quietly in an alley somewhere near Picadilly Circus. Her pale brocade dress appears to be holding up quite well considering what it's been through. (When they say *buy quality it lasts*, I guess they weren't kiddin). Her purse and 105k sparkling diamond brooch might be dangerous bait to the various thugs checking their options this evening, however no one seems interested to dare approach within 100 yards of the woman. Listening to a soothing voice emanating from a tiny red cube, the Queen's head nods slightly, her eyelids flutter.

"And when I count slowly backwards you will awake. You will not recall any of the evening's previous events. And you most certainly will never again respond to a flashing red <12:00> <12:00> <12:00>. Repeat, never ever again respond to a flashing red <12:00> <12:00> <12:00>. Ok.. ready.. steady now.. 3..2..1.. awake!"

X waits, listening, and then speaks into her satellite flip phone, "Hello? Hello?"

The Queen's eyes fly wide open. Holding her head completely still, she shifts them right, then left, and thinks to herself, *something isn't.. quite.. rite*. Looking down at the cube in her hand she lifts its receiver side and listens, "Hello? Yes, this is Wynzrgrl. Is that you X?"

From her surveillence post on a twilit (is that a werd?) Parisian street, X exhales a huge sigh of relief and leans back against the stone building. "Yes Wynzrgrl, it is me, X. Can you tell me where you are?" She looks up towards the 2 empty balconies across the street.

The Queen rises slowly, clutching her purse, and stiffly walks the length of the dark alley. As she steps onto the sidewalk she mumbles, "Why in the world am I so sore?" Given that all of Scotland Yard and 15 mountees are spread out all over London, searching inch by inch, a shout rises a mere block away as she appears at the street, "There she is!"

X listens as the Queen is rescued and rushed off to wherever lost Queens are rushed to before they are returned to their palaces. She flips her phone closed and realizes she's got another call to make. Glancing up at the still empty balconies she flips it open again and waits for it to connect.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mikus?"

"Yes, who is calling?"

"It is X."

After a long pause and the closing of a closet door behind him, Mikus whispers into the receiver, "X. Where are you? I received several calls from the palace. The Queen, she is due here tomorrow night for my fabulous party. But she was hurt in a horrible accident involving fruit and now she has gone missing! They've managed to hide the news from the media so far but I've received a call from the head of Scotland Yar.."

X cuts him off in midsentence. "Relax. She's been found. She's allright. I think. However, do you recall the name of the hypnotherapist that you employed years ago? The one who was to help *convince* the Queen that Camilla isn't such a bad egg? The one we watched use the light stick in front of the VCR when it began flashing <12:00> and.."

Mikus finishes her sentence, "the neural signals that got crossed caused her to go haywire? Oh please, don't remind me of that horrific night." He runs the back of a hand over his forehead as if he might swoon. "If it weren't for you I think she'd still be assaulting chairs."

"Well, just thank your lucky stars that my spy instruction in torture techniques also involved bringing people out of hypnosis. I just talked her out again... Yes tonight... Yes it happened again... No, I've no idea what triggered it... I happened to call in to *the cube* to let her know I am still hot on the trail of *Banana Boy* and I recognized the howls from that horrible night. Luckily I was able to talk her out of trance, however, you're going to have to relocate that dimwit you originally hired and have her permanently undo what she did. Otherwise this could happen again."

Looking up, X notices the light extinguish in Seth's room. "Look, I have to go. Call me when you have more information about the Queen's condition."

As she flips her phone closed and shrugs her jacket up closer to her face, Seth appears on the street. X fades back further into a shadow and watches as he piles into the Smart Car. Peering around the corner, she squints wrinking her nose, "Is that a scooter tied to the roof?" Ducking back quickly, she remains unseen as the lil car pulls away from the curb. When it's taillights disappear around the corner, X jumps into her Volvo parked in the alley and takes off in chase. Little does she know the *swinging night* she is about to observe. Ricardo in a speedo. Frank in purplely glitter nails. Slavco non cogitating. It's like watching a Kept Runway segment rerun.

~~~~~~

The phone rings, again. Lace's fingers flounder all over her nightstand, struggling to find it, again. As she struggles to wake, again, she grasps her alarm clock and looking at it's red numbers, blinks twice, again. It's another voice this time, but it's a familiar one, again. This time she sits bolt upright. Comforters flip away, pillows fly, a cat leaps off her bed.

"Yes... Hello... No I wasn't too asleep.. it's dawn really.. Yes.. I understand.. No I ::she lies:: hadn't heard.. Yes.. I will be there later today."

Hanging up the phone, Lace throws herself back into the featherbed, wishing it could swallow her whole. The first call from the restauranteer she assumed was another psychotic break. The second call could cause her one. Remembering that fateful night 8 years ago, having just finished her ACME online school of hypnosis in just 2 easy lessons, causes her to fold her pillow around her head and over her face. Perhaps she could smother herself and make it look like death from a natural cause. This would be a far cry better than having to try to reverse hypnotize the Queen. She suddenly releases the pillow and again bolts upright.

"I'm not going there alone. Vogue helped me with the *Kept boys*. She can help me with this."

As Lace dials Vogue's phone she bites on her bottom lip. "Please answer, please be home."

Le Queen

"We ain't got Jerry with us now. How are we gonna get into any clubs? No place lets just two dudes in."

"It's not a problem, man." Austen replies, "I heard of this one place that will. All the celebrities go there."

Saying this, Austen begins to cross his arms and gradually fold in on himself. Uncomfortably shuffling his feet and staring at the ground, growing more meek by the second, he nervously says "Maybe I can, (clears throat)um, learn something about their (mumbles) culture..n.. stuff.. I've always been interested in that sort of ...."

"Shattap ya retahd. Let's go. You're driving."

The two men start toward Austen's car. "Hey, Nice Union Jack, Jack!" Seth yells, referring to the newly applied decal on the hood of Austen's blue and red Smart Car.

"Thanks, the girls kept falling off the back of the Vespa you bought me. I figured this would be a much better vehicle for finding the girl of my dreams; chicks dig Mercedes, er, uh, made vehicles."

They both "pile into" the tiny car. By, pile in, I mean Seth sits in Austen's lap and steers as Austen works the pedals and hangs the rest of his body out of the Fortwo's hatchback.

Upon arrival, the guys are escorted past the long line of desperately waiting cotton-candy pink and sno-cone blue haired club kids, and are let in immediately. Inside, the familiar "thump, thump, thump" of retro-techno blasts at the rate of "Oh my gaw, you're how old?" beats per second. The heat of the AC-less building, full of hopping and grinding speed freaks, complements the purplish-pink haze of this euro hell. Presiding over it all, is a well-oiled and perfectly tanned specimen dressed in a tight red speedo-- Ricardo.

The guys meander through the sweaty crowd, not having spotted Ricardo yet in the cage high above them.

"It's a regular sausage factory in here!" Seth shouts, commenting on the largely male population of the club.

"Dude, be cool, we're in Europe!" Austen retorts, embarassed by his friends lack of couthe.

"Who the hell told you about this place anyway!" Seth replies loudly, as he grabs an unattended drink from the counter and slams it.

"Andy Dick, why?" Austen responds, defensively.

"Figures. This place sucks!" He grabs another drink and promptly downs it too.

"What are you doing?!" Austen says as he grabs the third pilfered drink from Seth's sticky hand and sets it back on the counter in front of the shiny-shirted man who has briefly turned his back to tip the waiter.

"I'm having a drink. What's it look like I'm doin? Drinks are like ten euro's here. I'm not gonna pay that much dough when I can get it for free. Relax, they aren't going to kick us out, you're like the only chick in this place right now." As he picks the drink back up and chugs it.

At this moment, the man whose drink Seth had just guzzled turns to see that his glass is now empty. He looks around and sees Seth and Austen walking toward the dance floor, Seth is wiping his mouth with his arm and flinging the excess wetness to the ground. Enraged, the burly man jumps from his seat, growls angrily, and tears open his already stretched to capacity shirt with his purplely-glittered fingernails. "YOU!"

It's Frank! And he's not happy.

Panicked, the guys run toward the center of the floor in a crazed attempt to hide from Frank's wrath. Instead,a frenzy erupts as the dancing crowd splits and the club rats flee as from a sinking ship. Feather boas fly.

"It's, like, you guys!" A voice is heard from the cage above. "What are you doing here? Slavi-- get them!" He shrieks to one of the dancers below.

It's Slavco. And he's not cogitating.

Frank climbs to the countertop and leaps toward the cage. He catches two bars on the bottom and slowly begins to swing, back and forth, over the foggy floor. Seth and Austen are temporarily frozen, unsure of how to get past Slavco, who is menacingly posing on one side, and Frank, who is about to drop from the sky and crush them both. Ricardo is throwing lollipops at them all.

"Here, use this!" Austen says as he tosses a disco ball to Seth. Seth strategically moves the shiny object in front of Slavco and, while he is distracted by his own reflection, the guys run past him and toward the emergency exit.

By this time, Frank has gained tremendous momentum and releases his grip on the cage. He flies directly toward them with amazing speed. Just as he is about to reach the fleeing duo, he's stopped short. His spandex pants have caught on the corner of the cage! He flies back across the room in the opposite direction and is shot out of the club like an underaged(and unattractive)drinker.

Seth and Austen run through the alley toward Austen's ride. As they pass the stunned crowd standing in front of the club, Seth cannot resist the priceless opportunity.

"Wait, wait, look at this!" He says as he turns to moon the mob of Le Queen patrons.

"What are you doing, you idiot!" Austen shouts.

The crowd begins to chase the two men down the Champs.

"Got any bright ideas now, genius?" Seth asks... hoping Austen will save them both again.

"Not unless you've got any bananas left."

19th Nervous Breakdown

On our first trip

I tried so hard to rearrange your mind.

But after while I realized you were disarranging mine.

(Jagger/Richards)

______________________________________

"WHATTAYA WANT NOW?? Ya retahd, can't a guy get a rest around here?"

The first part Jerry heard, the second escaped her ear as Seth mumbled it under his breath. The inside of his hotel suite is strewn with fruit, beer bottles, broken glass and underware. Including the ceiling. And Austen hasn't even been over to visit yet. Seth scratches and stands, stretching, back arched, arms held high with fists balled tight. He yawns deeply before scratching again and then moseying his way towards the open balcony door, barefoot.

Jerry stands at the edge of hers, lighting another cigarette. As Seth appears on the balcony next door, he catches the first glimpse of her- hip out, one arm folded across her stomach, the other holding a lit cigarette in the air. He gets that eyebrow raised *I hafta swim across what river* look on his face. A thin whiff of smoke curls heavenward. Jerry's long hair lifts easy in a light breeze. Behind her an Aston Martin speeds in a direction it's driver would rather not be going. As he steps fully into her view, she stares evenly across from him, one of her eyebrows arched.

"You always address a lady in that tone?" ::Flicks an ash::

"Sorry, last night was killer . I forgot where I wa..."

Jerry interrupts him, "I am bored. Time to come through with your promise to entertain me."

"Whattya wanna do..... play Scrabble?"

As Seth stiffles a laff, Jerry just glares at him and turning on a heel, stalks into her hotel room. Hungover, Seth runs a hand over his face and back through what's left of his new haircut.

"This ain't gonna be as easy as I thought. Better call for backup. I'LL BE READY TO TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE PLATONIC IN 15 MINUTES. Long as I don't hafta wear that stupid monkey suit again."

With that, Seth disappears into his hotel room and quickly dials a number. As the phone connects he blurts his dilemma, ending with, "Yah, these old broads axshally expect ya ta get dressed and take 'em somewhere they wanna go. Not like the chicks I'm use ta in Basten. Tell one or two a dem ta meet ya at the softball field and make sure they bring the keg and they're happy as clams. Good times. If ya know what I mean. "

Seth listens, "Well thank yer lucky stars ya came in second, cuz this one's ALWAYS expectin' me to take 'er places. What's she think, a lamborghini, 6 million dolla apartment, and 100k makes me inta some kinda GIGOLO or somethin? Like, what's THAT about??" He listens.

"I'm hung over, I can't do that." He listens.

"I'm not goin' there ya geek." He listens and scratches.

"I areddy tried that, and besides she canned yer sorry a** for bringin it up." He listens and yawns.

"Awrite, awrite. If I hafta go somewhere meet us. I don't wanna spend the whole nite alone somewhere with a buncha stuffed shirts. I'll check ya there lata, Chicklets."

Seth tosses the phone back into it's cradle and heads for a much needed shower. In the cavernous bath he instead fills and climbs into a sumptious bathtub, making soap bubble hairdos and farts. In the next hotel room Jerry fumes and then makes a phone call of her own.

"Hello Rachel dear? What are you and Suzanne doing tomorrow night? Well, I'm still in Paris with Seth on a Kept date, but I've been rethinking. I'd been invited weeks ago by Mikus Ballard.. ::inhales:: ..yes the former private secretary of Prince Charles.. ::exhales:: to a dinner party at his fabulous London flat. I was going to pass, but think it might be in my best interest to make a showing. But I so don't want to go alone with Seth. ::Pouts:: He's still in Kept training and I feel he still needs my girls to bring him along. Oh, before I forget, Rachel, rumor has it that Ballard has managed to repair the split with Camilla and so even the Queen may be in attendance. Yes, even after his involvement in that horrible hypnosis incident years ago. He's such a charmer it's all been forgotten. You'll come? And you'll call Suzanne? Oh that's fabulous, just fabulous. I'll make a call and inform Mr Ballard to expect us for dinner tomorrow night. I'll see you then, sweet dreams dear. Good night."

After she hangs up the phone, Jerry dials Seth's room. Sitting with a Billy Idol soap bubble mohawk, he picks up the receiver of the French phone sitting at the edge of the tub.

"Hello. Seth? Nevermind about going out tonight. We will be flying back to London in the morning and I need my beauty rest. Be ready by 8 am. Oh, and tomorrow night- a dinner party. Goodnight."

As Jerry suddenly hangs up, Seth holds out the ornate phone receiver and just looks at it, trying to figure out which end hangs up where. Shrugging, he manages and returns to making little fountains spurt into the air by squeezing his hands just underwater. What does he care. He's still meeting Austen at some ravers club. Little do they know Ricardo is readying his dance moves high above it's gathering fake-IDed crowd.

Miles and miles away a restaurant in Soho clears out. Screaming patrons pour out of it's doors as the bartender hops the bar, trying to tackle the gloved one dressed in a pale brocade gown, clutching her purse and leaping from tabletop to tabletop, shrieking something about *never accepting that woman* as she pushes the one button of a curious red cube. He slips on a spilled drink and knocks himself out. The white haired woman disappears into the lavatory. The restaurant owner, hearing a commotion, comes running from his office and stops short, surveying the pandemonium. His manager rushes up to him breathless and tries to explain.

"Sir, the Queen ::Panting:: She's here. Somewhere :::Looks around:: She was, just a second ago. She was swinging from the chandelier." ::Points up::

They both look up at the crystal chandelier swaying to and fro above the empty, overturned chairs of the main dining room. Leaving the manager he quickly turns and rushes towards his office, shouting back over his shoulder, "Go find her, immediately! And do not call the police! The last thing we need is this kind of publicity!"

Arriving in his office the owner begins pacing silently on the plush carpet. He wonders just who it is he should call. Thinking hard he gathers his wits and flips through his rolodex. Finding the number he hasn't dialed in years, he punches numbers frantically. Across an ocean, Lace's phone rings. Her fingers flounder all over her nightstand, struggling to find it. As she struggles to wake, she grasps her alarm clock and looking at it's red numbers, blinks twice. Exchanging it for the phone receiver she shakes her head and leans up on an elbow, lost in a sea of comforters, pillows and featherbeds.

Lace clears her throat, "Hello?"

Who could be calling at this time of night? Right in the middle of that reoccuring dream about being cast as Mary Ann on The Real Gilligan's Island.

Meanwhile, the restaurant manager searches the entire premises looking for the white haired woman with the huge diamond brooch. Finally arriving at the ladies loo, she opens the door a crack, everso slowly. Peering timidly in, she slowly she opens the door fully. Her jaw drops. Shattered glass from the wall mirrors cover the floor. A stallroom door is torn from it's hinges. A tattered curtain blows softly in the breeze, the window is open. The room is... empty.

The Beast Within

Inside the starkly white hospital room, an eruption of reds and greens (and, indeed, some more darkly hued emotions) building for years inside the heart of a monarch were suddenly unleashed. Violently throwing aside her bedding, creating a monsoon of down, silk and lace, the hypnotized Queen leapt to her feet.

Any indication of her earlier injury instantly disappeared and her formerly frail physique morphed into that of a predatory creature stalking its prey. As she scanned the outlay of her surroundings, panting heavily, her fingers slowly curling to a fist and then suddenly pitching back again to reveal her satin claws, she spotted something that caught her attention.

A chair.

She crept slowly toward it in her hypnotized state, slinking seductively, her eyes intently gazing upon the broad wooden back and strong supportive legs. Outside the door, fifteen dismountees stood petrified by the sounds of heavy breath, as feathers still fell to the floor.

What would she do to this poor piece of furniture? Why must chairs always be made to suffer at the hands of the hypnotized?

As she made her final preparations for her pounce on the hunted, the doors suddenly flew open and a mass of stunned men, unsure of their next move, stood frozen as ostriches.

The Queen roared. The hospital shook. A patient downstairs screamed.

Her Majesty grabbed the chair and raised it effortlessly above her head. She turned toward the window and threw the chair through it, shattering the glass completely. She dashed through the opening with amazing dexterity and quickness. Out into the English fog, she disappeared.

~~~

Meanwhile, in Paris, an extremely miffed Git emits a spray of washer fluid and wipes furiously at his windshield. “Bananas!”

Sir Mick leaps from the car and looks to see who launched the fruit. An open door and the distinct sound of American laughter draw his attention immediately. And what is this? Could that really be her on the veranda!

Excitedly, Mick dashes toward the revolving hotel door.

“Wait Mick!” Git shouts. “We’ve got an urgent message from Scotland Yard! Something’s happened to the Queen. We have to go-- IMMEDIATELY!”

“But we’re so close, this will only take a minute. I’m going in.”

“NO Mick. Your first duty is to your Queen and she needs you now more than ever.”

Torn between his love and his country, Mick walks slowly back to the car and to what he knows to be right. Before getting in, he turns back for a last look at the woman he’s leaving behind, who is now staring directly back at him. She’s heard everything.

“I’m coming back, you know.” He shouts to her.

“I’ve heard that before.” She thinks to herself, but says nothing. Instead, she stares back at him coldly, pretending not to care, and flips her cigarette over the balcony.”

Mick turns back to the car, a little more quickly this time, and goes to get in. He spots something unusual on the ground near Git’s tire and goes to inspect it.

--“R”, another tile.--

He picks it up quickly and places it in his pocket before speedily driving away from the tragic city of love.

“I will go back, you know.” He says, as though trying to convince himself.

“I know, Mick. I know.”

...

Rising slowly, Jerry turns to the open door adjacent to hers, blots her eye with a neatly folded handkerchief, and says sternly,

"Oh Se-eth. Come here please.

I'm bored. Entertain me."

Tic Toc, Tic Toc <12:00> Tic Toc

In the spick n' span hall of a London hospital, a faint (familiar) scream is heard from behind one of the closed hospital room doors. A nurse drops her chart and rushes from her station to find her patient, one knee bent, one leg suspended in mid-air, clutching her blankets tightly to her chin. The poor receptionist, sporting a fractured ankle from some kind of freak accident involving a bald human bullet, is trembling from the horrific sounds emanating from the room directly above them. Upstairs, 15 dismountees would turn to look at each other, mouths agape, in sheer horror, however according to protocol they are only allowed to stare solemnly strait ahead. The one nearest the door braces himself to open it and rush in, remembering all too well what it was like the last time. Could it possibly be 8 years ago he endured the same sound, same sight, same smell?

Inside the Queen's room the DVD continues flashing relentlessly, cruelly:

<<12:00>>

<<12:00>>

<<12:00>>

Can someone reach it's plug and pull it before it is too late??

Miles and miles away, Jerry sits on the small balcony of her hotel suite, overlooking a magnificent Parisian twilight, the Eiffel Tower backlit against a scarlet sky. The only thing missing is the strains of an accordian playing softly in the background. With chin in hand, she flicks a red ash off her cigarette and sighs deeply. The city readies itself for another night of life. Somewhere in one of it's nightclubs a man named Ricardo is preparing to take to it's dance cage, suspended high above a crowd of underage ravers.

High enough to miss much of the street noise, Jerry thoughtfully sips on a cappuchino. Not too high to miss the different makes and models of the cars passing below, she stares as they pass below her. From the balcony of an adjoining suite, a banana flies out of the open sliding glass door and lands squarely in the center of an Aston Martin's windshield. When it screeches to a halt, it's right front tire comes to rest on a small, smooth wooden tile laying next to the curb.

Spy's Shadow

The cold hospital door closed solidly behind the exiting guard. The Queen, pausing briefly to make sure she was indeed alone, fumbled once again through her Royal Handbag. Somewhere amid the debris of kleenex, lotto tickets, and Freedent wrappers, she found her target. Withdrawing her gloved hand, clutching the tiny red cube, the Queen cleared her throat and prepared her thoughts.
In her hand was a tiny piece of technology Q had prepared especially for her. A phone of some kind. To operate it required the push of only one button. The Queen had issued an edict strictly forbidding the production of any Royal Gadgets with multi-function displays following a rather embarassing incident in '97. The details of exactly what happened are sketchy, due to subsequent cover up attempts, but, word has it that the whole incident was triggered by an extremely violent form of "temporary hypnosis" brought on by a flashing "12:00" on the Royal VCR.

"Hello, X, yes, this is Wynzrgrl. Listen up. I'm afraid it's worse than I thought. Sir Mick is being compromised by his attachment to that horrid cowgirl yank. He's collecting her teacups now! I need you to follow him more closely and make sure he doesn't do anything insipid that might keep him from "taking care" of my little problem. I know I can count on you, X. I'm just not so sure about him. This will be a test. I hope he passes. It would be a shame to lose him like we did Sir Elton. But, you must admit, those people were rude, vile, pigs. Anyway, remember, you must not be spotted. It could ruin everything. I want him to trust me. Continue to leave him clues, as we discussed before, but he must never suspect their source."

Leaning back into the stack of Royal Down Pillows, the Queen allows a pleased smile of satisfaction, before quickly remembering herself. She looks around the room, bored, for something to entertain her. A movie perhaps? Oh, how she does love a good Chris Farley film on a rainy evening. But is there even a DVD player in this room? Yes, there is, over there.........

<<12:00>>

<<12:00>>

<<12:00>>

*X* Marks the Spot

A white-haired old woman sits in a crisp white hospital bed attending to her daily activities, mainly composed of rooting through her purse. (What DOES she carry around in it anyway, I've always wondered??) Lips pursed, she rings for a nurse. When the nurse arrives in a skurry she is directed to fetch one of the dismountees standing just outside of the hospital room door. The nurse leans out and whispers; a tall guard in a white plumed helmet enters the room and stands at rigid attention. The Queen instructs him to hand her the telephone sitting properly on the nightstand next to the bed. She then dials a number and waves both the nurse and the guard back to their posts in the hallway.

"Hello? Where are you Sir Mick? In Paris? And have you found anything of consequence as of yet? Oh? A coffee cup with red lipstick, and a Scrabble tile? With an *X* on it? I see. Well, I will call again in an hour. I hope that you will have more to tell me then. And I'll have no scratches on Aston, so be careful driving while you are chatting".

Replacing the handpiece in the cradle the Queen rings for the nurse. When the nurse appears she requests that her guard be summoned once again. When the guard reappears, the Queen instructs him to place the phone back on the nightstand beside her bed.

Sir Mick flips his cell closed with a smart click and tosses it on the passenger seat. Tooling the Aston Martin through Parisian streets, he keeps an eye peeled for signs of his quarry. If Git had eyes, he'd keep them peeled too, as it is, his headlights will have to do.

Across town a young blonde woman casually drops a small Scrabble tile in front of a hotel whose underground parking lot houses a black Lamborghini.

Meanwhile Austen sits tucked into the corner of the cafe, still typing. The rain has ended, but a dull gray sky hangs listless overhead. As he puts a final touch on his latest blog entry, Austen finishes his late lunch and reaches for his now cold coffee. Downing it he packs up his wireless and heads back to his apartment. Once in it, he shrugs off the dirty shirt he'd slipped on earlier and tosses it to the corner on top of the other dirty shirts. Thinking perhaps his blonde friend may return sometime soon, he decides to tidy up. Opening a closet door, he kicks the whole pile of shirts into it. Turning to the couch he bends and retrieves the Scrabble box from under the coffee table. Sitting on the edge of the scratchy couch, he starts dropping small smooth tiles, one by one, into their silver pouch. Click. Click. As he nearly finishes he frowns. Digging through the small flexible bag he rechecks and frowns deeper.

"Hey. My *X*.. is missing".

Anybody Seen My Baby

Anybody Seen My Baby

“She was more than beautiful
Closer to ethereal
With a kind of down to earth flavor.
…
Anybody seen her around
Love has gone and made me blind
I've looked but I just can't find
She has gotten lost in the crowd ”

(M.Jagger/K.Richards/K.D. Lang/B. Mink)

When we last left off, a young rain-soaked, and recently scrabbled woman had just left the scene, having just noticed the waiter spitting into the dark haired American’s coffee. The man was attempting to “get to know” the mysterious woman seated next to him at the café (in between the pages of the tabloid he’s “reading”).
We pick up now, later in the afternoon, at the same café. The couple have left and the café is nearly empty. Sir Mick Jaggar has been tasked by the Queen with taking care of a “little problem”—the brown-haired American. Though he’s used to working with a group, he’s now on his own, except for his trusty sidekick- “Git” (slang term for a contemptible person). Git is an ostentatious Aston Martin. He’s on loan from the Queen’s personal security detail. Apparently, there have been no personality improvements to automobiles since that obnoxious “Kit” from the Knight Rider series. They must be related.
Mick and Git have just pulled up to the café and are searching for the dark-haired American, who had earlier attacked the Queen with fresh fruit in a very public and embarrassing incident:


“What’s this?”, the smartly dressed man supposed to himself as he inspected the small wooden square he had just fished from the sewer grate.
“X”, he mused, “Yes, I’m definitely on the right trail.”
The rains had subsided hours ago, but the runoff, still heavy, would have taken this clue far below the streets, into obscurity, had it not been caught in a large clump of newsprint choking the drain.
“Tabloids. Filthy rags. This is the first I’ve found any use for them.” He slides the tile into his pocket and removes a large plastic bag from his briefcase. Collecting the lump of pulp and lies for further inspection later at the lab, the slender gentleman marks the evidence with the initials “TBI” indicating a potential link to the now famous “Banana Incident” to which he had been tasked as Special Investigator.
Only meters from his find, he notices a small café. Perhaps someone inside may be able to provide him with some additional clues. He steps toward the small iron gate surrounding the patio and suddenly hears a voice behind him, pleading: “Um, Sir, I hate to bother you, but you really should consider securing the doors when you leave. It would be most unfortunate for an Aston Martin to go missing now, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would, Git. I will try and do better next time.” He presses the remote and a short blast of “God Save the Queen” announces the locking of his cheeky automobile.
Inside the café, a young American sits in the corner, typing away fervently at his computer. His hair is dirty and strangely going the “wrong way”.
He’s not the one.
A waiter stands behind the counter, polishing a coffee cup, smirking to himself and laughing surreptitiously at some remembered occurrence.
“Wait a minute!” The stately chap calls to the waiter, scrubbing intently. “That lipstick. I would recognize that shade of red anywhere.” He pauses to inspect the cup.
“It’s her. She's close.”
He quickly grabs the cup and dashes out the door toward his waiting vehicle. He slams into the glass as he tries too quickly to open the door to make an expeditious exit.
“You see THIS is why I don’t lock the door, Git, you blighter.”
“Sorry Mick.”

Tires squeal. Smoke rises. An American wipes a beakie from his eye. And a cafe loses a cup that could have brought big bucks on ebay from a guy named Brian.

I See London, I See France, I See Someone's Underpa...

Smiling curtly, the waiter squelches an impulse to haul off and knock the brassy American off his chair. The smart slap to his backside could have sent him over an edge, however he continues walking into the interior of the restaurant, head held high. That blonde looks famously familiar, if he could just recall where he'd seen her face before. Hard to tell with the dark glasses, swirl of smoke, and beret shadowing her features.

Inside he passes the high stools that surround the counter. Behind it, he places 2 cups on a tray and turns to the coffee machine. Fills up one. Fills up a second one. And then while no one is looking, he promptly spits into the second cup. With a satisfied smirk he turns and places the proper utensils along with a sugar and creamer on the tray. In no big hurry now, he retraces his steps back around the counter and out onto the covered cafe patio. A light rain continues to pelt the canvas above his head.

Returning to their corner table, the waiter places cup number one in front of the bereted woman, and cup number two on the table before the spiky-haired American. The woman glances up as she crushes her cigarette into a green glass ashtray and smiles. With a wan half-smile in return, the waiter bows slightly and spins on a heel leaving them to their conversation. Just before he disappears into the cafe doorway, an attractive young blonde pulls away from the curb in a grey Volvo. Little does he know, she'd been watching him through the large cafe windowfront the whole time.

*Adventures of the UnKept*

Hello to those of you who have stumbled upon this blog.. this first entry is actually a link to the original posts at the Vh1 Kept message board which originated the silliness.. clicking this entry's link will bring you to the originator thread of this blog. As an alternative, clicking on the *comments* link just below will open a box to reveal those original postings as they unfolded at Kept.

Have fun!