The ITK Always Rings Twice
The lift, mirrors encasing us, smoothly escorted us vertically to the 19th floor. It was a rapid transit. We stubbed our smokes out on the plush carpet, set the brims of our trilbies at a jaunty angle, and set off to the one office that had answers.
GS had enough strength to do the job but I planted my shining winklepicker flat against the office door with enough force to bust the doorframe and send the former door swinging into an armchair that was behind it. The scene was a habitual one when you were forced to deal with the slime that was in it currently.
Jim White, 'Mr Transfer Window', was snorting beak off one of the copious amounts of naked harlots that were stinking out the generous office space. The view was rather breathtaking, but Jim had outgrown such pleasures and his nosebleed was a speech bubble that screamed "I'm desperate". Unfortunately patience ran low within both GS and me when the scent of injustice was rife within our nostrils. GS slapped one of the prone hussies and sends her brusquely to make coffee.
No clothes hanging off his rather shameful lower half, Jim however, was pristine in appearance for his top half. Blue shirt with perfect creases, Bright yellow tie that contrasted the navy so well. The only caveat to this was the large and ever-growing bloom of crimson that acted as a spoiler to his look. He had his 'habit' to thank for that. Upon seeing me noticing his peculiar wardrobe choices, he slurred "Och, that's how ah rolle sun". He went to amble off to the generously filled whisky decanter but I reached out one of my wiry liimbs and grabbed his well chosen tie. Jim let out a surprised "Urk!" in protest and swung round 180 degrees into my already clenched fist. Jim's problematic nose was a bit more so now as a torrent of hot blood gushed onto his now sodden shirt.
"Feeellllas, c'mone! What do ya want now? Ah don't know anythin, ah promise!". This was uttered in a nasal whine that raised the heckles on Gunnersaurus's tail and my already rising temper toward boiling point. GS let out a guttural growl that rendered Jims already peely-wally complexion a rather paler shade of white.
"Tell me leetle-beet what you know about ze Arsenal bullsheet. Don't make me let loose ze Dinosaur...". My hand tightened around the now puce coloured tie currently acting as an ample noose around Jims neck. He angled his head toward GS as I said this and my green friend bared one long incisor. With that Jim let loose the hounds of piss as rivulets of urine flowed down his legs and pooled at his feet.
"OK, OK, ah know a wee bit. Ma sources have told me that, along the foodchain, one o' the links o' that chain is Neil Ashton. Dinnae tell him ah told ye though, ma job is at stake, ah've got tae protect my sources!" I dropped his tie and with that, Jim crumpled to the floor that was now a unique mixture of his blood and urine. He snivelled worthlessly but he had given us what we need. He was now an empty Ribena carton in the wastebasket of life. He had served his purpose. We walked out of the office just as the clearly drugged Lady of the Night came to where the door used to be, holding two clearly piping hot cups of joe but so smashed out of her box that the newly developing blisters on her hands were of no alarm to her. We snatched the cups out of her lifeless hands and effortlessly lit up a Marlboro. "To the ArsenalMobile!!!"
The office block that housed the filth-mongerer Ashton reeked of the mundane. A perfect way to throw the unsuspecting off the scent I supposed. No security greeted our arrival, no lamentable glances as we smoked our way through the building. An unassuming pine door with a small name plate indicated that behind this door was the one they call Ashton. No match for my size 10 winklepickers.
KA-SMASH!!!
The door splintered upon impact. Like a curtain raised for the 1st Act of a gaudy play, the scene that assualted our eyes was nothing short of hideous. Emblazoned upon every square inch of the walls was sigils and images of T*ttenham Hotsp*r, our mortal enemy. A smorgasbord of chickens sat atop basketballs and the gormless visages of Danny Rose, Adebayor and Dawson made this unassuming workspace a hovel of the destitute. At the head of the room, sat at the desk with a look of interrupted consternation on his annoying face, was Neil Ashton. Dressed entirely in the kit of his beloved Sp*rs, his shorts had been pulled down enough to expose his vile member, to which he had been in the middle of choking whilst, by the looks of the computer monitor which faced him, looking at DVD's of the last highlight that sickening club had had. A 2-1 victory over Norwich - in 1972. The whole assembly of nauseating factors was enough to blanch the normally strong fortitude of Gunnersaurus, who proceeded to let out a Banshee-type scream which cracked the computer monitor. He then ran straight through the office wall, leaving a Gunnersaurus-shaped aperture. There was no middle ground with GS. Looks like it's down to me then.
