The ITK Always Rings Twice
As I walked menacingly toward the now visibly shaking Ashton, his horrid phallus shrunk within itself, leaving but a dimple of flesh. He grabbed whatever was nearest to hand, which was an offensively-sharp looking buttplug. He brandished the anal furniture detrimentally, waving it with an air of intimated violence. I continued my pace towards him despite the threat of being whalloped with a ringpiece toy. I ripped the hoop-filler from his clammy hands, then thrust my forehead into his doughy face. His immediate awareness of where he was vanished. This was a moment where you imagined little tweety-birds circling his dazed head. I shoved him towards the coffee-making facilities and informed him to make me a cup of java. Despite having an avian conga doing the rounds in his brain he brewed up a tasty concoction. I sat him down, with just a little force to remind him of his circumstances. He slumped into the leather chair. His body language gave off a languid style but he knew that my presence meant trouble. His eyes screamed panic. He knew this day would come.
"Before you even breach the subject, I have no idea where the stories are coming from" offered an already surrendering Ashton. He just didn't know it yet.
"I didn't mention any stories Neil. Why would you zink I came 'ere to talk lies wiz you? Eez it because you 'ave made a 'andsome living from writing pieces that arre derogatory towards Arsenal?"
I had finished my coffee but I disposed of the porcelain cup in a rather more unconventional manner. My exterior was exuding the calm persona of a master tactician so when I launched the aforementioned mug whizzing past Ashton's ear, it unsettled the already flinching hack deeply.
"F*CK!!!" He started to look around the room nervously, as if checking for an as yet unseen presence. He hunched over, as if to draw me in to a conversation regarding the most secret of secrets.
"I can't say much. Just this. The Bridge." He whipped his bloody head around to look behind his shoulder, then again zipped his eyes round to the other side, toward to window. He was a marked man now it would seem. Or at least he believed so.
I stood up, informed him to move offices or countries, whichever suits. As I exited the pitiful excuse for a journalist's office, I pulled out my phone and called GS. As soon as he picked up, a roar that told me he was ready to go met my ears. To the ArsenalMobile indeed!
We drove. We drove for miles. London was full of bridges. To search the entire collection would mean my green friend becoming my grey friend. We stopped for coffee. We sat in comfortable silence, aware of the cogs in each others mind crunching together in an effort to break open this quest for justice. Sporadically a questioning grunt from GS, follwed by a negative shake of my head. Not plausible. Tried that. That doesn't work. Then, GS stood up, all 7ft of him. Bolt upright, he bowed his knowing head toward me and let his eyes do the talking. OF COURSE!!! Stamford Bridge!
By now the merciless sun was starting to beat a hasty retreat, leaving a temperature more becoming with London. We circled the ramshackle house of our rivals cautiously, not knowing where the threat was secreting itself. Unbeknown to us, which looking back on it now still surprises me as GS and his nose are famous for sniffing out nefarious types at varyingly dizzying distances, an unremarkable car had been following us. It tailed us at a safe distance but never quite let the rope loose enough to let us slip. As we circled the hellhole of bleakness, I pulled up at the filthy mouth of the stadium. Infuriated by our apparent reluctance to enter, I decided that all guns blazing, much like my heroes from the Spaghetti Westerns, would suffice as a tactic.
We left the ArsenalMobile where it was, enabling us to make a hasty retreat if our aggressive approach left us with no Plan B other than to haul ass. We knew that our chances of success were slim and none.
We sauntered up to the main entrance. A receptionist that looked like she had applied her make up with a shotgun didn't greet us, but handed me a keycard and pointed toward the lift. The silence and the receptionists want to apply tarmac as foundation had lent my normally icy-cool demeanour a rather more sweaty tone. I tried to maintain my cool, if for nothing else than not letting GS know. If he realised I was worried then I was on my own. Another Gunnersaurus-shaped hole in the wall was likely. He liked confidence.
I placed the keycard in the appropriate slit in the wall. The doors of the lift immediately and rather too efficiently opened. Quick and efficient, with the minimum of flair. Much like the team that plays here, I mused to myself. No doubt GS thought the same. No love was lost there.
We entered without regret. The doors once more, seeming to sense our presence, closed with orderliness. Just as GS extended a clawed digit to nominate a floor on the button panel, a blue light appeared behind the button that indicated 'Basement'. We apparently didn't have a choice. The lift didn't hesitate. It rapidly descended into the bowels of this arena, leaving the coffee we had imbibed floating precariously near our own exit.
The metal capsule that had so fast delved deep into the nether regions of our enemies lair sharply and unceremoniously stopped. We shuddered on our unsteady legs but kept upright. Just like Chelski on the pitch, the lift had got from A to B with no extra flair or filigree. Just orderly and quick.
The doors once again opened with a zip. The sight that befell our eyes everything that the dark side of our brain tried to conceal from us, but we would still sneak peeks of the gory sights, like a scrumptious horror. The next view we had was of a metal computer mouse hastily smashing into our temples. It would seem we were in trouble......
To Be Continued........
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