Max Hunter

           ‘Besides, it’s just a means to an end.  Today the town, tomorrow the-’

                ‘-Women’s Sock Darning Institute in Cretindale, sire?’

                ‘The world, Trampmire, the world!’

                ‘Naturally, sire,’ said the manservant, wringing his hands and bowing slightly as if someone had dropped something rather heavy and unwelcome upon his shoulders.  Like a yak.

Manglebind scowled at the town in the hope that someone down there would feel the heat of his glare and drop dead of it.  As it was, no one paid his scowl the slightest bit of attention so he was forced to look elsewhere to satisfy his craving for punishment.  With a “thwack” he batted a fat ginger tom that happened to be walking along the handrail over the side.  It gave a screech like a set of bagpipes being forced through a meat-grinder but Manglebind’s smile was short lived.  Two small wings sprouted from the cats back, breaking the creature’s fall; performing a graceless arc, the animal flew back up to the balcony, coughed alarmingly and spat a hairball at Manglebind.  It then stuck its nose nonchalantly in the air and flew away.

           ‘I didn’t see that one coming,’ admitted Manglebind.  ‘Is that another of Ragwort’s twisted little creations, Trampmire?’

The manservant simply shrugged.

           ‘No matter,’ said the lord, wiping the remains of the hairball from his pencil moustache and goatee, ‘back to business.  Have we worked out how this thing works yet?’

Manglebind walked from the balcony (closing the shutters in case the flying cat should return with a dead mouse to hurl at him) and approached a freestanding wooden doorway in the centre of the room.  He stared through the door-less aperture to Trampmire on the other side.

           ‘Not exactly, sire,’ said the manservant, looking concerned for his own safety – after all, he didn’t have little wings on his back.  Manglebind developed a frown that could crack walnuts.

           ‘Get Meldric!’

Meldric was Manglebind’s long-suffering adviser.  At first he had found his job easy, a simple “yes” would suffice for most questions put to him (“Should I repaint the portrait room?”, “Should we put Mermaid Tail soup back on the menu?”, “Is flogging peasants with their own limbs really against the law?”).  However, of late he was beginning to find his work a little more challenging; especially since his lord had developed an irritating urge to do things that were definitely on the iffy side of legal, such as, well, taking over the world and all that.

           ‘Yyyy…yes, alm…m…m…ighty Lord,s…s…sire?’ stammered Meldric as he arrived before Manglebind a short time later.  Mostly he managed to keep his stutter in check, however some things were bound to set it off.  Being frogmarched up two hundred twisty steps for an impromptu meeting with a master that had a habit of throwing things off of balconies when angry, being one such example.

           ‘MELDRIC!’ bellowed Manglebind rather unnecessarily; the shock of it had the poor adviser mopping his brow for a full three minutes whilst attempting to get out the word “sire?”

           ‘Meldric,’ continued Manglebind, once he had cuffed the short, round advisor around the balding head, ‘I need an update on this…this…doorway…thing.  I was promised that it had hidden powers that will help me in my quest to rule the world.’

He paused for a moment whilst he imagined himself in the position of Lord Manglebind, Almighty Ruler of the World, an inane smile upon his face.

           ‘Yes, sire,’ said Meldric, hoping that this old standby would get him through the situation.

           ‘Don’t you “yes, sire” me, you little squirt.  I’m looking for answers and, as they used to say at school, “the answer is in the question!”’

           ‘They used to say that at s…s…school, sire?’

           ‘Well, I don’t really know,’ admitted Manglebind, tweaking his pointy goatee thoughtfully.  ‘On the first day I sold all the other children to slavery, raised the school to the ground, painted a flag on the teacher’s belly and hoisted him up on a flagpole.  Even then I showed potential.  Ah, school; the best times of your life…’

           ‘Erm…what part of the q…q…question has th…th…the answer, sire?’

Manglebind rolled his eyes in frustration.

           ‘The bit that went something like: “blah, blah, blah…hidden powers…yadda, yadda, yadda…”  That bit.’

Meldric started to shuffle awkwardly on his feet; the fact that Trampmire was leering at him from the shadows didn’t help the sweat situation much either.  ‘And w…w…what about “hidden powers” exactly, sire?’

Trampmire put his hands over his eyes and mouthed “Ooooh” (as in “Ooooh, now you’ve done it!”).  Manglebind grabbed Meldric by the lapels and shook him like a pepper pot.

           ‘Well, you flaming idiot, these hidden powers – they’re STILL HIDDEN!’

           ‘A…a…ah…’ stammered Meldric, his eyes rolling around in his skull as he was shaken.

Then, as Manglebind was losing his temper and Meldric was losing his consciousness, the empty doorway in the centre of the room began to fizz and shudder.  Little sparks of electricity crackled around the frame and all that could be seen through the doorway looked as if it were now a painting that was being stretched backward from the centre.

Suddenly there was a gurgle like a toilet flushing, a pop and something large, red and round came rolling out, sparkling like a miniature firework.  Manglebind dropped Meldric immediately and stepped back to allow the thing to roll past him.  And roll it did, crossing the floor and barging open the balcony shutters before coming to rest just before the handrail wall.

Manglebind stood and stared at the thing in disbelief; it looked like a watermelon, albeit a gruesomely red and sparkly watermelon with a black dot rimmed in white at its centre that made it look like a giant’s eyeball.  So maybe nothing like a watermelon, then.

           ‘What…?’ said Manglebind.

           ‘What…?’ said Trampmire.

           ‘W…w…w…w…oh never mind,’ said Meldric.

With a final fizz, the sparkles went out, leaving the ‘eye’ momentarily rocking back and forth before stopping still and staring at them.

           ‘Meldric,’ barked Manglebind, ‘go and touch the thing.’

Meldric’s eyes, which had only just recovered from their own spinning session, grew wide.

           ‘M…m…m-’

           ‘-Yes, you!’

With heavy feet and trembling lips, Meldric crept forward as if he were attempting to catch the thing off guard.  Reaching the balcony, he looked back to those in the room.  Manglebind nodded and gestured for him to pick it up; Meldric’s chubby features contorted like he had severe wind.  Stooping down he gingerly picked up the object as if it were indeed a giant’s eyeball.

           ‘Meldric?’ shouted Manglebind.

Meldric made a guttural noise that amounted to “Yes, Lord Manglebind, you called, sire?”

           ‘Meldric, are you dead?’

The diminutive advisor looked himself up and down as if he would see death upon him like a rash of some sort.

           ‘N…no, sire; it w…would appear not.’

           ‘Right,’ said Manglebind and he strode over to the balcony and snatched the object from Meldric’s hands.  ‘Humm, curious.  Most curious.  Do you think it is magic?’ he said, tilting it over to examine it.

           ‘YES’ spoke the object in Manglebind’s hand.  Understandably he dropped it like it was a pile of freshly made dragon poo.

           ‘It spoke!’ said Trampmire in amazement.  Manglebind looked down at the object with a quizzical expression.

           ‘Did you?’ he said, addressing the thing directly.

           ‘Yes,’ it repeated.

They all took a step away from the talking eyeball as if the unseen mouth would suddenly become visible and bite their ankles.

                ‘Where have you come from,’ asked Manglebind, ‘are you here to assassinate us?’

           ‘No,’ came the object’s odd voice.

           ‘No?’ said Manglebind.  ‘Are you working for someone that has sent you here?’

           ‘No.’

Manglebind frowned.  ‘Are you here to help me?’

           ‘Yes.’

           ‘Are you really magic?’ he asked, becoming excited.

           ‘Most likely.’

           ‘Most likely, sire,’ put in Meldric, sounding huffy.  Manglebind paid the rotund little man no attention; he was too busy cultivating a wicked smile upon his face.

           ‘So, you are here to use your magic to help Lord Manglebind achieve his aims.  No matter how…unpopular…they may seem to the general populace?’

           ‘Yes.’

Manglebind chuckled like a schoolboy hoisting the headmaster up a flagpole.  ‘Tell me,’ he said, lifting the object from the floor, ‘should I ditch these grey cotton robes for fine black-silk?’

           ‘Without a doubt,’ spoke the object.

           ‘B…but s…s…sire,’ interjected Meldric, ‘a lord such as yourself should not be seen to dress down!’

           ‘Ha!’ declared Manglebind, ‘it shows what you know, Meldric.  What I’ve always known – as does our new advisor – is that the grey robes always chafe somewhat.  And besides, black always looks much more, I don’t know, sinister and dangerous.’

Meldric’s jaw jittered up and down frantically.

                ‘N…n…new advisor, sire?’

                ‘Indeed.  Meldric, you’ve been superseded.  Trampmire – if you would…’

                ‘Pleasure, sire,’ said Trampmire and he grabbed Meldric around the waist and carried him to the handrail.  Meldric gave a loud, girly squeal.

                ‘But, sire – I wouldn’t a…a…a…advise that!’

                Trampmire then tossed him over the side like a sack of smelly pants.

                ‘Argggggggggggggggggggggggggg-oh look, a flying c…c…cat-argggggggggggggggggggggg…..’

Chapter Two

The Mayor’s house, Inglenook, three weeks(ish) later

The wizard Querkadamius sped along the crooked and creaking corridors of the mayor’s residence with haste, his long wizard robes flapping out behind him and his long wizard hat flapping out above.  Indeed, if it were not for the hand he had clamped upon the hat’s wide brim, it would’ve taken off and lodged itself betwixt the low ceiling’s beams long ago.

                ‘Oh, bother and piffle and cobblers,’ he muttered as he went. ‘What on earth does the old gasbag want now?’

He barged in through the breakfast room’s swinging double doors, sending a small serving boy and his terrine of bat-bile soup cart-wheeling into the fireplace.  Luckily for the serving boy it was summer and the fire was out, unluckily for the serving boy he was now covered in bat bile and ashes.

                ‘What’s the meaning of this, Querkadamius?’ blustered Mayor Fenwickle, pointing at the wizard with a toasted bread soldier.  The wizard’s already grim expression darkened.

                ‘It was you that called me, Fenwickle,’ he said, trying to regain his breath and composure.

                ‘Now, now; Mayor Fenwickle to you,’ said the mayor, gesturing so hard with his soldier that splodges of runny egg from its tip were splattering across the table.

                ‘Out with it, Fenwickle; I’ve work to do.’

The mayor chewed thoughtfully on his bread whilst attempting to dredge up from the depths of his mind why it was that he had apparently summoned wizard Querkadamius.

                ‘Ah ha!’ he bellowed suddenly, catching the poor serving boy completely by surprise and sending him tumbling back into the fireplace from where he had just managed to extricate himself.  ‘That’s it, I remember; the old cogs have come up trumps again!  Now, that rotten egg over yonder…what’s his name…’

                ‘Oh, let me think,’ said Querkadamius wearily, ‘Baldred the Belligerent?’

                ‘Nope.’

                ‘Trashmire the Tyrannical?’

                ‘No.’

                ‘Quenby the Quarrelsome?’

                ‘Uh uh,’

                ‘Fenwickle,’ said the wizard tersely, ‘you’re really going to have to give me something to go on and get to the point.’

                ‘That’s it!’ declared Fenwickle, ‘Point!’

                ‘Point?’

                ‘Yes, pointy beard.  Castle.  You know the one.’

                ‘Ah,’ said Querkadamius, ‘that one.  What’s Manglebind been up to now?’

                ‘I’m not sure.  But he is up to something.’

                ‘Like what exactly?’ said the wizard, well on the way to losing his underdeveloped patience.  Fenwickle did not reply for a time as he had a mouthful of egg and toast.

                ‘Ah,’ he finally declared, leaning back in his chair and wiping his chin with the tablecloth, ‘fine eggs.  Pixy, you know.’  He patted his belly appreciatively.

As much as Querkadamius found the topic of boiled eggs more exciting than hand to hand combat with a minotaur who had woken to find its mother’s horns mounted above the wizard’s mantelpiece and a note from him saying “at least her head’s no longer wider than her backside”, he regretfully had to steer away from the subject and move to a more pertinent one:

               ‘What in the name of Zork do you want from me, Fenwickle?’

                ‘Manglebind, it seems, has got a new advisor.’

                ‘How do you know this?’

                ‘Two reasons; firstly he seems to be making all sorts of shrewd decisions.  Uncannily successful, I’ve heard.  Just keeps getting things right.  Risky business deals, games of cards, he’s winning at everything.’

                ‘And the other reason?’

                ‘Oh, someone saw his old advisor trying to cling onto a flying cat as he plunged from the top of the castle.’

                ‘Ah, I see.’

                ‘It’s poppycock if you ask me,’ said Fenwickle, loosening his beleaguered braces.

                ‘What, you don’t think Meldric’s dead?’

                ‘Oh no – I don’t believe in flying cats.’

               ‘Right…’

               ‘Anyway, as head of the Force for Apprehension and Removal of Criminal Entities, I expect you to put a man on the case, Querkadamius.  Pronto.’

Querkadamius’s Secret lab, an hour later

           ‘Pronto?  Pha!  Silly old fool,’ muttered Querkadamius as he paced up and down his dark laboratory, the gurgle, fizz and twang (yes, twang) of various experiments and inventions muffling the sound of his wizard loafers as they slapped the floor tiles.  ‘If only he knew how thin on the ground we were on agents right now.  It’s like the queue for the puppyburger cart at a vegetarian’s banquet.’

The Force for Apprehension and Removal of Criminal Entities was the only brainchild of Mayor Fenwickle.  In fact, so rare was it that Fenwickle had anything useful to say that most people secretly suspected that his brainchild was actually adopted.  Querkadamius disagreed for he had a less impressive recollection of the Mayor’s eureka moment:

                Fenwickle: ‘Wizard?’

                Querkadamius: ‘What?’

                Fenwickle: ‘Wizard, there are some bad people out there.’

                Querkadamius: ‘And?’

                Fenwickle: ‘Well, go and catch them then.’

Querkadamius had then been given a meagre budget of around ten groats a week to fund this secret security service . Soon after the first groat rolled in the secret service used it to buy itself a toboggan whereupon it greased its underside and set off down the slippery slope of failure.  There were enough megalomaniacs, extortionists and street entertainers still out there to fill every dungeon in the land and Querkadamius couldn’t help but think that the service was starting to resemble its own, frankly ridiculous, acronym (F.A.R.C.E, for those not paying attention).

               ‘Murk!’ cried Querkadamius.  A few minutes later, a man shuffled in who was so old and crinkly that he looked like his body had died long ago but had forgotten to turn off his vital organs on the way out.

               ‘Yeeeeees?’ wheezed Murk, squinting his tiny eyes through bottle-bottom glasses.

               ‘Murk, how many agents have we left in active service?’

               ‘Excluding Boris Battletwit, who was abducted by the Cyclops of Smashendale and never seen again?’

               ‘Yes.’

               ‘And Gwen Gigglethwaite, who was sent mad by the Ghoul of Gibberwocky and now thinks she’s a hat stand?’

               ‘Yes.’

               ‘And Brian Binbit, who was sent to spy on the vampires of Vladibloodsuk and has now taken to sleeping nailed up in a crate for weeks on end?’

               ‘Yes, yes, YES!   Cut to the chase, Murk.’

           ‘That’ll be one, sir.’

           ‘Oh, Zork,’ said the wizard, not only because that number was undeniably low, but it must also mean that this remaining agent was the lamentable Dexter Blameworthy, a boy that was thicker than congealed custard and a lot less use.  ‘Where is he now, Murk?’

           ‘I believe he is in the hospital wing, getting over a particularly virile case of near death.  Shall I see if he’s available, sir?’

           ‘No, don’t bother; he’s no use anyway.  What we need is a new recruit; someone who’s up to the job, got what it takes.  Know anybody, Murk?’

Murk just stared at Querkadamius with his droopy, watery eyes.

           ‘I don’t know anybody, sir.  Besides yourself, and the cockroaches in my room, that is.’

Querkadamius stroked his short white beard as he thought.

Just then the door to the laboratory was thrown open and several small creatures barged their way in, talking excitedly in harsh, gravelly voices about the outcome of a game of troll racing.  Apparently one of the owners was none too pleased when his troll was eaten mid race by a large troll called “Smash ‘n Dash”.  However, his protestations were cut short when “Smash ‘n Dash” decided to eat him too.

Querkadamius looked absently at the creatures as they threw the wizard’s post into the kettle, tossed his dirty laundry into the fireplace and raided his larder for scraps of food.  Only one foot tall, they were generally the same in appearance to a person, albeit their skin was green all over and their legs looked a little too long for their bodies.  What clothes they did wear were the same colour as their own hides, making then look almost naked at first glance.

           ‘Brownies,’ muttered the wizard, shaking his head, ‘the worst housekeepers this world has-’

But then he stopped mid sentence, his face frozen in thought.

           ‘Have you had some sort of accident, sir?’ said Murk.

           ‘That’s it!’ cried the wizard.  ‘That’s it.  If there’s nobody in this world that’s good for the job, we will just have to cast our net a little wider, as it were.’

Murk looked puzzled, or he could just have fallen asleep whilst standing, it was hard to tell sometimes.

           ‘Fellas,’ said Querkadamius, turning toward the brownies, who were well into his stores of wing of bat and eye of newt.

           ‘Wha’?’ said one, belching a handful of salamander intestines over the floor.

           ‘How do you fancy going on a bit of a quest?’

           ‘Wha’ for?’ said another.

           ‘A new recruit.’

           ‘Where?’

           ‘To another world!’

           ‘Will there be goblin brains to eat?’

           ‘Would it make you go?’

           ‘Yeh.’

           ‘Then yes, there will!’

Chapter Three

The Gold Room, Bank of England, London

In his role as youngest ever spy on the MI6 payroll, Maximilian Hunter had found himself in a fair few sticky situations in his twelve years but this one had him sweating into his new Armani underpants.  Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but these particular underpants had had the ‘tech treatment’ and were wired up to monitor every aspect of his health;  the problem being that the power supply was short-circuiting with all the perspiration and sending spasms through his buttocks every few seconds.  Not pleasant or professional when you’re trying to look cool whilst an unhinged criminal has you chained to a pillar and is doing his “just before I leave you to die” speech.

                ‘You breath, you die.  You blink, you die.  You move, you die.  You-’

                ‘Is there anything I can do that won’t kill me?’

                ‘Don’t interrupt,’ said the criminal mastermind.  ‘You faint, you die.  You sneeze, you die.  You-’

                ‘Okay, I get it,’ said Max, rolling his eyes (hoping that this wouldn’t kill him), ‘whatever I do, I die.  So, what’s your point?’

                ‘My point is, young Hunter, that you are a dead boy.’

                ‘Right.’

                ‘Unless…’

                ‘Unless?’

                ‘Yes, unless.’

                ‘Unless what?’

Barron Von Trout (he used to be just a plain Trout but was laughed at so much that he gifted himself a “Barron” title to attempt to sound more important, however it only managed to make him sound like a German fish dish) smiled an evil smile and went to run his hand through his hair, which was pointless as he was as bald as bolder.

                ‘Mickey,’ he shouted over his shoulder.  A tall, gangly youth ambled up in an ill-fitting suit; he was chewing a piece of gum whilst clicking two spoons together in his right hand.  ‘This is Mickey-Two-Spoons,’ said Trout.  ‘What he can do with those two spoons nobody should ever have to endure, so listen good, Hunter, because I’m going to tell you the whole plot – will you stop flinching!’

                ‘Sorry, it’s my pants,’ said Max.  ‘Anyway, don’t bother, Trout.  It’s simple: you’re the bad guy who’s going to do something bad, I’m the good guy who’s going to stop you.  End of.’

                ‘Don’t call me Trout!’ barked the Barron.  ‘Anyway, as I was saying.  Over the years, I have amassed quite a collection of gold bullion around the world.  Some in Paris, some in Cairo, a little in Johannesburg and, of course, a nice little pile in England to name a few.  So, I am sitting there in my penthouse and wondering how much it’s all worth so I can sell it and then, bingo!  A brainwave!’

                ‘Did it hurt, Trout?  I mean, it can’t be often that sort of thing happens – did it come as a surprise?’

                ‘Your insults are like snow from a pigeon’s back, Hunter.’

                ‘Water from a duck’s back, moron.’

                ‘Whatever.  Any second now, a helicopter is going to land on the roof where it will be met by Penitentiary Pete, who will load onto it a pallet-full of gold ingots before flying off into the sunset.’

                ‘It’s midday, Trout.’

                ‘Whatever.’

                ‘So this is just a robbery?  That’s your big plan?’

                ‘Oh, Hunter; diminutive in stature, diminutive in imagination.  No, it’s much more than that.  Mickey, if you would?’

Mickey Two Spoons walked a little further up the aisle, pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and lit one.

                ‘That is a match,’ said the Barron.

                ‘Well duh,’ replied Max.

                ‘This,’ continued the Barron, pointing to a length of what looked like thin rope stretching down the aisle, around Max and away behind him, ‘is a good old fashioned fuse.  And behind you is…’

Max’s usually calm face paled suddenly.

                ‘…is a tonne of TNT explosives, right?’

                ‘Right!’ declared the Barron.  ‘Well, close enough.  It is, in fact, a tonne’s worth of incendiary device because here’s the best bit: whilst I want this to look like a simple robbery, I actually plan to start such a huge fire in here, one of the biggest gold stores in the UK, that the entire contents of this room – including you, Hunter – will be melted away to nothing.  This is a win-win scenario for me; not only will it automatically skyrocket the price of my own gold reserves due to the shortage it will create, but it also gets rid of you in the process.’

It was not often that Max was left short of pithy remarks, but this was one of those times.  In desperation he had to reach into the bag of ‘hasty good-guy comeback’s’ and pull out whatever came to hand.

                ‘You’ll never get away with this, Trout!’ he said, and then cringed.  What a selection.

                ‘Yeh, right.  Anyway, before I saunter out of the front door whilst all of England’s police force scramble after that helicopter, I want to give you a chance to save yourself.’

                ‘Why?’

                ‘Because it’s hopeless and the thought amuses me.  Now soon Mickey will be lighting that fuse and-‘

There was a cry of pain as the match in Mickey’s hand burnt down to his fingers and he dropped it.  A loud hissing crackle filled the room as the fuse lit and began to burn its way toward Max and the Barron.

                ‘Oh, great,’ moaned Trout.  ‘Scratch that – right about now Mickey will light that fuse and it will burn its way toward you.’

The Barron then released Max’s arms, leaving the rest of him chained to the post.

                ‘Look up,’ he said.

Max did so and saw a bucket suspended from the ceiling by a length of rope.

                ‘What’s that?’

                ‘That is a bucket full of sand, it is finely balanced and will tip quite easily, spilling the sand onto the fuse and stopping the detonation of the incendiary behind you.  All you have to do is throw a ball up and into the bucket, which will be enough to release the sand.  You have only one shot.  And don’t forget: you wobble, you die.  You shake, you die.  You fumble, you die.  You miss, you-well, you get the picture.’

                ‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ said Max, trying to sound both casual and in control.

                ‘Maybe, but that’s why I thought I’d spice it up a bit…’  The Barron took from his pocket a hypodermic needle with a sinister green liquid within it.

                ‘Hey!  Spice?  I don’t do spice – what’s that?’

Trout removed the needle’s cap and flicked the bubbles to the top before squirting a fine jet from the sharp end.

                ‘This, young Hunter,’ he said, jabbing it into Max’s arm, ‘is a hallucinogen.  It will make you see all sorts of ridiculous things – camels on roller-skates, little green men, yourself escaping.  Like I say – ridiculous things.  Good luck with your throw!  Goodbye forever, Max Hunter!’

With that, Trout handed him a basketball and walked hastily from the Gold Room, taking a laughing Mickey Two Spoons as he went.

                ‘Oh, man,’ cried Max, watching the fuse getting closer and closer.  Not only did he have only one shot, but he had to do it before the fuse passed beyond the bucket.  ‘Speaking ten foreign languages – yes.  Pursuit level driving – yes.  Disarming thermonuclear weapons – yes.  Schoolyard basket ball – no!’

His head swam slightly and he shook it before trying to pull himself free of the chains binding him to the pillar; they were too tight.  Looking back to the fuse he saw it was nearly below the bucket.

                ‘Oh well, here we go…’

Max held the ball before his face like they do on TV.  As he looked at the bucket it blurred, split into two and then reformed back into a single bucket.  He shook his head again, lined up the shot, took a deep breath and threw.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion; the way the ball left his hand, the way it arced through the air, the way it missed the bucket by a country mile and bounced away down the aisle, the way he swore loudly.

And then everything seemed to speed up to double-time.

The fuse seemed spurred on by Max’s failure and sped toward him.  Max looked around; he was starting to concede that he might not make it out of this one.

           ‘I just need more time!’ he said and then groaned.  ‘Duh!  Time!’  Turning the dial on his MI6 Special Equipment watch, he pointed it at the nearest shelf and pressed the face in.  A bright red laser beam sprang out from where the winder had just been, cutting away the shelf support and sending a stack of gold bullion bars falling down onto the fuse wire, cutting off the sparking fuse just in time.  Max took a deep breath.

           ‘Now to stop Trout.’

Realising that he was still chained to the pillar and not wanting to accidentally chop a limb off with his laser watch, Max reached into his pocket and pulled out his deodorant body spray.  Flipping the lid, he sprayed it onto the chain, which shattered.  The spray was not an MI6 invention – it was just a really unpleasant deodorant.

Max Jumped to his feet, rearranged his suit and sprang through the door to the corridor.  Looking out through the window, he saw the Barron’s bald head appear from the main exit below, moving out onto the street.

           ‘I’m going to lose him!’ cried Max.  He looked at the drop below.  ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that…’

He opened the window, causing an alarm to trigger, and then reached behind his neck to a small ring attached to the inside of his jacket’s collar.  He pulled and it came away, trailing a strand of the jacket behind it.  There was a label that read:

                “DANGER!  Maximum drop: 100 feet”

Max judged the distance to the street.

           ‘I’d say that’s about right…’

He secured the ring over the window’s handle and jumped.  As he fell, his jacket unwound; the super-strengthened fibre held his weight as it unravelled, slowing his fall.  With three meters to go, the thread ran out and he dropped the rest of the way.  Lucky for him there was a poodle passing that helped break his fall.

Straightening his tie, he ran after Trout to cries of “Oh, Sweetie Noodles!  My poodle’s flattened!” and “Noodle the Poodle?  Lady, it’s you that should be flattened!”

In just a few moments Max had caught up with the Barron.

           ‘Trout, stop right there!’

The Barron span around with a look of shock.  He glanced up at the Bank of England, which was quite clearly not burning down, and then looked back at Max.

           ‘How…but…I don’t…’

           ‘Like I said, Bon Vout, I am the guy good and I’m here to strop you.’

Trout smiled.

           ‘Slurring your words?  Oh dear, Hunter; is my little serum taking effect?’

           ‘You’re coming with me, Trout,’ said Max, trying to shake the fog from his brain.  The Barron laughed.

           ‘And how exactly are you going to convince me?’  Max held up his shaky watch arm.  ‘What’s that supposed to be, boy?’

           ‘Waser latch.’

           ‘A waser latch?  What on Earth’s a waser latch?’

           ‘A waser latch!  You know, zappy zappy, leggy choppy and all that!’

 ‘Oh,’ said the Barron, his smile faltering, ‘a laser watch.’  Then, without warning, he reached out and grabbed a girl as she walked passed.

           ‘Oy, you old git; let go!’ she cried and kicked his shin.

           ‘Shut up,’ said Trout, his hand clamped around her neck.  ‘I’m an international criminal, don’t you know!’

The girl reached up and stuck her chewing gum smack in the middle of his forehead.

           ‘Back off, Hunter,’ warned Trout, ‘or the girl gets it!’

           ‘Drop dead, old man,’ said the girl.

           ‘Don’t upset him,’ warned Max.

           ‘Bog off, chav,’ she replied.

           ‘Charming.’

           ‘I know,’ said Trout, nodding an agreement.  ‘The kids of today have no respect.’

Not wanting to risk hurting the female insult machine, Max cast around for an alternative plan.  His eyes came across his tiny little Smart Car parked just behind Trout.  A bit of an embarrassing choice of car for a young spy maybe, but it came with all the usual MI6 refinements: ejector seats, onboard missiles, extended pedals for short-legged agents.  With a plan forming in his mind, he lowered the laser watch and tried to look defeated.

           ‘Ha!  That’s right, you pimple-faced pillock,’ sneered Trout, ‘stay right where you are.’

As Trout began to edge backwards, taking his verbally challenged kidnap victim with him, Max placed his hands behind his back and began to adjust his watch’s controls.  With the press of a button, the Smart Car coughed into to life.

           ‘Good boy, Hunter.  Take this as a sign of your uselessness!’

           ‘No,’ muttered Max under his breath, ‘take this as a sign…’

With a screech of wheel spin, the Smart Car reversed, mounted the pavement and mounted a No Parking sign, knocking it over and knocking out Trout.

           ‘Oh!’ cried the girl, staggering a few yards.  ‘Oh…that was…’

           ‘I know, I know,’ said Max, gliding his way over with a smug grin and handcuffing Trout.  ‘Amazingly cool.  But that’s the job of international criminal hunters.  Maybe you and I could discuss my inventive bravery over a bite to-‘

           ‘Flaming reckless!’ screamed the girl, who then proceeded to swing Max around by his tie.  With diplomacy clearly not an option here, Max did the only thing left to a decent, honourable spy in these circumstances – he used his laser watch to set fire to her shoes and then made a run for it.