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Chapter One - Rat Trap

Jim Grundy sobbed gently to himself in the corner of a Heathrow cell. He'd just been cavity searched, and his arse now felt like a clowns pocket. His dreams of the life he felt he deserved were in tatters. No yacht, no fine wines. No women, certainly. All gone. The Columbians had tucked him up like baby at bedtime. Taken his money, asked him to 'prove his intentions' by personally carrying a few kilos. No problem, they said, we do it all the time. Let us know when you deliver it to Tommy Chan for distribution. In his eagerness to please, he had gone along with it. UK Customs can finger an amateur mule with blindfolds on, and Grundy was a rank amateur. The corpulent Grundy had sweat stains right through his expensive Byrite suit, and Customs Officer Blunt gave him a tug as he almost sprinted through the Green Channel. £10 million worth of Columbia's finest nose candy was found in his luggage, poorly disguised as Mothers Pride flour. It hadn't occurred to Grundy that no one imports British flour to Britain. In the corridor outside, Blunt cracked his knuckles. Grundy had been threatened, cajoled and now violated. He was ripe for the picking.

Yvonne knocked. After a pause of ten seconds, a gruff 'Come in' was uttered. Yvonne pushed the door, propped it open with a door wedge made from one of Marvins hooves and rolled the trolley in. She was in the holy of holies, the LTFC board room. A frisson of exitement always made the hairs on the back her legs stand up. She was there!
"You took your time", the stumpy tycoon at the head of the boardroom table harrumphed, "I'm bloody parched".
"Sorry Mr. Wilson-Dallas", squeaked Yvonne, "the water's been cut off, so I had to get a bucket load from the Khans again"
"No bloody excuse", said Wilson-Dallas, "I've just flown in from Miami, where the tea tastes like shite, expecting a good old English cuppa, and I'm left waiting nearly half an hour. I've a mind to get a new secretary"
"I'm not a secretary, I'm the fan's representative on the board", Yvonne ventured meekly.
"Hmmph, well, whatever. Just bloody pour will you, and don't put in too much sugar. It's not good for the old ticker"
Yvonne poured the lukwarm liquid into three 1974 Promotion Season mugs. Only three. But there was four of them in the room. She handed the drinks to the chairmain, and the other board members. Derek Good and Sherry Newbury-Bypass took their beverages without word.
"That'll be all Yvonne", said Good self-importantly.
"But...but..." stammered Yvonne.
"What is it girl?" blustered Good.
"Do you have any news for the supporters? I'm supposed to tell them something from time to time, you know"
"Yes..", said Wilson-Dallas, "yes, I do"
"Oh..", Yvonne replied, trying to keep the exitement out of her voice, "great, thanks."
"Yes", Wilson-Dallas blasted, "tell the bloody peasants to mind their own fackin' business. Now. Get out"
"Yes Mr. Wilson-Dallas. Thank you Mr..." began Yvonne
"OUT!" roared Wilson-Dallas.
Yvonne closed the door slowly. She was giddy with exitement. Another board meeting that she had attended!

Grundy was weighing up his options. 15 years in Belmarsh, or grass up the Chans. 15 years of party in his arse, where ALL his new friends would be coming, or a life on the run but free. Those Triads would never stop looking for him, he thought, but with Tommy behind bars their efforts would be hampered.
"I'll do it" Grundy whimpered, "I'll tell you the lot"
Blunt removed his boot from Grundy's left bollock.
"Told you it was an easy choice", he whispered in Grundy's ear.

"Well, Derek my boy, what have you discovered?" asked Wilson-Dallas. He and Newbury-Bypass had had a little wager earlier. She had reckoned Good would not have done anything with regard to finding a buyer for LTFC. Wilson-Dallas blindly believed in Good. It was his only real weakness. Good was his son-in-law, but he loved him like a real son. The thing with the Harpenden barmaid, well, Derek was only human. So his daughter was heart broken. She'd get over it.
"Well Mark", began Good, "I've been putting out discrete feelers, and the news isn't great"
"How do you mean, Derek?" asked Wilson-Dallas slowly.
"I've spoken to several interested parties, some consortiums and a couple of split-asset fund managers"
"I see" said Wilson-Dallas benevolently, "do go on"
"Well, no one seems to be able to reach an adequate conclusion based on our off-balance-sheet liabilities, black hole accounting techniques and the fact that we're basically bankrupt."
"SO YOU'VE DONE FACK ALL THEN!" roared Wilson-Dallas, "YOU USELESS EXCUSE FOR A MAN. ONE THING, ONE THING I GIVE YOU TO DO!"
Wilson-Dallas drew a $20 note from his wallet, a genuine hand made Guentchev, and threw it at Newbury-Bypass. She tucked it into her heaving bosom.
"I'm going back to Miami", Wilson-Dallas growled at Good, "and when I return in one month, for the end of season bash, you had better have found a buyer. Do you understand, Derek?"
"Yes Mark", squeaked Good, "I can do it"
"See that you do, my boy", began Wilson-Dallas regally, "or I'll see to it that you lose everything. House, kids, barmaid, the lot."
Wilson-Dallas mounted his specially adapted golf buggy, and zipped out.
Newbury-Bypass and Good looked at each other. There was a huge crash from the direction of the corridor.
"I wish he wouldn't try to drive that thing down the stairs" sighed Newbury-Bypass.
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