|
|||
| Chapter 6 - Will
Nobody Think of the Children? Grundy was sweating and panting like a sow in a sauna. He'd just finished 'popping his cork' over Newbury-Bypass' most excellent breasts, and was feeling very proud of himself. 84 seconds - a new record. The book reckoned one day it might get to two minutes, but that was a LONG way off. He looked down at the figure knelt between his legs, as he sat in one of the faux nylon boardroom chairs. Newbury-Bypass was wiping her hand on his trouser leg. He didn't mind, it might not show tomorrow. Life was indeed sweet for Grundy. He'd soon have the club off his hands, fortune was beckoning with the J10 development and now he had a beautiful woman, in his pay of course, giving him a hand job. What could be better? "Next time it'll be much, much better, my love" breathed Newbury-Bypass, buttoning up her blouse again. Grundy almost 'popped' again. "I could be in here!", he thought to himself. John Kildare fought his way through the debris of the previous night's excesses. Scotch egg wrappers, chip shop papers, kebab salad (discarded) and empty Lambrusco bottles. The back of the Merc was a right state. He tumbled into the drivers seat, specially reinforced, and drove back to Mill Hill. Entering the mansion, he paused only to scrape the Marvin droppings from his boot. "Facking mule, he'll have to go to the stables, he's ruining my facking lawn", Kildare ranted gently to himself. He whistled. "Here boy!" he called. From the kitchen came the scraping of claws on the real laminate flooring. In bounded Harford, Kildare's pet poodle. Kildare rubbed Harford's ears. Harford licked Kildare's hand. "You're my only real pal, Harford, you know that don't you?" said Kildare. Harford looked back at Kildare with those big soppy eyes. "I would follow you ANYWHERE", he seemed to say. "Go lie down boy", said Kildare, shooing Harford away, "I've got work to do." Kildare entered his study. The Wolves reserves team picture (2002/03) was displayed proudly above the desk. All those stars just waiting to be plucked from obscurity. It would have to wait though. He had just been sacked and needed to do something about that. He called his lawyer and let him know the score. They would have to go back to Luton and front up this Grundy character. He called Mitch Halford, but the dolt didn't seem to be answering. "Probably doesn't know how to use a facking phone", Kildare mused to himself. Then he called Grundy. "Err, hello, err, John, how are you", stuttered Grundy. "You can shove your facking niceties, Grundy. I'm just letting you know that I've been talking to my lawyer and we're going to take you and that two-bit club to the cleaners. You fools are going to make me millions." "Er, well, (cough), well, John, that's not really possible, see. I've been looking at your contract, and it says here that you were not actually employed by Luton - your contract was directly with the Wilson-Dallas'. So you have no hold over us at all, John. We don't owe you anything." Grundy was getting more animated, "NOTHING AT ALL. HA HA HA HA....." kildare slammed down the phone with Grundy's laughter ringing in his ears. "Harford", he called, "here boy" Harford bounded into the study, tongue hanging out, ready for his master's instruction. Kildare stood up, took two strides and planted his size 10 handmade Breaker boot up Harford's backside. "You useless facking mongrel", he yelled, "get out of my sight." Harford the poodle slunk out. But he knew he would NEVER leave his master. No matter how much he was mistreated, he would always come running. 'Dame' Maggie Morgan MP was staring out the window of her underground office at the House of Commons. It had always struck her as odd that the place should be called the House of 'Commons'. After all, she wasn't 'common'. She was much better than the 'common' people, whom she had deigned to represent. The great unwashed. Proles. Ungrateful scum. Her train of thought was interrupted by her cousin, Rachel. Employed by Morgan as a 'researcher', a mere snip to the taxpayer at £35k plus bens, especially when Morgan had syphoned off her cut. £35k indeed. Young Rachel was only being paid £15k. The rest went to a well deserved home, Morgan's offshore slush account. Mandy has shown her the ropes in her first week at Westminster and this was a well-worn way to keep some funds away from prying eyes. "Well they will insist on paying us monkeys mere peanuts, dear", Mandy had simpered, before mincing off to his salsa class. Or was it guacamole? "Yes Rachel?", sighed Morgan, trying to give the impression of the harried constituency MP, hard at work on behalf of her electors. "Madam", as Morgan expected all her staff to address her, "there's some trouble at Luton. The football club are in a right state". "Luton?". Morgan was puzzled. "You know. Luton." Morgan looked blank. "Your constituency" "Oh THAT", said Morgan, "Oh yes. What's happening there?" "Some guy has taken over the football club, and all hell's broken loose. The locals are up in arms and the police have declared a state of emergency." "So why should I care", asked Morgan, "everyone knows football supporters are little more than Nazi thugs let loose on an innocent public every week. Nothing for me there." "Well", replied Rachel, "if you play it right, you could come out looking like you've done something positive for the town. You know, helped the club." Morgan tossed this about for a few seconds. "You think it might be good publicity?", Morgan asked. Rachel nodded. "Well, don't just stand there girl, call the hotline" Rachel hesitated. "Call Tony?" Rachel asked. "No, you fool" Morgan cried, "the Herald and Post editor. We're going to need publicity, and lots of it. AHA HA HA HA HA...." Rachel had seen that wild look in Morgan's eyes before. It would mean only one thing. A three page spread in the local rag and sixty seconds on Look East. Morgan's idea of heaven! Grundy was just putting the final touches of his masterpiece in place. It was nearly time. He was alone in his office at the football club. Newbury-Bypass had left a couple of hours earlier, promising more pleasure tomorrow. He'd fielded calls from Kildare and Halford, neither of which were pleasant, but he'd told them they were going to get nothing from him. The police had called and recommended he not go to the interview tomorrow at Radio Hertfordshire for his own safety, so Grundy had arranged a press conference at short notice for the afternoon instead. It was all falling into place. Esther Chan was lurking out in the car park and wandering down the street every so often, plying her trade. Old habits indeed. He brought up the webserver on his screen. A few clicks and it was done. His masterpiece was now public. Credit where it was due. The Wilson-Dallas', Derek Good and of course Mandy the barmaid had all done their bit, but they were mainly his ideas. He was especially proud of race track. It was so mad it was good. "Here comes the mad bit, indeed" muttered Grundy under his breath. He had lit the blue touch paper - tomorrow was going to be all fireworks! The white Opel Manta screeched into the car park, just missing the whore by the gates. "Me sucky sucky", called Esther, "love you long time". Harvey Nicholls was tempted. Not by the dubious charms of Ms. Chan of course. He was tempted to go and kick the crap out of her. But he was a good boy really, and not into hitting women. Just teammates. And opponents. And treacherous chairmen. "Harv", whined Peter Holmes, "what are you going to do? It's nearly two a.m., he's not going to be here" "Shut it Homo", warned Nico, "or I'll shut you for good." Holmes whimpered gently in the dark. Nico approached the doors to the main reception. With a deft touch, not usually associated with young Harvey, he picked the lock and opened the door. No alarm. "Come on", he called the Holmes, "move it you poof." Holmes hopped through the door, Nicholls followed and gently shut it behind them. "Now what?", whispered Holmes. "Now we go to his office", replied Harvey. They tiptoed their way through reception and into the office area of the building. A giant painting of Marvin in full flight was on the wall, majestically clearing the second last at Chepstow. Nicholls held his hand up, and they stopped dead. There was a chink of light coming from under the door to the Chairman's office. "He's still here!", exclaimed Nicholls, "lets get him!" Nico booted the door open and bounded in. Holmes followed, sheepishly. This was going to be a bloodbath. When Holmes entered the office, Nico was busy tearing the place apart. The computer was on the floor, it's monitor smashed. The desk on it's side, papers flying. "The cant's legged it", roared Nico, busily slinging the framed picture of Peter Nelkin out the window. "Look!" He pointed to a note taped to the desk. TOUGH LUCK GIRLS BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME ps I'M FINING YOU TWO WEEKS WAGES pps MAKE SURE YOU TUNE IN TOMORROW - 3PM "What does it all mean Harv?", whined Holmes. "I dunno Homo", replied Nico darkly, "but when I find that cant, he's a dead cant." Grundy slunk across the car park to the Cortina. He'd seen those two clowns on the security cameras, and fled as soon as they got inside the building. A narrow squeak. "Tomorrow", he thought to himself, "it all comes out." "Tomorrow I'll be famous on a global scale!", he crowed loudly, pausing only at the gate to scoop up Esther. "Tomorrow, Esther, we'll be known and feared throughout the football world!" Esther Chan grinned at him, uncomprehendingly. "You want blow job or not?", she squealed. |
|||
|