Background
A mad, mad chase is shaping up across England. In this chapter I introduce Mr Ugly
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Friday, 7:51 am, July 13, 2012
London has its dark side, and within its dank quarters a private detective prepares his morning. Having been on the force of England's finest for the last twenty-six years before retiring has not tainted his character.
Presenting himself as the epitome of good in a wardrobe of white makes him an eye catcher, but what lay within him has been branded and charred by hell. A twisted mouth shows a toothless smile that when once set in place, display a phony set of porcelain tiles and silver. Years of fighting has robbed him of true manhood, and teeth. Moods swings fight him daily and winning at his own crooked game is his only reward. The joyous payoffs of life was never in the cards for this evil bastard by the name of Lance Pilot.
Lance Pilot, the failure who walks like a man. Failing at every avenue of humanity and society. Born a failure from head to toe, starting with his hair which is departing faster as the days go by. His teeth are like those of the a pirate.
Tormented and jealous of others, he seeks to rob the good hearten of their cheer, along with their teeth, and sometimes their life.
Bribes and blame are his tools and he uses them well, along with lipstick and rouge. Hidden from the outlaws and deep within his closets, is a deep desire for women's clothing, and the body that fit into it. His. He is a cross dresser.
Barbed wire had scarred his cheek as a child just below his left eye. His mouth is turned down on this morning as this masquerader of men strolls about his flat in women's clothing. His blood red lipstick is caked and smeared on his pillow, which is still damp, after crying his mascara off to sleep. A night of going drag proved once again to be a frustrating evening as not once was he asked to dance or let alone, not one future bit of rough offered to light his cigar.
No one likes him, period. Not even a crooks, crook. He is the skunk at the picnic. The weird one on the block. His drag name is Rene Gunn but the crooks call him, 'The Pretender'. He is a serious joke to stay clear of for anyone who knows him, and a ruthless and cowardly prick to the unacquainted.
Blackness walks within his soul and guides his high heels towards the ringing phone, after waking late, still in his party dress and smoking a cigar.
"Lance here. Hi. What's up? Why'd you call. They took what? Wait up a minute Jason!"
Setting the phone down he shouts through an open window to a group of children whose soccer ball had set off his car alarm. "Watch it! Don't ya yob's dare touch me car again or I'll kill ya."
Startled by a man's gruff voice and confused by the cigar and girlish clothing they yell back in unison. "Bite me fag!"
Sneering and remembering their faces he turns back to the phone, "Go ahead. What were ya saying? The Alice?"
"Yes the Alice! Seth's lost 'The Alice' to some foreigner and I want you to find it Pilot!"
"You sure bout that?"
"Well of course I'm sure. Why else would I call you Pilot?"
The two never had a friendship but were more mutual fiend's. Jason, the other voice on the phone, held first hand proof on two of Pilot's killings, that of a priest and a barrister. Nine was the actual total including five women and his only daughter, on just the day before, narrowly escaped his attempt by dropping her down a chute. Those who had the opportunity to beg only brought him pleasure, just before their life ended. He is a failure at everything except mayhem.
"What's happened to Seth, Jason, has he gone batty? How did that happen?"
"He rented it to some American yesterday. Hello? Don't you listen, Pilot? That's what I said stupid. Do you want the job or not?"
Pilot waves an exaggerated middle finger to the phone.
"Well of course I'll take the job. Count me in, three thousands the price. Three thousand pounds I said. You say that once more Jason and I'll hang up!" A slight pause. "Good, I'll start straight away, and don't call me stupid. Chow"
An enthusiastic Lance hangs up and dances across the room, his head tilts from side to side. Placing the phone back on the receiver, he begins transferring his girlish attire back onto wooden hangers. Donning sharply pressed white trousers, an 'A' shirt and a starched white shirt covers the dense hair on his back which resembles that of a monkey or buffalo.
This pale white man, who stands five foot three in sheer stockings, gives himself the once over on his freshly shaved face. A bald spot, which started out at silver dollar size, has taken over 53 years to spread as his forehead expands with every shampoo. Determination is written on his face this morning as he looks inside his nostrils, lingering hair is found, then plucked. Like an actor rehearsing a walk on, he stands in front of the mirror practicing stares as his dress rehearsal for his day begins. His head tilts, and cracks, he gives a quick wink and nod and he's ready.
Lance gathers his car keys and quickly checks his flat. Secure in his mind that everything is neat, he leaves. His white Range Rover sits covered with dents and blemishes, but he likes it that way. The exterior of this traveling trash can blends in with mystic that the driver exudes. His disguised being comes to life.
Driving away from the curb his talons reach out and snag a missed kicked goal, running over the very same soccer ball that belonged to the twelve year old punks. Haunting laughter fills his cars compartment as the children watch in horror as their ball is flattened, they flip him the bird.
His nauseating laughter will remain with him as he regurgitating the look on the kids face and cackles more.
But five minutes after he left, a slurry of stones crash through the one and only window of his home. A fire escape gives the children a platform on which to voice their hatred. Loose stones and trash that sat stuck into the muddied ground below now sits one story up in Lance's flat. A table that Lance had poured hours of labor into, now holds the deep skid marks from jagged rocks thrown at close distance. This is probably the first time giggles have ever echoed throughout his room. Three glass framed pictures of fighter jets all crashed onto the floors surface, there were no survivors. His newly decorated dwelling awaits his homecoming.
Jason Von Twitter's home sits amongst a grove of trees one hundred yards from the road. Roosters walk about the front lawn as did peacocks and geese. Lance picks up his speed on the long circular driveway squealing his tires as he skids to a stop, but not before he hits a jaywalking rooster.
"Pop goes the weasel!"
Jason shouts from behind a hedge. "You think its great fun scaring my birds don't you? I'll never understand you or your sick sense of humor Pilot." Unnoticed as of yet Jason looks down at his prize bird.
"Oh how could you? Bastard! Hope you know I'm deducting a thousand pounds for running over my pets."
"A thousand pounds my ass, that's half my fee Twitter. You're nuts! Pets? These are just chickens. You're the sick one Vonie, not me, you are, you're the crazy, not me." Pilot continues to rambled.
"Besides, I'm hungry. Have your cook prepare my latest roadkill." Lance picks up the dead bird and offers it out to Jason who turns on one heel and heads for door. Lance chucks the bird off to the side, cackles, then follows Jason through the massive front doors.
"Listen Pilot, like it or not! You'll do as I say. Otherwise you can just take your sorry ass back to your little flat and prance about."
Lance's demeanor stays cool but his false teeth grind silently with anger as Jason continues.
"I'm deducting a thousand pounds I said, that was my favorite rooster you butcher! By the way I see you failed math too! Toddler school must have really been a challenge for you Pilot. It's one third your pay, not half. If you had three apples and you took away one, oh never mind. Even if I drew you a picture you are such an idiot, that," Jason stops and shakes his head, "why am I even talking to you? Just do the job and keep me out of it."
High heels echo on a hardwood floor as an impressively sleek and stacked redhead, wearing a cashmere sweater, comes into view.
"Who is it baby? Oh it's you! Why is this moron here?
"Now wait Alice. Let me explain why this morons here."
Shuffling to the bar Jason pours a drink and chugs it down.
"Oh, I'd offer you a drink Pilot, but I know you would probably just make a fool of yourself by speaking and don't make yourself at home, you won't be staying. Listen Alice I have great news. Seth has quite possibly made a huge blunder."
Her face turns from a frozen nausea after viewing Lance into instant warmth.
"I've called upon Mr Pilot, the idiot, to fetch us, correction, fetch you, the prize that you so rightly deserve, the Alice."
Unbelieving she cries out, "The Alice? My car!"
"That car is his whole livelihood and without it he's ruined Alice. Then we can just waltz into the property. Since the judge gave you first rights to the land we can pay just mere pennies and make millions!"
"You know Seth won't rest till he finds that car Jason."
"Not if we find it first my dear! And that being said is where this jerk comes in to play. It's the only area where this moron shines."
The Alice along with Seth's garage has been a bone of contention between Seth and the woman that the car was named for, Alice Petrobalm. She was awarded a large sum of money by the court but granted Seth all other possessions. For years afterwards Alice continued trying to gain possession.
It's not as if she was all that bent on having the car because she loved it or felt she actually deserved it, but what she really wanted was to ruin Seth. She was a bitter woman that wanted to cause nothing but chaos in Seth's, and for that matter, every other mans life. Her fourth husband Jason, was just cannon fodder and is just about ready to be blasted to smithereens and of this he was well aware. He would agree and do just about anything to survive.
"Listen Pilot, you evil son-of-a-bitch, I want you to find that car and either secure it or destroy it. Make it so no one will find that car, and don't screw it up. By the way, if Seth were to disappear too, I'd triple your fee and then some. Keep us informed and give us a call when the deed is done. I'll get you the money and send it in the usual way. Now leave before I get ill, cause you my sick friend, are still a bastard!"
Lance leaves for his flat to gather the things he needs and makes plans to leave Monday morning, after a visit to his mother.
Arriving home, Lance unlocks the door and "what the hell?" He spoke not a word for the remainder of the afternoon and as for the damaged goods, every bit of it was thrown out the window. Afterwards he plans his revenge on the young yobs in neighborhood and then naps in his favorite corner.
Author Notes
Hi... I am promoting this to correct my past-tense - present- tense problems... sometimes I feel really confused, other times not.. Problem with passive voice also... Please correct with suggestions is appreciated, thanks ... Bill
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