A Work of Fiction in 7 Parts: ‘Murder on the Edmonton Express’ – Part II


So I went…

…Right into the middle of a TWA hijacking.  Can you tell I was not having a great, wonderful, super day?  The MiB – who called himself Beaker (no idea why) – gave me my tickets atop the Tower of London and I flew – well, what do you expect from a super spy, anyway – cab driving?!?  Actually, I took my hand glider and lifted off toward Gatwick airport miles away.  Colder than all Hades up there, I can tell you that.  My gonads still endure at the thought.

Well, anyway, back to the story.  I landed my glider on the outskirts of the airport and wandered in, unnoticed.  Wearing no disguise I looked like a handsome Humphrey Bogart and sauntered up to my gate.  Thousands of people were there, cameras, media crews, journalists, rocket scientists   you name it.  “Shit.”  I muttered.  I actually muttered it. Aloud.  If you don’t believe me, read that last bit again.  It’s in quotation marks.  That means I said it.  So there.  Pardon my American.  I walked up to the gatekeeper who looked too much like my last date and asked her what was going on.

“Oh, kind sir, I have terrible news.  Oh, sigh.  Your flight is cancelled.  Behind me and through those very large windows you can see why.  Oh, Sigh.  The Concord has been hijacked!  Oh, Sigh.”  She fainted.  Daphne, her name tag said.  Daphne?  No, it couldn’t be.  I looked closer at her cleavage.  Yep, it was!  She was my last date. (Not bad, so I groped a quick feel, grinned, and laid her down on the floor.)

“Yes, hijacked!”  Everyone in the port echoed back.  I screamed.  This scenario began to sound too much like a Gilbert and Sullivan Musical.

“All right, all right!”  I was cranky and getting pretty pissed off.  No one was taking charge.  I didn’t see any security or anyone of importance other than a rather handsome man wearing a cream coloured trench coat and matching fedora.  Crap, I was looking into a reflection in the window!!  I’m not complaining! “Everyone, please listen up! I am master spy Pep-shi, from Japan and I am looking out for all of you! Can anyone tell me what is going on here?”

“I can,” came a tiny voice in the crowd.

The crowd parted and a midget, dwarf, someone small, vertically challenged, take your pick of terms, walked up to me, batting his eyebrows.  Yuck!  The tiny fellow in drag let a blue boa wrapped about him to drag twenty feet behind.  What made me pee my pants was the fact he held a Gatling gun at my testicles.  I can tell you it is not the most comfortable feeling in the world.  You have someone ready to remove your entire reason for living while you’re awake and see how you like it.

“Who might you be, Shorty?” I asked in my best authoritative voice.

“You’re a turd, Pep-shi.  You don’t recognize your old friend and CIA buddy?”  He paused for dramatic effect, turned his head both ways, stepped forward and grabbed my tie, pulling me down to see him eye to eye.  “I am Queen Kong.”

“Queenie!” I screamed in sheer delight, startled out of my wits. “The last time I saw you, you were eight inches taller, and black.  You.. you… you’re Asian now! What happened?” Around us the crowd dispersed as Queenie ordered all the CIA agents to pull the people back.  Not bad, though the media rioted.  The CIA in typical fashion responded with gas and bullets.  The media cleared out pretty fast after that.  Queenie and myself were left alone looking out the closed-door that led to a hijacked plane.

“So what did happen to you, Queenie?”

“Cross culture dinner picnic. I slept with a French Frog and woke up the next morning looking like a short Khan. I can tell you, this skin does not go with my high heels!”

“No guff…so what’s the scoop, old friend?”

He pointed outside, laughing. “Some stupid idiot calling himself Elvis John Franklin Robert Martin Luther King Kennedy Presley Jr. took over the cabin.  He’s demanding we release the J.Edgar Hoover files on the Alien Abduction of Princess Di.”

I looked at him, exasperation written all over my face. “We can’t let those documents out to the public!  The United Nations, the Pentagon, and the entire free world would be ruined!  If everyone knew the UN allowed aliens to kidnap humans in experiments to save the planet, the Captains of Industry would revolt! We would see instant degradation of our resources.  We cannot allow this to happen.”

Jaws firmly clamped on one of the better cigars the world had to offer (straight from the corner growing store), Queenie batted his long lashes and spat.  “You got a better idea than negotiations, Pep?”

I lit his cigar and grinned my widest grin.  “You get me another date with Daphne and…hell yeah!”

“Daphne thinks you’re a flake, Pep.  I suggest you try out that Priscilla dame out in Edmonton, AB.  Next time you are in the outback up in Canada way, give me a call and I’ll set you up!”

I looked at him, my eyes crossed.  “You know, Queenie,” I said.  “I’m heading out that way on my next flight, which happens to be that flipping plane!”  I shoved my thumb at the long sliver of silver atop the tarmac.  “Gimme that bazooka!”  I grabbed the bazooka out of his backpack, and without even thinking (heck, I only had a half cup of coffee all day and that decaf), pulled the trigger with Queenie screaming in my ear.

The plane exploded like a gazillion Roman Candles lighting up.  It was magnificent.  I spent the next four hours discussing the art of warfare with my old friend while rescue ops cleaned up the much on the tarmac.  Sad thing, losing that concord.  It to take me to Toronto…

“You really are a turd, Pep.”

“Why’s that?”

“You notice anything odd about that plane before you blew it up into so many pieces of sexy silver coloured shards?”

“No.  Nothing besides the red carpet, the five black limousines rolling away from it with the Union Jack plastered all over them. Why?”

“Prince Charles and his mom were aboard.”

“Oh, well.  I’m not English.  Why should I care?”

Queenie looked at me awkwardly for a second before shrugging.  “Yer right, Pep.  I keep forgetting you only live in England because of the women. Good sex.”

“Yep. Listen, you want to join me on a quest of solving a murder?”

“Hmm.  I’ve got some time coming.  Why not?  Who kicked the bucket, Pep?”

“Mr. Christie.”

The cigar fell from his mouth and hissed in the puddle of water beneath our feet. “Wow. Sure, why not? Is, um…well… You-know-who involved….?”

I sighed.  “Yeah, unfortunately, Queenie.  Peppa’ is at the heart of it.  I’m sorry about you two breaking up last year, but bad guys are bad guys.”

“I know, Pep.  C’mon, we got another concord to catch!  It might be fun kicking Doc Peppa’ in the nether regions for a change.  He always like to play that game with me as target.  It’s time to turn the tides on the scruffy bastard.”

We stole the next concord that came by and left for Toronto.  Toronto’s in Canada as far as I know.  Never could figure out if it was the name of a city or a province or some park or something.  Truth be told, never been there.  Don’t want to be there, either.  I hear Toronto and Canada are cold and they have snow, igloos and forts scattered all over the place.  I checked.  the Times World Atlas and Google Earth list several hundred Forts scattered all across this huge, barren, landscape.  Left a chill to run down my spine.  Heck they even have something called a Lawyer still breeding and breathing there, a really rare thing.  Several years ago do to another case I was on, all the lawyers in the world were exterminated.  It was an accident.  Really.  I had no desire to reach out and touch that red button marked “Target All Lawyers” on Dr. Death’s DeathRay Death Machine.  I wonder if I can shoot me one while I’m in the Great White North.  Lawyer’s Heads make great mantelpiece displays.


About jsmeraka

A writer and all-round contrarian, I've worked in and out of government and the private sector, shared radical thoughts on political and global change and aimed to live on the fringe of political and creative thought. That doesn't mean I do. I just hope so.
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