6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION
A satirical blog-parody thing that is in no way connected to or endorsed by anything or anyone real nor is it actually connected to any actual quality. So don't sue, cause I got nuttin.
CHAPTER 10: DEADLY DANCE OF THE CANNES CAN
When life tosses you lemons, you make lemonade.
When life tosses you a machine gun toting maniac in the middle of the Cannes International Film Festival, you make punch.
POW!
"Die scumbag!" I bellowed loud enough to drown out the roar of the private jets overhead.
"Furious!" screamed GiGi, her Dolly Parton disguise jiggling like mad. "That's not a killer!"
"It's Sylvester Stallone," added Playful1, ruining the almost perfect illusion of her Willie Nelson disguise, "he's just doing a publicity stunt for Rambo IV."
Chompy, disguised as Courtney Love for reasons that make sense only the snake pit of his little badger mind nodded.
I paused and looked down at the man I had been so vigorously pounding. Beneath the blood and the bruising it really was Sylvester Stallone.
"You really are Sylvester Stallone," I said in repetitive amazement.
"Die scumbag!" I bellowed as my fists resumed their bloody work. "This one's for Rhinestone! This one's for Cobra, and this one's for..."
#
One hour, twelve cops, an escape from a paddy wagon, and a car chase ending in a twenty vehicle pile-up later we were at the Lucasfilm suite at Les Auberge Expensif. We had been forced to ditch our disguises, what with arrest warrants out for Julio Iglesias, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Courtney Love. The French reputation for tolerance apparently ends at assault, resisting arrest, unlawful escape, reckless driving, and destruction of property.
What a bunch of prudes. Getting so you can't have any fun.
"What a day," said GiGi, as she flopped down on the couch upholstered in imported Jawa leather.
"Totally," said Playful1 rubbing the rash her Willie Nelson disguise left on her chin. "I'm calling room service for something for this rash. Damn cheap disguises."
Chompy just grumbled and waddled over to the mini-bar. I didn't mind, unlike a lot of other badgers, Chompy was decidedly less psychotic when drunk.
"Yeah," I said sitting in an easy chair. "I've been running around like a maniac since this whole business got started, I haven't even had a chance to read my mail."
That reminded me.
I still had that letter in my jacket pocket. The pink envelope with the mysterious floral scent.
Since we had some time to kill before we went after the next piece of the map, needing the cloak of darkness, I decided to read it.
I pulled out the envelope and opened it. Out flopped a small business card....
...and the next piece of the map.
I had the damn thing on me the whole time.
I picked up the business card, it read:
Saccharine's Shack de Sugar
227 Rue De Julianee
Cannes, France.
And it also happened to be the very same address the map was pointing too.
Someone was playing a game that was either extremely intricate, or extremely stupid. I had to find out, and the next piece of the puzzle was at Saccharine's Sack De Sugar.
I knew about the place and it's reputation. It wasn't the sort of place you take two, relatively, innocent and naive Americans like GiGi and Playful1 to without some careful diplomacy.
"So," I said in my most diplomatic tone, "who wants to go with me to a whorehouse tonight?"
When I regained consciousness I explained the piece of the map and the business card and managed to make them understand that it was purely for solving this mystery. And any services I may procure while there with George Lucas's credit card, will be purely for investigative reasons.
I still don't know where GiGi got the frying pan from.
#
It was close to midnight before the heat on the streets cooled down enough to make it safe for us to head down to the Rue De Julianee, which was lined with ornately decorated clubhouses for the rich and decadent, and the richly decadent, and some even served those rich Decadent chocolate chip cookies you get in Canada...
...But I digress.
I gave the door to the Shack De Sugar the secret knock, and when I got the 'two-bits' response, a small peephole slid open.
I flashed the beady little eyes my new wallet and the door opened.
"Welcome Monsieur Stallone," said the doorman, a rat-like fellow with a pencil moustache who smelled of clove cigarettes and old spice, and I'm not talking about the cologne.
"Did you steal Stallone's wallet?" asked Playful1.
"Let's just say that I collected reparations for for too many bad movies," I answered. "Plus, I'm a bit of a klepto. How's Chompy doing?" I asked GiGi.
"I think he's enjoying his stay a little more than a badger should," she answered, adjusting her bra to handle the extra weight of a slightly robust badger.
I turned to the rat-like door man.
"Okay Willard," I said flashing one of Stallone's hundred Euro bills, "I want to speak to the management. I want to speak to Madame Saccharine.""It will take more than a hundred to open her door," sneered the doorman with contempt.
"How about I toss in an extra---FIVE!" I said just as I delivered a short sharp jab to his gut.
The punch must have sloshed around a lot of wine and escargot, because he went down on his knees.
"I'm sick and tired of getting the run around," I said. "Now you can take the hundred, and tell Madame Saccharine that Furious D is here to see her about a bird, or I could pay you another twenty."
The doorman did the math and then followed in the great tradition of the French nation.
He surrendered.
#
"You gave poor Pierre a nasty shock," purred Saccharine as she languidly lounged on a sofa in her office shaped like a heart. Her lips were poutier than a teenager on an Emo bender, and wore an outfit so tight it left just enough to the imagination.
She was undressing me with her eyes, which was a pretty slick trick, but I had to stop her before she revealed my official Spider-Man underpants.
"First business," I said, shooing her eyes away and zipping up my fly, "then funtime."
"We're here too," said GiGi, pointing to herself and Playful1.
"There's plenty of me to go around." I said.
When I regained consciousness, I decided to skip talking funtime for now, because it was giving me a frying pan sized headache, and stick to business.
"You seek ze Albanian Budgie," said Saccharine passing me an icepack for my head.
"Yeah," I answered. "Someone sent me a part of the map, that tells me the next part of the map is right here."
"I'm afraid that I sent you that map," answered Saccharine.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I made her do it," said a voice I didn't expect to hear.
I turned around and came face to face with....
GASTON LAFARGE
Notorious dealer in weapons, antiquities, antique weapons, and weapon shaped antiquities.
"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" I asked.
"Well Monsieour D," said LaFarge with a Gallic sneer, "when you shoot a man three times in the head, stab him in the chest, set him on fire and throw him off a high bridge, you better make sure he's dead."
"I thought I did," I said. "So you were behind all this."
A dozen goons stomped into the room, their pistols drawn, GiGi, Playful1, Saccharine, and myself all put up our hands.
"Yes," answered LaFarge.
"But why were you trying to kill me and make me find the Albanian Budgie at the same time?" I asked. "I mean, you can do one, or the other, but you've been trying to do both."
"I have a multiple personality disorder," answered LaFarge, drawing a menacing looking pistol of his own.
"No he doesn't," said LaFarge with a decidedly Irish accent, "it's not a bloody disorder. I'm the only one will to talk reason. Hi, me name's Seamus."
"Shut up Seamus," said LaFarge, to himself.
"You shut yer cake-hole froggy," replied Seamus, to himself. "D's the only one who can interpret all the pieces of the map. We need him to find the budgie."
"But I want to kill him you bog trodding potato boiler!"
"Find Budgie, then kill you cigarette sucking surrender monkey!"
I was just about to suggest that we leave to let Gaston and Seamus work this out, but I heard a click, and then felt the floor beneath me disappear.
It was a trap door, and I was falling fast...
TO BE CONTINUED!
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