The Post Office of Doctor Moreau (2/2) Kenton Hall

(1/2), (2/2). Part 2.

I have a slight speech impediment which prevents me from speaking my own name without phrasing it as a question. I developed it after three years in an Australian Prisoner of War camp, as a result of being force-fed sun-warmed lager and undercooked shrimp three times a day. It made business conversations tricky, but I got along extremely well with philosophy students. Ah, Rebecca. If only you hadn't been addicted to crystallised Komodo dragon glands, we could have been so happy. 'Don't give me that shit, McCloud,' said the voice on the other end of the line, 'I know you're only putting it on so as to appear vulnerable for your audience.'

Michael Wood was an old college friend who had gone into the protagonist-for-hire business with me after flunking out of business school. He knew me better than I knew the portrait of Branwell Bronte. I never could pull one over on him. I wish he'd called me, instead of this asshole. 'Look, Jerkwad,' I said, 'I've just been through hell on the back of an underpowered Vespa. Why can't you leave me the hell alone?'

Dennis Jerkwad was my Catalyst Agent, which basically meant he waited until I was at my lowest ebb before calling in with terrifying but undoubtedly intriguing propositions. Once, he suggested eating sushi in a Jacuzzi at Midnight, wearing nothing but brogues and pages one to thirty-seven of Scottish Parliamentary Procedure for Dummies.

'Moreau's gone missing,' he said simply. So simply, in fact, that he only spoke the first and second letter of each word, but I got the gist. 'I'll be there in 10 minutes,' I replied. I hung up the phone and flung myself into a pair of tartan trousers I had purchased from a street vendor in Queens during an undercover sting operation in '88. I was posing as an Israeli pig farmer on the take. For all the discomfort and occasional heat rash they caused, I had grown to love the damn things. Much as, I'm told, you grow to love necrophilia after the second or third consecutive night without hearing the word 'cuddle'. Small comforts were essential in my game, as was a very big gun.

I strapped my very big gun to my worryingly large abdomen and threw on a shirt. I missed. Moreau, I thought. That madman. What was he up to now? END OF PART ONE...

Continued...Part 2

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