Evil UnLtd Vol 2: From Evil With Love

By Simon Forward

The Farce Of The Dark Side. Villains are the new Heroes in this Epic Sci Fi Adventure.

Sequels. Every villain wants one, but sinister uber-genius, Dexter Snide, demands one.

Evil UnLtd are out to fox the galaxy's viewing public with their very own TV broadcasting network, nested in the branches of the star-faring Tree. But the Tree has needs. Needs that spell disaster for Evil's plans and one unsuspecting (formerly idyllic) world.

The challenge for Dexter and his colleagues in crime will be to ensure that disaster isn't confined to just the one world. A task made tougher when they all die in the first chapter.

But even after their deaths, questions remain: Will piscine spy, Salmon Templar, find any weapons of mass destruction? Has the ultra-bureaucratic System finally defeated Evil UnLtd and will they complete all the necessary paperwork in time? And will the hordes of minion hopefuls make it past boot camp to the judges' houses?

All this and the one big question you're asking yourself: Did the author write a decent sequel? Well, do ya feel lucky? Do ya?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Forward
• Release date: Feb 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465734044

Simon Forward

Born in Penzance in 1967. From the age of about three I was probably dreaming of writing for Doctor Who. Certainly it wasn't a case of just watching it: I'd go to bed with all sorts of adventures and story possibilities buzzing around in my head. From the age of eleven, I knew, whenever any aunts and uncles asked the "What do you want to do when you grow up?" question, the stock replies of jet pilot, train driver, astronaut were never going to be good enough for me. "I want to be a writer", I always said. And, what do you know, I am.Author of several works of licensed fiction, including Doctor Who novels, and novelisations for the BBC's Merlin series, I'm now primarily focused on promoting and developing my own original works, ranging from adult sf, through kids' and Young Adult fiction, as well as books that are downright Evil...

Book preview

VOL 2

FROM EVIL WITH LOVE

by

Simon A Forward

PUBLISHED BY GALAXY SIX BROADCASTING

Smashwords Edition

COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON A FORWARD

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

2.1 Base Instinct

Prologue

On Her Majesty’s Golden Pond

4…

Gunfire bit at his heels, chasing him off the platform. He threw himself down the stairway, grabbing for the railing and sliding to the deck below.

3…

He raced for the helipad. Boots stomped down the steps behind him. Another guard stepped out in front, stubby machine-pistol up and ready to do business.

2…

Ducking under spitting lead, he came up and smacked the guard in the chops, flicking his tail around for the chap to trip over at his earliest convenience. He snatched the gun before it could follow the guard, toppling off the jetty. Ahead, the chopper’s rotors were spinning up. Someone was pinching his ride.

1…

Plan B. He whirled and squeezed off a burst or three at the pursuing guards. Then rolled right, coming up behind the crate and running full pelt for the edge of the deck. And launched himself off the side.

Zero. The refinery exploded in a grand mal seizure of fireballs and fractured steel. Spirillus Corporation’s illegal plankton processing operations had come to a fiery end.

Thankfully, Templar – Salmon Templar – hadn’t come to a watery one. It was unlikely, given his piscine ancestry, but he had, in any case, landed smartly on one of the jet-skis he had seen moored there on his way into the base.

As the first few metallic fragments and smouldering clods of green slop began to rain down on the platform and the sparkling sea-water, he was revving up the motor and – in no time at all – scooting out across the waves. Prehensile fins gripping the handlebars, he kept the guards on the jetty busy with a generous dash of small-arms fire. That still left a hand free for waving them goodbye.

Problem: just as he cleared the end of the pier, the chopper sailed into the air. Immediately, it spun, dipping its nose towards him. Giving him a good look at the pilot. Glint, Spirillus’ chief assassin, probably thinking he looked cool in his gold contact lenses but only managing to leer at him like the dumb dolphin he was. Before reaching for the weapons console.

Miniguns and rocket launchers bristled under the helicopter’s wings. The miniguns whined into action, while a few preliminary rockets streamed towards him.

Templar throttled up the jet-ski, veering in under the hail of artillery. Great gobs of ocean fountained upwards as the rockets exploded beneath the surface. Templar was hit with some of the downspray as he wrestled his machine around in a tight spin, tucking himself safely under the chopper.

The helicopter pirouetted, hunting for its target. Templar kept the jet-ski turning on a nano-dime under the chopper’s skis.

He glanced about. Out across the bay, silvery shapes scarred the horizon with furious white. Patrol boats. Half the Spirillus Corp Navy coming to investigate. He couldn’t stay under the chopper forever. But the bay was way too open, no cover.

His enemy above must have twigged. The chopper came bearing down, rotors fanning the water into a frenzy.

Not Templar though. He dumped the machine-pistol and sprang aloft, grabbing onto one of the chopper’s skis. Grafted human arms lent him the extra reach. Handy. As the helicopter continued to descend as close to the wave as it dared, Templar clambered up onto the rail and wrenched open the cockpit door.

Glint turned his head. Double-took.

Templar stuck his head in and thumped the dolphin with his nose. There was a time when he could have speared the guy with his nose, but this was no time for reminiscence. Jerking his head, he butted the guy again with his stump.

Glint screeched and slapped a flipper to a seriously bruised blowhole. The chopper went into a fit of dizzy whirls as though it too was dazed.

Templar thumped the guy some more, throwing in his human fists and fin-slaps for good measure. Desperately, his enemy started fighting back. They grappled as the chopper dipped and spiralled and generally went berserk. It flung them against the cockpit visor. Templar got a faceful of window.

The chopper see-sawed drunkenly and dumped them back into the pilot’s seat. They went on wrestling, dangerously near the open door.

In the struggle, the world in a mad spin, Templar wedged his wrist up under the pilot’s throat. Where’s your boss?

Go to hell, Stumpy Fishboy!

Dolphins. All the wit of a barnacle.

Tell me! He shoved harder. Unless you’d care for a little off-the-cuff explosive.

Actually he’d used both of his cufflink grenades. But there was a comm button on the sleeve of his tux that ought to exert a convincing enough pressure.

Glint nodded, then clutched at his sore head. The river! You’ll never catch him now!

We’ll see about that! He stumped the guy a third time. Then elbowed him out the door and watched him drop out of sight.

Gritting his teeth, Templar gripped the controls and fought the chopper into some semblance of stability. He aimed for the centre of the delta, gunning low over the waves. A few rapid flicks of switches called up the HUD. And picked out his target. There, just cutting into the river mouth like an especially vicious dental instrument: a Spirillus Corp speedboat.

He notched up the thrust. And zoomed the display. The HUD rewarded him with a prime close-up of Hugo Spirillus, smirking and waving, one flipper on the wheel as his boat chopped up the river. He pointed with his bottle-nose. Templar tracked the view back to the boat’s stern. Where Bunny lay bound and gagged on the deck – damn and blast, why’d the cute ones always get themselves taken hostage? No time to ponder the mysteries of life. Aft of her, a Spirillus crewman stood – also smirking – manning a twin-barrel autocannon.

Oh crap.

The chopper helpfully closed up the range a bit, then the crewman opened up.

Templar ducked, flying blind.

Hellish rattles ripped through the chopper. A noise like claws down a steel blackboard set his teeth on edge. Suddenly it was really chilly in here, blowing a ferocious gale.

He reached across to pull the door closed, but only half of it was there. Flapping limply like a broken wing. He looked up.

The cockpit had been sliced open like a grapefruit. Leaving him sitting in the bottom half – and diving towards the waves.

Templar unclipped the grapnel gun from his belt, aimed at the speedboat and fired. He clamped the launcher to the dashboard, held fast to the controls – and braced himself.

The cockpit bowl hit the water like a bomb.

Then rode up on the chopper’s skis, skimming like a not-very-flat stone.

Water sports. My favourite. Second favourite, he corrected himself, thinking of Bunny lying bound and gagged in the back of Spirillus’ speedboat. He fired a wink at the crewman who was frowning down at the hook biting deep into the boat’s ass-end. The guy leaned out, reaching to unsecure the hook.

Hard bounces slammed jolts right up his spine, but Templar stabbed at the weapons console and hoped systems in the bottom half were still fully functional – on himself and the chopper. He flipped the trigger-guard and squeezed.

A rocket smoked out from the launcher, fiery tail painting a path straight to the crewman. Blew him apart in toasted chunks. Coat him in breadcrumbs and he was done.

Spirillus shook his fin in a fist shape. Began steering his boat in big snaking moves.

Now, on top of the butt-jarring ride, Templar was veering all over the shop. Just as the speedboat went arcing around a sharp bend in the river, Templar swung out wide in the other direction. A richly verdant riverbank careened towards him.

He leaned back in his chair, tipping the bowl.

WHAMM!ed into the bank, shot up the slope – and the half-chopper was airborne. Sans rotors, the flight was going to be strictly short-haul.

Templar watched the jungle blurring by below, glanced ahead to see the speedboat lancing along on a near-perpendicular course. Perfect.

He snatched up the grapnel gun, hooked it back on his belt. Then launched himself clear. Parting company with the cockpit, he sailed on, committed to a trajectory that was a hastily shaken cocktail of luck and judgement.

As the chopper’s remains crashed into the trees, Templar swooped in on the speedboat. Legs tucked in for a paratrooper roll, he slapped into the deck like a – well, like a landed fish. He flopped about a bit in the belly of the boat, the wind knocked out of him.

Bunny stared, eyes big as bowls. Behind her gag, she was mmmph-mmphing at something behind him. He rolled over to see Hugo Spirillus, one flipper still on the wheel, training a gun on him – Dolce & Klein 10mm, nice.

The first shot chewed a chunk out of the port side.

Templar preferred not to wait for a second one. Flicking his tail, he swept Spirillus’ feet out from under him, scatting him onto the deck. The gun clattered past. Templar leaped up and dived in for the fisticuffs.

They brawled up a storm, trading kicks and punches. The boat slipped left and right as it bumped along. Suddenly, a bad bounce threw Templar off-balance. Spirillus carped his diem: in a split second, he had Templar by the throat, pinned him to the dashboard.

I’ll kill you, Templar!

There was a BLAM! A second hole opened in Spirillus’ head – just before he toppled over the side. Dead in the water, while the speedboat raced on, lathering the corpse in white.

Nice wake, remarked Templar.

He looked at Bunny.

Still bound and gagged, her shoes were kicked off and she had the gun between her feet, a toe curled around the trigger.

Wow, pretty dexterous for a receptionist. Human, too – his favourite species of female. He’d liked her from the first when she’d flirted with him at the front desk and let him on in. Just when he’d thought his covert intrusion was scuppered. One wrong turn and he’d ended up in the main lobby.

He knelt, briskly untied her and whipped off the gag. He’d had a lot of practice at that sort of thing. Oh, Salmon, she gushed.

But then he was looking past her, past the stern. A whole fleet of problems was coming their way. Churning the river into a single broad streak of angry white, the Spirillus Navy patrol boats. Didn’t they know they were unemployed?

We’re not off the hook yet. He ran to the wheel. Reckon you can handle that autocannon?

Er, those molten bits sticking up on the back?

Templar glanced aft to where the Spirillus crewman had once stood. Ah.

Bunny rushed to his side, latched onto his tux sleeve. What can we do, Salmon?

We’ll have to outrun them.

Engines maxed, he steered them tight around the river bends, chasing the racing line as they slalomed upstream. As some of the pursuers began to fall behind, they opened up with rockets and mortars, showering them with near-misses. Templar powered on through a chasing scatter of watery blasts.

Plenty of shots went wide, seeding the jungle with fireballs.

Too many boats were keeping up.

Pulling the boat around another bend, they were face to face with their next hurdle. Rapids. A low gushing wall of water, spilling down over a lip of rock. Maybe a couple of metres high.

Hurdle was the only option. He scanned the frothing white, found what he was looking for. Then drove them all-out at a hopefully handy cluster of rocks.

Bunny screeched and grabbed. They hit.

And flew.

They hit the water with a smack, speeding on at the higher level.

Right into the next set of rapids.

Templar went for it again.

A glance aft showed the pursuers crazy or determined enough to follow. They wanted him dead that bad. Quite a compliment. Some didn’t make it, patrol boats crunching into the wall of water and rocks. Enough thumped down safely and carried on the chase.

And so they went on, leaping the rapids, higher and higher – upstream. A slew of wrecks in their wake but still dozens of Spirillus gunboats sticking close on their tail, chucking pot shots after them in their spare moments. One lucky hit and this punishing ride would be over.

If only Templar could get them that little bit further…

Their boat vaulted another string of rapids like a flooded stairwell. The last jump dumped them on a flat stretch of fast-flowing water. And there it was, dead ahead.

Dead end! shrieked Bunny. She was a screamer: a good sign.

The rapids ahead were flanked by guard towers and spanned by a laser net, beams latticed like chicken-wire. Actually the gaps were generous enough a well-aimed chicken could get through, but he didn’t rate their chances. Fried speedboat was on the menu.

Still, their boat didn’t have to make it. As long as they did.

Not quite. The Queen’s Reservoir. Most of the royal family was hatched there. Spirillus Corp wouldn’t dare follow us.

He ramped up the throttle. Set the prow spear-straight at the barrier.

What about us? Won’t they shoot us?

Not likely. I’m an agent of Her Majesty’s Government.

She boggled. And they can see your pass from those gun towers?

Fair point.

Fins on the wheel, his hands got to work on his shirt buttons. A flurry of motion and he had his vest off and passed it to Bunny. Wave that.

She gave it an experimental flap and it unfurled into the Royal Piscapalian Navy flag. Templar left her to her task and coaxed a final desperate burst out of the speedboat.

He yanked back on the wheel, willing them into the air.

The bow was good and high when they struck. They sailed aloft. Soared. Shooting like a silver arrow at the laser net.

Templar pulled Bunny to the deck, rolled her to the centreline.

In a scorching heat haze, the boat was stripped away around them. Sliced and diced. Scales lightly seared, Templar was soon left holding onto Bunny and looking down at open water as they flew on. The surface sparkled, dappled with sunlight.

They splashed down in a messy tangle of limbs and fins. Bumped heads as they sank. Bits of burning boat plopped into the water around them.

Templar recovered his hold on Bunny and dragged her back to the surface. She floated with him, gasping for air and looking like she might punch him when she’d got her breath back. A few hissing jets of steam had a go at transforming this patch of reservoir into a sauna.

Below them, the Spirillus boats milled noisily about, engines growling frustratedly, in their stretch of river beyond the laser net.

Templar slinked closer to Bunny.

I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling the urge to spawn.

She put her hands on his chest and bobbed a little further away. But – you’re a fish.

I get that a lot. But look. These arms are all man.

He slipped one smoothly around her waist and pulled her into a gentle squeeze. Soft proof. He’d save the hard evidence for later.

Through thrashing white water, we descend into swirling blue. Rays of light slant down to play among the bubbles and fluid shadows. Shadows transform: the slender silhouette of a naked woman emerges to dance in the light. Others rise from the depths to swim, almost shark-like, around her. We dive slowly into the midst of their circling naked forms.

An elegant silver gun juts in from the left, one beautifully manicured finger closes around the trigger and sends a bullet streaking across the oily maelstrom of silhouettes.

Sparks ignite and in the explosion of flame, the women are now fiery sirens. They dance, they somersault, they act out some fairly amateur martial arts. If you watch too closely, one of them can be seen to fall over.

Mostly they twist and turn gracefully, rising in a seductive fiery spiral. Above us, sunlight ripples on the surface.

Suddenly, a flotilla of speedboats spears past overhead, painting a screen of churning white in which the burning sirens die, fatally extinguished.

But no, we break through the white, rising into sky blue, bringing the dancing figures with us as curvaceous, vaporous hotties. Babes of cloud, cumulo nymphus, they take to the air, flexing sinuously as – suddenly – sleek fighter jets weave their way between them, looping them with vapour-trail ribbons as they engage in a deadly, balletic dogfight.

Some of the cloud-babes swoop in on the lead plane, settling to dance on the wings as it arcs through the sky, a brace of heat seeker missiles streaking hotly after it.

A phone rings.

Templar hit pause on the remote and turned up the lights. Every bloody time, without fail.

Templar. Salmon Templar.

Templar. We have a situation. Get your tailfin to HQ ASAP.

What’s the situation, sir?

Are you alone? Need I ask?

No, sir, but I soon can be. Templar looked over to the couch where the deluscious Bunny was peeping over the back with her tousled hair and come-back-hither eyes. Sorry. Something’s come up.

It’s what I was hoping.

She had succumbed to his charms pretty quickly. They always did. No, he told her, gesturing with the phone. Time you skedaddled.

She pouted. Really? She jerked a thumb at the screen. That’s all you wanted me for? To film me in silhouette and drop me into some fancy graphics?

It’s a hobby.

You’re weird.

I get that a lot.

Shaking her head, she hopped off the couch and disappeared to the studio to collect her things. Templar watched her cute butt receding, barely cloaked by the short robe.

All clear, sir. What’s up?

Evil, Templar. Evil Unlimited.

One Week Later…

Dexter. Knucks. Tanith. Ferret. Doomy. They all huddled together, frightened, bewildered, terrified. Ferret was bleating more than usual, but not for long.

A wave of blinding flame ripped through the ship, wiping the horrified, disbelieving expressions off their faces – and wiping their faces off the existential blackboard.

Act One

Thunderbowl

Six Days Earlier Than One Week Later…

Knucks was enjoying one of his favourite pastimes. It wasn’t quite the same one-handed, but he made the best of a bad situation.

He balanced the book on his knee. As novels went, it was the sort that should have come on a roll, wrapped around a cardboard tube. Not worth the paper it was written on.

Paper was in short supply – had been for yonks. It was – along with, perhaps unsurprisingly, wood – one of the rarest commodities in this arm of the galaxy. This had nothing to do with the scarcity of trees. Life-bearing planets were ‘scarce’, of course, but statistically speaking in a galaxy of 100 billion star systems, ‘scarce’ amounted to ‘rather plentiful actually’ and the Milky Way was more crowded with sentient life forms than was entirely desirable.

Likewise, trees.

Entire worlds could be given over to forestry, nature parks, orchards and so on, and with the advent of terraforming even the less hospitable planets could eventually be seeded with more trees than billions of monkeys, who had no ambitions to evolve into anything greater, knew what to do with.

Meanwhile, as humanity spread ever outwards across the cosmos, the long-dreamed-of paperless society continued to elude them.

Technological advancement was all very well, but when it came down to it people were old-fashioned at heart and preferred the solid feel of a book in their hands, the glossy veneer of a magazine at their fingertips and the curious comfort of their fried potatoes stained with newspaper print. And the various e-formats were a poor substitute when it came to a good book burning. Many a tyrannical despot had had to order vast libraries of great literary works transferred to print before chucking them on the bonfires. Demand needed supplying, but it was all okay. No matter how far the human population expanded, no matter how much they procreated like bunnies, there were always trees to meet the appetite of this paper-hungry species.

Until the System.

The System. When humanity discovered that all that was needed to achieve a paperless society was to set up shop anywhere within a few million light years of a sprawling interstellar bureaucracy.

Trees quivered at the System’s rampant expansion and, if they had ever developed a sufficient level of self-awareness, they would have spent a great deal of time wondering why they hadn’t focused instead on developing a good pair of running legs. If there was wood to be had, the System gobbled it up and spewed it out as ream upon ream of regulations manuals, application forms, rejection forms, acquisition forms, records, accounts, folders and files - and departmental Christmas cards whenever the annual budget allowed.

Paper fed the System. The System controlled paper.

Unlike the trees, newspapers and other sectors of the publishing industry - in neighbouring territories as well as within the System - learned to adapt and survive.

Newspapers and books were compiled and edited on computer in time-honoured fashion, but were converted into condensed data streams and broadcast in encrypted form to all ships as they arrived in a given star system. Those who wished to download would pay the decryption price and if they chose to print out their own hard copy they did so at their own peril. Or rather, they did so to the detriment of their lifetime Paper And Wood-based Products Allocation. This was the strict ration allocated to each individual at birth and in theory it was impossible to exceed your quota.

Of course the filthy rich had no problems circumventing such regulations, the simplest means being to make sure they lived outside the System, relocating to exclusive enclaves like the Beverly Extents or, as with those who claimed some royal blood, establishing separate states like the Empire. Where paper, wood and any other commodity could be bought.

Paper trafficking was rife, of course, and the penalties meted out by the System were severe, with additional sentences imposed on those especially cocky criminals who chose to thumb their noses at the law and conduct their illegal trade wearing paper pirate hats.

Knucks had a simpler solution still and was happy to just hack into someone else’s PAWPA account and arrange a spot of reallocation as and when his quota dipped dangerously low. And these days, he was quite the avid reader.

In the past he had himself engaged in the occasional act of paper piracy but even before his efforts to improve his mind and his literacy, he had begun to feel that all that was beneath him. That, and he had started to feel a touch silly wearing the paper hat.

Hacking and Allocation theft were serious crimes in the System, which suited Knucks. But there were lower practices being conducted under the guise of legitimate enterprise.

Junk mail producers, for example, would routinely offer to buy consumers’ personal Allocations, with the assurance that they would get it all back sooner or later and could always recycle it into something more useful. Those that fell for the scam would subsequently find their junk mail had been printed on paper that had been rendered useless for recycling purposes. And then they were faced with using what could have been their lifetime’s supply of good reading to supplement their frankly minimal allocation of toilet paper. A luxury which, never mind the expense, remained preferable to all of the technological alternatives developed by scientists so far.

Mr Knucks rarely gave a moment’s thought to those sufferers as he read while sitting on the bog. The satisfaction to be had from being extravagant with paper in two good ways at once was a bonus on top of his ongoing campaign of self-improvement.

He was only mulling it over today because the boss had said they were going to be taking on the System.

Good job, far as he was concerned. It got his vote.

Not everyone had such personal scores to settle with the System. But they were all up for it – Ferret, Doomy, Tanith, Evil R – even Hatchy’s egg had had an air of approval about it when the boss had announced the objective. The System was a bureaucracy, after all. Everyone hated it to one degree or another.

Knucks already had it in mind to take a wastefully extravagant wad of bog paper from the roll when he was ready. Just to rub the System’s nose in it. Metaphorically speaking.

He sighed and cast his gaze over the next few paragraphs of dross awaiting his reading pleasure. Yeah, he figured, he’d be flushing the novel down the pan straight after his business. There was about as much movement in the narrative as in –

KERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAASSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

With an almighty rending of metal, something rammed its way through the wall behind him and shoved him off the john. Flying forward he slammed into the deck, the wind knocked from his lungs but thankfully nothing else kicked out of him.

Holy shit! gasped Knucks.

It seemed apposite under the circumstances.

People sometimes ask me, said Mr Ferret, how do you reconcile your squeamish sensibilities with the use of weapons? To which I always answer, it's all in the presentation, baby. Or words to that effect.

He had the studio to himself, which was just the way he liked it.

"This week on Pimp My Firearm! we're looking at the Burger Republic M743-C Rapid Pulse Plasma Blaster, quite an old piece but a favourite from back in the very earliest days of the big fast food chains' diversification into military equipment manufacture. The cyclic rate of fire is considerably lower than the Mocha-Cola MP29X-3000 Compact Machine Pulse-Emission Demi-Rifle, but it's name and designation trips off the tongue a tad more readily and it comes with an integral suppressor, which not only cuts down on noise signature but reduces barrel overheating which, as we know, makes life a lot easier when it comes to suspending furry dice from the barrel. (Although do still make sure to use fairly sturdy well-insulated wire rather than thread, which will fray in no time at all in combat situations - leaving you entirely diceless.)

"Anyway, for this little number, I'm recommending a hot pink laminate coating. Glow in the dark is good, but not for night stealth missions, obviously. Some of you may prefer the full body rebuild, using transparent plastics for that chic see-through look, but for my mind, that's so last year. For the showier weapons enthusiasts out there, like my colleague, Mr Knucks, who is always very keen to announce the arrival of himself and his gun, a boom box can - just about - be incorporated into the stock, but it is a little excessive for a weapon of this size and bass vibrations may throw your aim off by some margin. On the plus side, it is equipped with a laser sight so the attachment of a bobble head figure of your choice atop the gun need not interfere with your targeting as you will never have to sight along the barrel.

"You'll also want all the trimmings with this little baby, and on this occasion I would opt for a dash of streamlining chrome to nicely offset the pink. And for the finishing touch of real class, some fur on the grip and perhaps on the ammunition clip. Zebra stripe would be my choice, but you could probably get away with tiger or leopard skin. Some people prefer to go for the more endangered species, for that extra Evil touch, but if you are squeamish like me, you can go with a synthetic substitute and no one need ever know.

Remember, this little beauty packs quite a punch and anyone questioning the authenticity of your fur can easily be silenced at the pull of a trigger. Happy pimping!

Mr Ferret smiled. How was that? he said to the quartet of hovering bobcams currently orbiting his head like shiny planetoids around, appropriately enough, their central star. Prof Doomladen had pointed out that, courtesy of the monoplasm in his nervous system, he could act as his own camera, but Ferret argued that viewers would want to see his face and since none of the others were willing to stand around and film him through their eyes, bobcams were the way to go.

They were also highly courteous.

Very good, sir. We may have to go for another take though. Sorry.

Ferret blinked his unpatched eye. The bobcams were also exceptionally fussy about quality. Every one of them fancied themselves as a mini Kubrick. What was wrong with that?

We’re picking up some sort of rumble on the soundtrack. It is faint, sir, but it is really messing with your dulcet tones.

Oh. Well, we can’t have that. Mr Ferret had thought he’d detected some sort of vibrations while discussing streamlining chromes offsetting pink, but he’d put that down to natural enthusiasm for his subject. Let’s go again, then. From the top.

He was a professional, through and through.

The director bobcam counted him in: 3, 2, 1. Then flashed a red light at him.

Ferret had his greeting smile poised and ready to go. People sometimes ask me - he began.

Only to be drowned out by a blaring alarm.

Oh soddery buggerflip! What now???!

Professor Doomladen woke with a start – to find a naked Tanith straddling him. Wh - what are you doing? W-won’t Mr Snide be angry?

Oh, he’ll be furious, I imagine. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t it what we both want?

I, ah - Doomladen knew exactly what he wanted and, to be fair, she was attending to that in some measure right now, and her soft, slow rhythm was pumping great globules of perspiration up through his pores. But he – he’ll kill us. I mean, we’re – all comprehensively laced with monoplasm. He could see everything.

Probably more than the Professor was seeing, since his lenses were getting seriously fogged. To an extent it only added to the steaminess of the scene, but he really preferred a sharper image of that flat, flexing sternum, those deliciously dangling breasts bouncing like a pair of perfect pink balloons experiencing some mild turbulence. It wasn’t