Fattyknuckle drumming on mahogany; lemon acrid cigarsmoke, blue in, yellow out; gravelpit vocalcord, with authority: "It is with regret that I note the third anniversary of agent Cecily's disappearance. Mark her down as missing presumed deceased. We must assume that anyone bearing her likeness is an imposter, like John Travolta in Face/Off."
Cigar smoke rises above him toward the ceiling, obscuring him, for a moment, from the discreet lenses of the surveillance cameras - though only, alas, in the visible spectrum.
Fattyknuckle's assistant, The Odious Malcolm, finishes noting his boss's words, then ventures carefully: "We have, as yet, not received the customary delivery that accompanies this anniversary, although I do have receptives posted at all zodiac points around the headquarters."
Before Fattyknuckle’s sentence has time to register on Malcolm-XI’s artificial receptors, it is suddenly replaced by the crackle of the intercom as the voice of Susan Stark, the new synthetic receptionist, materialises like a new language in the ancient grammar of the old board room;
“Morrison Moore is on the line”, her voice purrs, “he has news of Dr Fictionsuit”.
John Kleese says, walking forward from behind the office walls beeing wheeled aside by a couple of Midget stage-hands, revealing the lights, cameras and recording equipment of a BBC recording studio circa 1976.
"Because what Mr. Fattyknuckle and Morrison Moore don't know is that one of their oldest schoolfriends is here in the studio right now, waiting to meet and greet them!"
He bends his gangling legs into a half-crouch and the camera follows him on a Pink Panther style subtle creep around the frozen scene. A fly lands on Fattyknuckle's outstretched hand: he doesn't even twitch. Cleese turns again to the camera, sweating slightly in his polyester suit.
"The man we're about to see is quite a celebrity in his own way, although some of you may not have heard of him. He goes by many names but he is best known by his school nickname of - Dr. Jim-Bob Fictionsuit."
A dark figure steps into the glare of the cameras, seeming already to suck a little of the light from the room.
"They were rivals at school and they haven't seen each other for twenty years," Cleese explains in a hoarse whisper. "Can you imagine what they're going to say?!"
The dilemma vexing Fattyknuckle at that precise moment was whether to admit that his competitive schoolboy goading had always been an attempt to conceal his frothy admiration for Dr. Fictionsuit's leather arse and thereby usher in a new age of friendship and cooperation, or maintain the rivalry to ward off a possible verbal and emotional drubbing.
"Yes, well, too bad you're so ugly," replied Dr. Fictionsuit. "You, however, Morrison Moore are a big delicious piece of work. Once I shave you and have you licked clean, you will make a quaint addition to my Harem Sur Mer!"
"I just don't understand this british T.V." Cecily mutters hoping to wake the snorring Gary from his blissful sleep, "Insomnia sucks, sometimes I just don't know when I'm dreaming or awake."
Cecily reaches underneath her pillow, pulls out the blunderbuss, points it at Gary's head, and says, "someday soon, my darling, you'll go too far, but not tonight," before placing it back beneath her pillow.
