London Calling #1

The telephone rang amidst the ruckus of screaming and gunfire. Ms. Janet Fortesque answered the phone in the bored tone of a woman who has long endured domestic life, and to whom imminent danger poses no real interest. She paused, hearing the voice on the other line, and her bored expression changed to one of vapid indifference. “It’s London Calling, sir” she said without inflection. Mr. Elton Fortenbras, the resident senior consul, picked up the phone on his desk just as a live grenade crashed through the window and landed at his feet. Mr. Fortenbras gently nudged the explosive with his foot, rolling it just far enough for it to decimate the east side of his office. He covered the receiver “Rose, dear, would you mind getting that?” He uncovered the receiver, and masking his normal droning formality with calculated cold civility, he spoke to the man on the other end of the wire. “Hello Mr. Prime Minister.”

The man on the phone was not the Prime Minister, and he answered in a thick western accent. “The name’s Calling, London Calling.” Fortenbras sighed. This man was the American Superagent who had been promoted to double aught status the week before by the obscure “P” branch. In the short course of seven days, Calling had managed to cause diplomatic incidents across all seven continents, which had resulted in the current state of mass global warfare. The tabloids had taken a shine to Calling, not really so much because of his role in international affairs, but because he was also dating Paris Hilton. Fortenbras rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you, Mr. Calling?” The shots outside had stopped. A voice came from behind him. “You can die, Mr. Fortenbras.” Calling pulled out a triple-barreled shotgun and sent the British Bureaucrat flying heels over head across his own desk. Calling slid lightly into the high backed leather chair of the now littered office and lit himself five Malboros.

The heavy clack of a gun loading echoed off the wall behind him. “Not sho fasht Mishter Cawlling.” The man behind him was obviously a guinea-wop from the wrong side of the tracks, Calling thought to himself. The question was; what was a thirties mobster doing in a modern spy novel? Calling slowly raised his hands, his quintet of smokes still in his mouth. He slowly raised himself out of the leather chair. “Nishe aand eashy, shee?” Calling turned towards the Mobster, and was confused not to see anyone behind him. “Down ‘er shee?” said the mobster. Calling looked down to see Danny De Vito standing at his feet holding a loaded Deagle with both hands. Calling smirked. “Name actors, you never will learn.” And Calling punted the poor midget out the third story office window. Somewhere in the distance he heard a bounce. Calling took a long drag off his death sticks and breathed out a perfect smoke ring. He spun around suddenly upon hearing a noise behind him, his 357 magnum clutched smartly in one outstretched hand. Calling fired six shots into the hapless cameraman behind him. Blood oozed down the lense of the camera, and from seemingly out of nowhere a brass band and a tinny guitar sounded in the background. Calling struck a pose and cast a smoky glance at the still rolling camera. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.


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