Droning on...and on...and on...and on...and on...
Lies, Lies, and more damned lies...
HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY
Thursday, October 28, 2004

GRABBED ON FIFTH

I was walking up the street the other day -- something from the past told me that it was Fifth Avenue -- when a limousine screeched to a halt beside me.

"Could that louse-laden bundle be old Hamish Dixon?" said a voice from deep inside the leather-lined interior.

"No it fucking well isn't," I said, taking another swig at the bottle of malt liquor of which I've become so fond and staggering on. At the time I said it, I was quite sure I'd had enough of Hamish Dixon.

"Slobbo," said the invisible limo rider, "grab him."

"Oo me?" said Slobbo, the invisible rider's driver. "But 'e stinks. 'E's deesgusding. Eugh!"
"Slobbo," said the voice, "take a look at him."

Slobbo came up and peered at me more closely, holding his nose as he did so.

"Now," said the voice, "Is that your ex-employer Hamish Dixon, or is it not?"

"Look like 'eem," said Slobbo. "But 'e steel steenk. Sure you wanneem inda car weeth you?"

"I have the air-mask I bought after 9/11," said the voice. "If he's too disgusting, I'll cover up."

"You the boss," said Slobbo.

"We'll take him home and hose him down," said the voice.

Slobbo grabbed me ungently and shoved me into the car. I looked at the erstwhile invisible man.

"Well, Hamish," he said, "what a surprise to find you in this state!"

I had absolutely no idea whatever who this rich fuckwit was who'd kidnapped me. What I did know, however, was that I could feel some sort of inverse stirring in my loins.

"Is this tart-trap a Maybach?" I asked.



and on...and on...and on...and on

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