Chapter Two: The Stroppiest Frogs In Christendom
“For God’s sake, Private Kowalsky, get down from that luggage rack!”
“Sorry, Mike,” I replied, sliding back into my bus seat with a clatter. Seventy other Sex Commandos squirted subtle glances in my direction. “It’s just—”
“Yeah I know. Abducting the Imperatrix is your first official mission as a Sex Commando. ‘Course you’re jittery. Christ. I bloody was on my first. Who isn’t? But you’ll be no good on tonight’s raid this spazzy.” Mike’s craggy glare softened a tad. “Finish that letter to your folks. Might soothe you.”
Right.
“I’ll try to describe the typical Parisian,” I eventually scribbled in my well-thumbed notebook, then stared out the bus window. Muffled applause and cheering from assorted exterior crowds spooged right back. “… And, it’s possible you’ll not think me off my rocker. First, a reference point familiar to all: remember Ole Tobi challenging her cousin to that duel a few years back? If you don’t, the grievance was over her cousin’s wedding tuxedo: allegedly her specific choice of tailoring style was the ever so scandalousDemure Immaculate Emeritus XII, and not the more chasteNASCAR Bridezilla Jug-A-Licious Slut Contest. Her hemline exceeded by an inch the ‘Unconscionable Jezebelite Harpy Threshold’, as dictated by, by …”
Aah. Shit. I frowned.
“How do you spell ‘unconscionable’?” I enquired of Mike. “Thanks,” I replied, scribble scribble, err, “‘Unnkawnshinnnibil …’, as dictated by Vatican IV. The duel devolved into your classic riot, claiming fifty-nine wedding guests, six kegs of communion JD, and two thousand roundshot. It soon became an four-year feud, peaking at that inter-Papacy football match against the Washington Whiteskins, where both sides’ fans fought an actual line infantry musket battle. Most never got their hearing back. It only resolved a year ago with the landmark legal ruling ofPapacy Of City-of-Jackson v. Apparently A Pack Of Complete Bastards: ‘I cannot believe I had to flatten both your cathedrals with my monster truck to get you dickheads round a table.’ All over an inch of décolletage …”
I sucked my pencil, lost in thought, staring at outside’s fabulous visual bounties. Three femme-Frogs popped.
“But ship these feuders here to Paris? Their heads would explode. I remain astounded mine hasn’t. Half would think they’d quite literally died and gone to Hell. The other half would think they’d ascended to Heaven. Their relationship with anything even faintly sexual is, is—”
“—Need help spelling ‘sex’?” asked Mike, smirking over my shoulder.
“Need help spelling ‘fourthprenup’?” I retorted without thinking.
His smirk perished. “Aah sorry,” I added, “bit below-the-belt? Come on, if you kick off your, what do you Poms say, your ‘banter’, you gotta expect comebacks.”
M’colleague Staff Sergeant Michael Donovan glowered at me. One of my Sex Commando genetic bio-upgrades informed me his glower-duration clocked in at four hundred and nine milliseconds.
But then he cracked up in a hearty guffaw. “The rookie has a point!” His eyes went twinkly. “But we’d been bussing across France for a whole week,” he added. “What’s with you making yet another million edits to your letter?”
“Well no Brit strike force in the last decade had ever infiltrated and then escaped French soil,” I replied. “In the last week, we’ve witnessed a million wonders. I’d not even known where to start.”
On cue, much cheering and applause ebbed from the boulevard outside. Savage splats of rainbowed gunk spattered our ride’s windows, accompanied by flurries of flower petals and clatterings of coins. I think
