Introduction

Narrowly narrowing my eyes, I spy, Morris, a big guy, full bloke, in the region of 55th and 52, its that old situation again, the agony, the pain, I take aim and fire, my 35MM SLR captures him, frozen in time, and space, and in the window of a retail store the name of which I forget, or do I? I can't even remember the date, no doubt it will all come back later, much, much later, all that goes around comes around, all that goes around comes around, all that comes around is going around, and some people get sick, some people get old, but by the grace of nighthoover and a large BK and fries we can make it.

Chapter 1

I can't remember the date of that day, but I remember the weather, it was a cold wintry day, the wind beating at the door of my office like one of the beggars on 35th Street, and the rain was leaking down from a crack in the ceiling right on my favourite derby hat. Not a good day to do any work, specifically not my kind of job. I took my '45 out of the drawer and examined it carefully. I hoped that it won't let me down this time, even though Morris Semchevsky was pretty slug-proof. A big guy, built like a refrigerator but clever like a weasel, and always surrounded by a bunch of his sleazy yes-men. I had a plan to get him alone, but no assurance it'd work. Dammit, I shouldn't have taken this job, if it wasn't for the money, and that guy with the steely eyes that kept smoking his pipe, not saying a word, just smoking his pipe and looking at me till I said I'd do it.

I have no recollection of anything else that night, but when I woke up I was 500 miles away, in a motel room in a town whose name I didn't know, with nothing but my '45, my hat, a fiver and a hangover. And a hideous purple rayon suit I never saw before. And an ice cube, which melted in a puddle when put to near the hot hoover.

But 'Fear Bob' I thought as I awoke, and despite my finest snooting around the room couldn't find any decent clothing, Morris Semchevsky might be a tricky trout, but the tuna fish hadn't landed me in this herring for a low down dirty pilchard of a bass. I called room service, and asked the astonished and slightly frizzled young girl if she could pop out and get me some cloths. I took the opportunity to find out where I was, and I slowly pieced together the previous evening.

I began remembering.

At 5 in the evening I'd left my office and hot-footed it over to Marvin's place, where I'd again met the pipe-smoking trout faced young old man with the wig, he'd gone through what he knew, and we drank Manhattans, till around 7, when I shot the joint and legged it over to the 'Mil Pond'.

Old man Cray was there, hacking away under the pink umbrella as per usual, and I probed him.

He had two broken ribs, but despite this I found out what I needed to know, and slinging a few cases in teh back of my '69 Mustang, fled out on the freeway, stopping only once to fill up with gas, and buy four kilograms of extra strong mints; this would be a tough job, and bad breath was the last thing I needed.

It had been three AM the next day when I'd arrived in Hooverville, and had booked into the motel…

It was at this moment the girl returned, carrying my cases from the car, which she left on teh side of the bed, before throwing the keys at me. The keys glanced off my shoulder, and I caught them as they bounced off. I dismissed the girl.

I'd known where to go, instinctively, and had walked over to 'Joe's', my '45 in my jacket, and my extra-strong mints in my pocket.

He was there.

Standing in Joe's, propped up against the coat stand, and I eyed him contemptuously as I slung my coat on to the stand besides him, and looked in the direction of the bar, before walking that way, closely followed by Morris Semchevsky.

That's when it had all got dirty, and when I say dirty I mean real dirty, like those corners in the bottom of your fridge you haven't cleaned since last spring. Semchevsky wasn't alone. My plan was to get him to that bar and then finish him off as quietly as possible, but something failed miserably. I cursed under my breath when I saw who was sitting at the table towards which he was heading.

It wasn't the usual bunch of dog-faces that always followed him around downtown. It was a broad. And dammit, it was one of the finest broads I ever set eyes on. She had a kid with her too, a little three-year-old with gold hair that didn't shut her kisser for a single second. His mom was there, too - I knew his mom from the old days when Morris and me were kids together on Hoover Street. A nice old lady she was, and I started feeling bad about the whole job, which is the worst thing you can do when you got a job like that.

'Hey Morris,' I told him, trying to look as sober as I could 'I see you got the whole family here'. He looked at me and smiled like a wolf, and I knew he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

'We're on a little vacation' he said.

I went to the bar to order some breakfast before he could start introducing me to them. The barkeeper looked strange, fuzzy around the edges, like there was something wrong with my eyes, but I couldn't quite put my haddock on it.

Chapter 2

Drawing myself back to the present, I opened my case, and drew out some clothes and swiftly dressed, carefully checking my '45, before casting my mind back to teh previous evening.

Joe's had been dark, it was always dark, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it was dirtier than usual, much much dirtier.

And then suddenly I remembered, I remembered what had happened! That fuzzy barkeeper hit me on the head with a frying pan! Smiling like a maniac too, with those red ears and sharp eyes, or was it the other way around, eyed ears and red sharps?

No, that couldn't have been it. That Semchevsky must have slipped something in my drink when I was playing pick-a-boo with his little girl Megan. That was probably why it turned all green and fizzy.

I took out the '45 again and checked the ammunition. Four slugs missing. Did I do the job or didn't I? Or did I forget to reload after the last job? I've been forgetful about things like that since the last time I had a run in with some of Semchevsky's usual goons. I never knew a haddock could do that much damage to the back of a head. Did I reload or not? I remember getting back to the office that night. It was supposed to be simple snoop and snitch job... a jealous husband as usual. Unfortunately for me, she was cheating on the sap... with Harry the Hammond Organ... Horrible rat that one. Just my luck the dame didn't like him smokin' in the room so he walked out and caught me peekin' before I could duck behind the corner. He would have beaten me to a pulp if I hadn't finally managed put a slug in his hip. I was just happy I was still wearing that disguise from the fancy dress party my secretary made me go to. There was little chance he would recognise me wearing gold lamme and a Morris maniac marzipan minolta mini skirt... actually, now I came to think of It, I didn't even know where the mini skirt came from.

I looked over the table, and eyed Pottsy through half closed eyes, she certainly was a strange sheep, like they used to say in my parts back then. And what kind of name is Pottsy anyway?

As I thought back I started wondering whether there was something wrong with my memory. I just couldn't remember how I got to that table with Pottsy, or who she was, or if this was a table at all or just a random collection of pieces of wood.
Maybe I was still drugged. Yeah, that must be the answer. That would also explain why her earrings kept talking to me.

Chapter 3

Suddenly I came round, and found myself again in teh room of teh cheap motel, my suitcase in my hand, and the clothes I was going to put on laying on the bed. I dressed, and attempted to work out what has happened, what hadn't happened, and why I kept going off on tangents and getting strange delusional experiences whilst in this motel room.

Dressing, and putting the case back in the boot of my car, I tried to make sense of it all – who was Pottsy, had I yet met this guy, what was my job, and where was the cash coming from. As I wondered down by teh disused rail tracks, sorting out the memories and dreams in my head, I suddenly realised I was being followed.

Not wanting to look obvious, I turned a corner, but then settled back in a doorway, to watch the individual pass by.

They walked by the door, without seeing me, and were clearly scanning the disused railway siding to locate me, but my advantage point gave me a clear look at them.

It was Pottsy, there was no doubt about it. But had I ever met her before? Was her name really Pottsy, was I hallucinating again? What was my Job? Where was I?

While I was trying to figure all that out, they spotted me. Pottsy turned and looked at me, and then took off her shoe and slapped me in the face, and trust me, being hit in the temple with a 5-inch heel can sort out for you whether you're hallucinating or not better than a pink elephant.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' she said. 'We paid you to knock that Semchevsky dead, why is he still up and around? And why are you hiding here like a chicken?'
Everything was coming back to me. I tried to answer, but I only managed to cluck humbly.

Again she swung at me with her shoe heel, but this time I ducked, not wanting a matching gash on the other side of my face. Being so casually dragged back to reality I found myself again, and leapt into action ploughing my body into that of Pottsy and sending her sprawling, I stood up and looked down at her. What a chick.

'Hey, babe,' I began, 'don't suppose you'd mind telling me exactly why you are following me?'
I walked around her, still laying on teh floor.

'Look, buster' she muttered, 'You know why I'm here, we want to know why Semchevsky is still live and large, and I do mean "large".'

I regarded her laying on the dust-covered earth.

'The reason, Pottsy, that he is now not dead, as you full know, is that the details of my payment have not been fully resolved'.

I kicked her.

'Cut to the chase chick, who's really hiring me for this job, and where is the dough?'
Pottsy stood up and replaced her shoe. She turned and walked off down another siding.
'Follow' she simply said, and deftly checking my '45 I began after her, eagle eyed all the time and scanning the multiple buildings and hiding holes that surrounded this area, and we walked.

We turned a corner, and there was the bar. 'The others are inside,' she said, 'let's move.'

The inside of the bar did not at all look like what I remembered, or thought I remembered, from last night. The wooden floors, the dim smoky lighting, the pictures of the owner with Elvis Presley, they were all gone. It was a cute little diner, with pink-coloured walls and plastic flowers and candles on the tables. I despised it.

At the table were a couple of suits with a briefcase, who got up silently when Pottsy and me approached them. I sat down, getting a little nervous now. This was obviously the real deal. No more mucking about in dark alleys and then giving up and going back to the little filthy hole I call home when I can't think of a better name. Now I'm actually gonna do it. I'm going to track Semchevsky down and slip him one in the lungs.

'I'm going to track Semchevsky down and slip him one in the lungs,' I started, 'the moment I get my hands on the dough. How much is in there?'

'Fifteen G, like we agreed. And you're not getting it before Semchevsky has bitten the dust.'

'Well,' I said, 'It looks like I'll take that fifteen G's now then. He ordered the key lime pie and that's been sittin' on the rack for over a year.'

Pottsy wasn't amused. 'You know what I mean. And I want proof. Either I watch the deed in person, or you bring me an identifiable body part.'

Pottsy was getting wiser in her old age. Of course I knew that she was thinking of only two body parts that would satisfy her: his head or his left leg. Everyone knew what Semchevsky's left leg looked like ever since the shark attack in teh municipal swimming baths in Wiggan, but that is another story for another time.

I got up, ignoring hte pie, and glanced at Pottsy before walking out and into the afternoon sun.

'Hi Ho, its a killing Semchevsky we go', I chirped as we went back toward the motel. I knew where Semchevsky would be, I just didn't want this Pottsy doll cramping my style.

I spoke to Pottsy, and she left, before I went up to my motel room, and after rummaging in the secret compartment on my case retrieved the knife, and hung it inside my jacket.

Re-entering the street, I scanned the local, all looked fine, and all being well Semchevsky would not yet have an inkling of his fate.

Chapter 4

I headed off down the road to Joe's bar, a sense of reality gripping me like a twenty ton freight train loco.

I entered 'Joe's' again. The plastic flowers looked malevolent, but I ignored them and headed towards the barkeeper.

'Say, Joe,' I said, slipping him a fiver, 'you seen Semchevsky around by any chance? Big guy, was here last night with his family?'

The barkeeper gave me a strange look. 'My name ain't Joe,' he said, taking the money with a snap of the wrist like a professional card player, 'and there weren't no strangers round here last night, besides you and that blonde doll.' I had no idea what doll he was talking about, but I decided to figure it out later. Judging from his eyes, it was obvious that he was paid by Semchevsky.

'Can I have a word with you in privet?' I asked, and he followed me to a quiet corner where I held him against the wall and pressed my knife to his throat. He was gulping like a mad rooster before the big fight, and I knew I had him now.

'Semchevsky paid you to shut your trap, didn't he? How much? Where is he now?'

The barkeeper that was not called Joe mumbled an answer and dropped to the floor, passed out. I kicked the limp body out of my way and stepped back out to the street. I had a lot to think about.

What he said sounded a lot like "the factory". What factory was that? And what was Semchevsky doing there? Things were definitely getting stranger and stranger from the moment I entered Hooverville.

'We're not in Kansas anymore' I muttered as I went to find some more helpful clues.

As I wandered off looking for clues and contemplating developments, it suddenly hit me. It hurt. For 'it' was a 1956 Fender Stratocaster in a 'hard' case.

I looked in the direction from which the 1956 Fender Stratocaster was thrown, and saw a large man with a red face running towards me. I drew my gun without thinking twice, and he stopped and stared at me.

'Whoa there,' he said, 'easy with that thing... I was going to apologise, Johnny over there was trying a new trick and the guitar just came flying out of the catapult in the other direction.' As he said that he pointed towards Johnny, who was a thin guy with long hair that seemed rather uninterested in the whole affair.

I put the gun back and looked at this strange man in a silver suit.

'Tell me something,' I said, 'have you seen a Morris Semchevsky around here? Big guy, bold, ugly as hell?'

'Well, people have been talking about some for'ners over at the factory...' he mused, 'but like they say, if you're gonna shoot a dog you better make sure it ain't gonna rain.'

'What?'

'Ah, you know... you gotta smack the rabbit on the head if you don't want to look as foolish as a cow in a flour mill. That's what they say where I come from.'

I eyed him suspiciously, and then asked 'And where exactly do you come from?'

'Slough,' he replied and picked up the guitar, turned and left. As he walked away I saw that across the back of his silver suit was embroidered in colours that usually only exist in spandex, the words 'Rolf Hergensheimer's All Flying Blues Review and House Movers.'

If my head didn't hurt from being concussed by the Fender, then that embroidery on a silver background finished the job. My head was getting a little tired of all the rough treatment I had subjected it to over the last week or so and had half a mind to leave me. I went to my car, looking for the Valium I knew I had there somewhere. I couldn't find it, so I just passed out for a while right there, my head buried in a pile of old newspaper clips and empty cans.

When I woke up I felt better, and started thinking about the clues I had so far. Semchevsky was in a factory. I didn't know where that factory was or what he was doing there, but that'll wait for later. Now there was that strange man from Slough, with his embroidered silver suit and his incomprehensible metaphors... was he important? Was he put there to stall me, or was he just an innocent, though a little odd, bystander?

I decided it's time to solve all these questions. As I raised my eyes from 'over the phone that night' and 'carbohydrates: 330', I saw a sign. A big road sign with a big fat arrow on it, in fact, and the words "Dyson Factory".

'Follow the arrows' I said to myself, and followed the arrow.

Chapter 5

Some time later I realised I was heading out of town, but entering an industrial area on the edge of the housing. I paused. I'd seen all the movies, bad things always happened in run-down, decrepit industrial areas, and I didn't want any of the bad things to happen to me. I felt in my jacket, and found my trusty gun, loaded and ready. As I turned the corner I made out a large building with the sign above the door saying 'Dyson Factory', I paused again, and noticed over to one side away from teh factory a low down dirty looking bar.

'my kind of place' I thought, and headed to the bar.

Thrusting open the door, I was immediately hit by the odour of stale beer, stale cigarettes, and the hum of electric guitars being set up ready for a gig.

Forcing my way through the patrons of the bar, largely made up of drug addicts, pimps and prostitutes, I landed myself a spot at teh bar, and after a brief scan of the clientele, decided a beer would best conceal me in their midst.

The barman begrudgingly gave me a beer, frothing over the sides of the glass, and I parted with a few coins, before the barman returned back to his position behind the bar, in a stool in teh corner, wrapped about a young looking girl of ill-repute.

I sipped my beer and carefully scanned the pub again.

It was dirty, not the kind of dirt that suggested 'this place needs a clean', but the kind of dirty that shouted 'this place hasn't been cleaned in many, many decades'.

Standing next to me a pimp was in an argument with a fat man, but the argument quickly ended when the pimp cut off the man's left ear, and the one-eared customer left the joint, through the back towards where I guessed the toilets were.

I don't know how I'd missed it, but through the mists of teh smoke and steam hanging in the air, I clearly caught a glimpse of the Fender-bearing spandex man, setting up with a couple of other gorillas in the corner; the band were getting ready to play.

I slipped out right before they started playing, but the unbearable screech of their electric guitars was heard all around the place. It was now dark, and as I contemplated going back to my car to get a good night's sleep at the motel I noticed three dark figures skulking around the door of the Dyson factory. A light was seen inside, and they entered.

Against the voice of reason, I decided to go in, making sure once again that my trusty '45 was loaded and ready.

Inside the Dyson factory I found myself in a dimly lit corridor, dusty, and with lots of pictures of old motorcars on teh walls. In one direction the corridor darkened and disappeared, but in teh other a low light emerged, and so, with fear gripping my trouser leg, and insanity pulling my shoelaces, I headed off in that direction, glancing nervously from side to side, noting the pictures of old cars, and the occasional door into who-knows-where...

Suddenly, I heard voices talking behind one of the doors on the right. I pressed my ear against it and listened, but the door was so old that bits of rust got into my ear, and I couldn't interpret what was being said. However, I did hear my name mentioned, which made me even more wary then before. Seems like they know I'm on their tail.

There was only one course of action, it was time for me to act.

I pulled out a nurse's uniform from my case, and putting it on, entered the room, acting out a scene from The Nurse, a local favourite TV sitcom.

It took them by surprise, I could tell by the way the three men inside staggered back! However, a fourth man that was standing behind me was not so dumbfounded. Not expecting anyone other then the three I've seen before I was completely unprepared when this mysterious fourth man grabbed me by the waist and whispered in my ear 'so, what's a doll like you looking for in a place like this?'

Not to be perturbed, I turned to the man, and kissed him, saying: 'why I'm looking for you babe', and shot him in the little finger.

That's when things got worse. Much worse. The blonde doll that was in the bar with Semchevsky came up to me and hit me with a handbag. The three men that I startled before got their act together and started singing a barbershop-quartet version of 'Only You', with the fourth man – whom I now recognised as Semchevsky – joining as bass. I lost my consciousness for a while, and when I woke up I was tied and gagged and the room was empty. The situation definitely looked hopeless. I stood, or rather hung, naked on the wall, and my predicament seemed inexplicably linked to the guitarist in that damn awful pub. Could things be any worse?

Yes.

A lot worse.

Suddenly, the double doors at the far end of the room opened, and Semchevsky appeared, with the doll from the first bar, and Semchevsky was in drag, then, behind them, the three gorillas - Semchevsky's henchmen? - appeared, also in drag… well, hench-cross-dressers obviously.

As they entered I saw what they were carrying. The doll had in her hand a Dyson; by the look of it the latest model, and she proceeded to plug it in, as the three cross-dressing henchmen/drag-queens began singing 'I've got a lovely pair of coconuts' for a couple of verses, before launching with a great degree of force into 'the Copacabana'.
Things indeed looked bad, very bad, and Semchevsky looked awful... He was badly dressed, not a small-framed man, he looked somehow more frightening in 8 inch stilettos with a pair of fishnets and red PVC mini.

But it was the top, or rather lack of top that did it, I presumed it was 'padded out', but that was no excuse, it was the worse shade of lilac I'd ever seen, and clashed awfully with his red lipstick, blue mascara and clearly powdered face.

He hadn't shaved very well either.

Boy, could I teach these buffoons a thing or two about make up, but there just wasn't the time.

The guitarist started playing. His guitar seemed to be plugged straight to the pair of headphones I had just discovered were on my head, and the effect was horrible. The screeching sound flowed through my body, and as I twitched and moaned and screamed with pain, the blonde turned on the Dyson, but she started looking blurry, as did everything else, which in the case of Semchevsky and his goons was actually a lucky break.

Then I heard Semchevsky's voice on the headphones, loud and clear in spite of the horrible scream of the guitar.

'Who sent you?' he asked, and I passed out again.

Chapter 6

Time passed.

I was passed out, but time must have passed.

Time continued to pass.

I experienced many nightmarish dreams, in which Semchevsky was dressed in that awful top and was making advances towards me of a most explicit sexual nature.

I came round.

I was back in my room in the motel.

I checked.

I double checked.

I rang down to room service and asked that they check.

It was the young boy from room service who asked why I was wearing women's clothes, I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't answer, I gave him the smallest of small tips, and sent him away to fetch coffee and food and that day's papers.

He returned, and I then figured out I'd got the giving the tip thing wrong, but well, he wasn't getting aught else.

I scanned the newspaper, and read the date.

'Oy, boy, you sure this is today's paper?'

He said it was, and I drank the coffee, and gawped open eyed at the headline:

'Dyson Factory Takes Over Hooverville; Name Changed To Dysontown'.

This couldn't be happening, I thought. This is horrible. Not only have I failed miserably, I seem to have done some serious damage. What information did Semchevsky get from me that night?

What information, indeed, did I know?

It all seemed very weird and more than a little wakky pokko to me. Here I was, again, in the motel room… it seemed that as each time I got close to something, I came right back to the beginning, here in the motel.

And, why was I wearing women's clothes? And why had I been left here, with my gun, and not ended up in the bottom of a deep deep hole with lots and lots of earth on top of me?
I decided this time that it was futile to keep thinking I'd decide what I was going to do, and rather act, and actually do something, no more gallivanting about in bars, no more drag-queen dancing routines, and, if Bob was on my side, no more of that horrid guitar music.
I rose from teh mattress, stripped off the women's clothing, and was startled to see writing on my body. I began to read it but it didn't make any sense. 'Dyson raped and killed my wife', said one writing, which was obviously false as I didn't have a wife, and another one was just a number. I wrote the number down and went to the shower.

After I washed off the strange writings I picked up the phone and called the number. The voice on the answering machine was unmistakable – it was Pottsy.

The message on the answering machine was even stranger. It said: 'This is the Personal Space of nighthoover. Unfortunately nighthoover doesn't seem to be here at the moment, but you can leave a message after the beep'.

There was no beep.

Chapter 7

Maybe Pottsy knew more than she was letting on. I resolved to go and interrogate Pottsy, perhaps she knew of the spandex clad guitarist, perhaps she knew of the Dyson factory and what secrets lay within, perhaps she had a decent razor.

I tossed the blunt razor into the bin, and within a few minutes I'd stopped bleeding, I wasn't exactly clean shaven, but it would have to do.

Dressing quickly, and checking my trusty '45, I loaded it up, and put a couple of spare clips in my jacket pocket.

As I left the motel room, I stopped, and as an afterthought, went back to my bag and drew from it the double cross-bow, placing it inside my jacket, with the spare clips for the Colt, and the throwing knifes I always carried.

Outside the streets were strangely desserted, whipping cream, and hundreds and thousands littered the street, and many of the doors of the houses were covered in jelly,
'hmm, that's a trifle bizarre', I thought as I headed off to 'Joe's', to locate, find, interrogate and soften up Pottsy.

'STOP', I thought... Whipping cream? Trifle? Why is that flock of birds flying sideways and changing colours? It was happening again. I was in some kind of dream state again. Nothing was real. Well, the knots on my head sure seemed real. Okay, strike that, nothing was rational. I stood there in the middle of the street and closed my eyes. I relaxed for a few moments and emptied my mind. I then slowly opened my eyes again. The improbable birds were still there as was the dessert motif of this part of town. But something had changed. The gingerbread warehouse across the road had a very normal looking steel door in the side of it where only moments before there was simply a plain wall, albeit a gingerbread one but otherwise featureless.

I headed for that door. The questions surely lay in there. I wasn't ready for any answers yet. When you realise you are existing in the middle of irrationality you have to start off slowly.

Upon entering the gingerbread warehouse I knew I was now on the right track. Well, I wasn't exactly on the right track, I was on the platform for the right track. The inside of the warehouse was a station. A London Underground station, to be more accurate. It was an underground station that looked to have been closed for at least 5 years by the looks of the layer of dust on almost every surface. The only clean surface was that of the bench against the wall under some posters reminiscent of the mid 70's.

I sat on the bench and waited. If something rational was going to happen, then I was going to let it come to me. Every time I had gone looking for trouble I had found it so far. This time let it make the effort.

I didn't have to wait long. I could hear a train coming for nearly a full minute before it arrived. It was sparkling clean and only had two cars. When the doors opened I got on and sat down inside. I had thought the car was empty when I entered, but now that I was seated I saw that there was someone seated across from me.

This was definitely the most indescript person I had ever seen. I couldn't tell if this person was male or female. Blue jeans, sweater, duffle coat. Medium length hair... sort of blond, sort of brown, maybe black. This person could be thirty or they could be eighty. This person was so 'average' looking it hurt my eyes. It wasn't that his or her (hir?) appearance was changing exactly... it was that it was not registering in my brain for more than a second at a time.

I was just about to ask 'who are you?' when this person spoke. 'I am nighthoover... I'm glad to see you've finally found me....'