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 the 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 the 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 the 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 the 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 the walls. In one direction the corridor darkened and disappeared, but in the 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?
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.
Written by 'various'