Francis Is Alive (-12-)

“So, let me get this straight,” surmised Abram. “This man in the video is fucking James Bond and not Francis Whyte, and we don’t know who the real fucking Francis is even after I got a bullet in the hand?”

“Yes,” said Boris insipidly.

“So…” Xia swallowed, “if he’s not Francis, who is?”

Boris shrugged. No response.

“That’s bullshit!” Ivan rose from the couch. “How can you be so sure of who a masked man is when you’ve not seen his face? He’s wearing a fucking mask, isn’t he? You don’t know what he looks like. He wore a mask to make sure of that. I’m so not doing this! You’re so full of shit!”

Boris glanced up at him blankly, seemed incensed but was calming himself simultaneously. He led them down to Nigeria; he had to be tolerant.

“Who the hell is James Bond, Boris?” shrieked Xia. “You mean the 007 films are real after all and Daniel Craig has come here too?”

“It’s a code name,” grunted Boris. “He’s not actually like Pierce Brosnan or Roger Moore or Sean Connery or shit. It’s a code name. He works for MI6. That’s why we call him that. We improvised the name for him after he appeared to be a spy amongst us. You might think I’m just being crappy now but I know the man who sent me to prison even if he wears a hundred masks.”

“So… what are we gonna do now?” asked Xia, looking disappointed.

“I don’t know.” Boris shrugged. “Let’s find James Bond and kill him.”

“But we’re not here for James Bond, are we, Boris?”

“We’re here for whoever I say we’re here for.”

“Bullshit!” sneered Ivan. “We have our order. Bring Francis Whyte to Mother Russia alive, that’s the mission.”

“So, when you knew what the mission is, why are you all pestering me with questions?”

“Because you’re acting like your mother just got raped.”

“Fuck you, Ivan! I don’t give shit about my mother! I don’t care about anybody’s mother!”

“Then get yourself together and let’s go find Francis,” said Xia.

“Like you were not the one who assured us Michael Livingstone is Francis Whyte in the first place. Don’t be all bossy now, bitch.”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck me, Xia? Fuck you! Your Francis Whyte turned out to be some American businessman on a fucking hols, so you find another Francis Whyte for us, perhaps this time Robert Downey Jnr.”

“You should give me some credit, asshole. I tapped into the CIA’s database to get that shit for you. If I’m this clueless as you paint me, you’re gonna have to drag your ass into the street and look for the real Francis Whyte yourself.”

Silence…

Abram lighted a cigarette and puffed anxiously. “Michael Livingstone could be the real Francis we’re looking for,” he said thoughtfully. “If someone would be as popular and brutal as Francis Whyte, then a little acting and deceit should not be difficult for him. He could’ve played them into believing he’s not Francis Whyte.”

“What about the video then, huh?” barked Ivan.

“Silly! James Bond could’ve made that video to get suspicion off Francis’s head to free him. They could be working together.”

“Francis is not working for MI6,” Boris quipped.

“I’m not saying he is, but something could’ve brought them together or are you saying it’s entirely impossible they work together?”

Silence…

“I have an idea,” said Ivan. “Let’s take these guys he was with, the boy and the girl. If we have them, Michael Livingstone will return, and we could then take him too, till we find out whether he’s truly Francis or not.”

“By the way,” said Abram. “What’s it about the police station guy that James Bond has taken? Why did he? Who else thinks he snatched him from some other unfortunate guys?”

“I do,” said Ivan.

“We can’t think anything until we receive updates from home,” warned Boris. “But… they could be working for Francis. No white goons ever came to this country to openly kidnap nobody until Francis got here.”

“So, are we to agree that if we can get James Bond, the police station guy, Michael Livingstone and his friends, we’re making progress?” asked Xia.

“Yes, I think so,” said Ivan.

“What are we waiting for then? Let’s go get them!”

“Boris, what do you say?”

They all looked at Boris for affirmation.

“All right,” he shrugged, “let’s go get ‘em.”

*          *          *

The police would never stop patrolling the area; it was easy to grasp that. Lucky was with Majeed while he watched the YouTube video of the famous bullet dodger for the seventeenth time on Majeed’s tablet.

“I want to be like him when I reach his age,” Lucky announced frankly.

Majeed swilled beer in the bottom of the bottle he was holding, looked up at Lucky from the corner couch on which he sat. He was never the type who watches news until the recent turn of events, getting shot in the leg. It was painful, certain hotness cutting through his flesh. Although there was nothing spectacular about the news, he wouldn’t miss any. Since he had become quite a celebrity, the man shot in the leg, he had to hear what they were saying about him.

“He fights like Jet Li!” Lucky persisted amusedly. “I fucking like this guy!”

“You can find a sensei and learn jujitsu in Japan,” murmured Majeed responsively.

“Ju—what’s that?”

“Martial arts.”

“Yes! I like martial arts but… how can I get to Japan?”

“You go to the airport, board a plane, you’re in Japan.”

“Just like that? No visa and all?”

Somebody knocked the door.

Majeed looked up at the wall clock, the morning was still young. Not even ten o’ clock yet, so, Olawunmi couldn’t have quickly returned from the clinic unless she left something at home and had come for it.

The door was knocked again, this time with more pressure.

“Huh, who the hell again!” grunted Majeed as he set the bottle on the table gently and rose to answer the call.

“Who is it?” he yelped.

No response, just another knock.

Majeed moved to the window to see whoever was at the door first; a white woman in blue suit and skirt with a pair of black high heels. She had her long hair packed in a wooden clip the Chinese way but she wasn’t Chinese. She didn’t look Chinese. A tiny silver chain shone at sun’s reflection around her neck; portable earrings; casual young woman profile. She had quite a sexy appearance. The white ear phones gave Majeed the impression of an office woman who was happy to be sent out on an official assignment, away from the tense formality of office bustle. Reading glasses could’ve given that the perfect touch but she wore a sunshade instead and she looked like an FBI agent from a film whose title Majeed couldn’t remember. There was a big bag by her leg, on the floor and she held onto a briefcase. A police car passed by just then, slowed down a bit, looked at the woman who was still knocking. The two officers in the police vehicle exchanged words, nodded and sped off, and then Majeed shrugged, since the officers weren’t alarmed, there was no need to be.

He opened the door and greeted him with cologne as foreign as the lady herself was a smile and an extended hand.

“Good morning,” she said sweetly.

“Good morning.” Majeed shook her hand hesitantly.

“Huh… how do I… okay, this is it. You don’t know me but I do know you very well… remember, you’re all over the news. How awkward! How’s your leg?”

“I’m fine,” said Majeed suspiciously and Lucky was standing behind him then.

“I came to see Michael,” she announced.

“Michael?”

“Yes, Michael Livingstone, your friend.”

“I’m sorry. He’s no more here.”

“Oh Michael! I’m so going to kill you!”

“I’m sorry?”

“What? Oh, never mind.”

“Who… are you?”

“I’m his fiancée. My name is Dale… Sonican Dale. But Michael calls me Sonia.”

“He’s travelled back to the US.”

“Oh my… what has he done? I came all the way from… and I… how awkward!”

“But… his travelling was in the news too. You said you…”

“Yes—yes, it would’ve been but I didn’t wait to see that far. I packed my things and boarded a flight the moment I heard he’s here. May I come in?”

Majeed looked back and met Lucky’s gaze on his. He wouldn’t be sure it was a good idea to allow strangers in their house when his gunshot wound was still hurting.

“Of course, come in.”

He went out of the way and let the lady picked her bag and crossed inside.

“I haven’t seen him for the past six months,” she recounted wryly. I don’t know what I did wrong. He keeps ditching me.”

How will he not ditch you when he goes around the world fucking people’s girlfriends? Majeed was thinking.

“Let me help with that.” He collected the big bag from her, quite heavy.

“Thank you, Majeed,” she said as she set her butts to the couch gently, her briefcase by her legs. “He keeps avoiding me and then I heard about his wrongful arrest, so I came down here to help.”

She shed tears and quickly wiped it. Majeed didn’t say sorry, he was just imagining Michael naked with Olawunmi. Promiscuous asshole will dump Olawunmi the same way!

“Where is that girl?” she hiccupped.

“I’m sorry about whatever Michael did to you but it had nothing to do with Olawunmi,” defended Majeed impulsively.

“No—no—no—no, I’m not here to brawl with her or anything. I’m just here to see Michael and since he’s not here, I’ll just leave.”

Silence…

Lucky went back to his previous position, his eyes raking the lady only occasionally but she didn’t seem to care about him, not even a look.

“Can I ask a favour of you?” Sonican asked.

“Go on.”

“Can I stay the night here? I can’t just arrive now and leave immediately, you know, flight booking and stuffs.”

“Why not? No problem. You can stay here.”

Majeed had said that before he even considered what Olawunmi would say, allowing a stranger they knew completely nothing about to stay the night with them.

“Thank you, Majeed. I’m very grateful. Is there… a room I could use? A negligee would do better than this suit now.”

“Oh that! No problem. Come. We have a room.”

He took her to a vacant room and the lady undressed in there, showered, slept a bit and changed into a negligee she brought with her before she returned to the living room to join Majeed in watching the news.

When Olawunmi came back, she was surprised that Majeed could be that stupid. But they couldn’t send her out, and they had to endure the fright the stories she began to tell them incurred. She told them the story of how she and Michael had had sex on every beach they went. They had even had sex on a plane once, and most awkward one, they had had sex inside the Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome when Michael took her to see the Pietà, a sculpture by the young Michelangelo that depicts the Virgin Mary holding the dead Christ in her lap. Olawunmi was petrified! Michael and this lady are definitely going to hell! How stupid Majeed is! How could he allow this heretic to stay with them and feed them these lewd stories when there were uncountable hotels she could’ve gone to out there!

She couldn’t wait for the next day to arrive and see her gone.

Only if she knew why she had come… she would’ve been rather afraid than angry. Ignorance!

…to be continued ON SUNDAY!

-Lord eBay (and his action series, 2017)

Follow/Contact Lord eBay on: Twitter; Instagram; Facebook; Email

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