CitPC Chapter IV, part 4.
You people who are sad enough to want to read the first chapter, here it is:- http://pythonline.com/media/my-bad-fanfic-citpc-chapter-i
Be warned. It’s long.
Rating: PG-13, for cursing, a disgusting revelation, and lots and lots of tedious dialogue.
Chapter IV: Paradox, part 4 (Final part).
Monday, February 14th. 12:00pm, Tower Bridge.
Still with the box under his right arm, Eric was starting to feel awfully weary, as he staggered down the busy streets crossing Tower Bridge. His walk patterns were very unstable, like those of some feverish drunk. He clumsily bumped into several oncoming pedestrians, to their dismay, completely unmindful to where he was going. Uttering no word of apology to them, he stopped briefly and leant against a railing for support. He muttered a low groan.
Feelin’… so tired. He thought, attempting to stable himself. But must keep… goin’.
He made a stupidly slow attempt to cross the road, which unsurprisingly led to he managing to crash straight into a car. The Mini screeched to an immediate halt. Eric hit the front bumper and fell to the ground reasonably unharmed, but even more confused than before. The Mini blared its horn at a significantly high pitch, almost making Eric go deaf. Once he picked himself up from the ground, Eric turned to face the car, and gave the driver a ferocious glare.
“Watch it you prat!” Eric snapped, staggering off the road and onto the pavement, almost tripping himself up in the process. (‘Pavement’ meaning ‘sidewalk’ for you Americans out there :D).
The rather stunned driver of the black Mini peeped his head out the window and shouted:
“You’re the one who should be watching where you’re going!”
Eric cocked his head to the side as he suddenly recognised the driver.
“Mike?! You almost ran me over, you sod!” Eric barked.
Mike rolled his eyes, and positioned his car to the side to clear the road for the short queue of cars behind him. He exited the car and approached the slightly dazed, but very irate looking 28-year-old blond.
“Is there something wrong?” Mike inquired softly, “You seem very--”
“I’m fine!” Eric lashed out, “Absolutely bloody fine!”
Mike backed off slightly at Eric’s angry response and a sharp look of concern came across his face. Eric’s glare soon disappeared and he sighed heavily. Once Eric managed to calm himself down, he added, “Just a little, urm, dizzy that’s all.”
“You haven’t been drinking… have you?”
Eric averted his eyes away and stared at the floor. He sighed and nodded sadly.
“I got totally wasted last night, and apparently I ran straight into a lamppost and fell unconscious. I’ve just been discharged from hospital not long ago.”
“Gosh.” Mike said, quite surprised.
Eric glanced up and gave Mike a somewhat strange look, “Wait, weren’t you there when it happened?”
“I took Helen home early, so no I didn’t know this happened.” He replied.
“Oh.” Eric said, raising his left hand and scratching the back of his head very awkwardly.
“Look,” Mike began, “Let me take you back to my house for a coffee to help you straighten out a little, I mean, if your wife doesn’t mind--”
“Nah, Lyn won’t mind. Thanks, I’ll take you up on that offer.” Eric smiled. Mike smiled back. He then raised a curious eyebrow when something caught his eye.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the object sitting under Eric’s right arm.
“Oh, this? Just some sort of black box.”
“I don’t know. The postman delivered it to me this morning whilst I was still in hospital. It’s got some bits of things wrapped in paper, that’s all.” Mike continued to stare at it, and perceived that Eric was having difficulty holding onto the heavy object.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Mike kindly offered.
“Thanks.” Eric said. Mike reached out and placed both arms around the black box, carried it over to the Mini and put it in the boot. Since Eric was fairly unwell and still wobbly on his feet, Mike came back over and also helped Eric into his car. Awww, what a sweet guy. Anyway, as Mike entered the car and sat down, Eric turned to him with a shameful expression.
“It’s awfully considerate of you to do this for me Mike, even after I called you a sod and a prat. I apologise for my behaviour--”
“No, no forget about it.” Mike murmured, “Your unwell, it’s understandable that you would lash out like that…” He then began to fiddle around with his coat trying to find the whereabouts of his car keys.
Eric leant his arm against the passenger door and gazed outside. He thought about that nurse with his hot chocolate. Had she realised that Eric had gone missing? Where security now on the hunt to find him? He watched as numbers of cars, lorries, and bikes rode past him at speed. He was quite surprised at the amount of Red VW Beetles that drove past and the fact that no-one, not even the police, had took any notice of Mike’s illegal parking by this busy stretch of road.
As Mike was placing his keys into the ignition, without turning back to Eric, he said:
“You sure your wife won’t worry about you being gone for long?”
Eric stopped his contemplation and glanced round. “Of course not, Mikey,” he grinned, leaning back against the passenger seat and staring at the roof, “Even if I do go home, she’ll probably have a right go at me for drinking so much and will nag, nag, nag all bloody day about it.”
Mike tittered quietly at Eric’s comment, and then, once he got the engine started, both Pythons drove off.
Monday, February 14th. 2:59pm, Gospel Oak, London.
Eric sat comfortably on the warm cream coloured sofa at one end of Mike’s sitting room, holding a large cup of coffee. In front of him was a lit fireplace. He simply sat and watched the wooden logs crackle and smoulder from the intense heat of the roaring flames that flew off of them. (It appears that staring at fireplaces is becoming quite popular in this fic, but anyway…) Mrs Palin was currently situated in the kitchen, where she had remained for the past half-an-hour, after putting her second child William to bed. Mike sat reading one of his many intriguing novels and Thomas Palin lay on the floor playing with toys beside the fireplace. Mike glanced up when he heard a sharp knock at the front door, and he saw a familiar face come through it.
“Hi Terry.” Mike said, as the lone American entered the Palin house.
“Hey Mike. Oh, hello there Eric.”
“Hey Gil.” Eric replied, clutching onto his half-drunk cup of black coffee.
“I thought you were still in hospital.”
Eric took a long sip of his coffee. “I was, but they said I had recuperated very well overnight and they let me go. Mike offered me a coffee, so that’s why I’m here.”
“Ah, good.” Gil accepted. He made his way over to where 4-yr-old Tom was building a shed out of Lego bricks, and slumped down on a brown leather chair. “Wow, what a night, huh? My head was freakin’ banging this morning. I’m never ever drinking that much in one night again.”
“Hear hear.” Agreed Eric. He bent over and placed his cup onto a small, wooden table in the middle of the room. “And anyways, why are you here?” he inquired, placing his arms against his legs and leaning forward.
“Mike invited me for some grub, that’s why I’m here: To sample the delicacies and fine dining experience that Café Palin has to offer.” Gil said, giving Eric one of his stupid goofy grins. “So, what you makin’ for tea, Mrs Palin?!” he shouted across the sitting room.
“Roast Dinner tonight.” Shouted Helen from the kitchen, “I’ve got some lovely fresh beef and turkey from the local butcher.”
“Scrumptious!” Gil sniggered, rubbing his hands together greedily.
“Oh God!” shouted Helen
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“Where’s my beef joint? It’s gone missing!”
“It can’t have.”
“Well, it has… Ach! I left the back door open!” Helen panicked. Indeed, she had left the door open, but only to aerate the kitchen. She came to the immediate conclusion that a fox had snuck in through the open door, and stole her prized 1.5 kg of ripe meat.
Man, I was really looking forward to feasting on that Roast Beef, Mike reflected in disappointment,With broccoli, carrots, and potatoes, drizzled in onion gravy, stuffed inside one of those giant Yorkshire puddings…
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry about this, Terry.” Helen sighed.
“It’s no bother, Mrs P.” Gil said softly, although deep inside he really was as dissatisfied and upset as Mike was. To try and put his mind off this sudden shock, Gil peered over to where the two Pythons were sat and noticed a strange box sat underneath one of the armrests “I’ve never seen that before.” He said, fixing his stare upon the box with arousal, “Is this new, Mike?”
Mike looked up from his book and glanced behind him to where the box had been put.
“It’s not mine, it’s Eric’s. He had it with him when I picked him up.”
“What’s in this box of yours then?” Gil asked Eric.
“Urm, well, I’m not sure.” Eric responded, “It’s really peculiar because, uh, it’s got some small, rounded things inside, wrapped in brown paper.”
“Have any idea of what they were?”
“No idea at all. I didn’t bother to unwrap them.”
“I’ll go fetch ‘em.” Mike said. He approached the box, opened it and scanned its contents. Lifting up on of the ‘things wrapped in brown paper’, Mike unwrapped it and narrowed his eyes. He laughed slightly, as a sudden amused look spread across his face. “The guy who sent you these must have a weird sense of humour.” He said, peering round to face the others.
“Why?” Eric asked the smiling Yorkshireman.
“These are all just pieces of meat.”
Gil and Eric exchanged bemused faces then looked back at Mike.
“What the hell?!” Eric shouted, with a hint of hilarity.
“That’s crazy!” Gil yelped in surprise.
“That explains the white labels with ‘Rump’ and ‘Sirloin’ on them then, heh.” Eric quipped.
“And there’s a recipe for BBQ spare ribs and BBQ pork fillet.” Mike said, picking up two more bits of paper and chuckling some more.
And that explains the “Do you like BBQ?” note… Eric thought to himself.
“Helen!” Mike yelled,
“What is it, love?” came the reply.
“Forget about Roast dinner. How’s about a big BBQ platter for tea?”
“But Michael, I can’t. I haven’t got any red meat left, unless you want to nip out and buy some mo--”
“No need to darling." he interrupted, "Eric’s brought some emergency supplies. Come see.”
Helen popped her head round the kitchen door as Mike held up some very tender looking cuts of reddish-purple meat. Her face lit up.
“Wow! That’s brilliant! Thanks Eric, you’re a life-saver!” She squealed in delight and went over and gave Eric a ‘thank you’ peck on his cheek, in full view of her husband. Eric’s face turned a deep crimson colour. “Right, I’d better get cooking…” sang the happy Mrs Palin, grabbing the entire box, despite it’s weight, and skipping back into her kitchen. “And Eric, you can stay for tea if you like. It’s the least I can do.”
Mike rolled his eyes, “Well, I really think Eric wants to get back home by now, don’t you?”
“No, I’d love to stay.” Eric said happily, “That would be excellent! Besides, the Missus still thinks I’m stuck in some dingy old hospital somewhere, so she ain’t bothered.”
3 hours of cooking later… and dinner is served :)
“Mmmm-hmmm, this is simply delicious!”
“Thank you very much.”
“No, not delicious. Exquisite! Delightful!”
“This beats boring old Sunday Roasts any day.”
“You’ve really out done yourself, darling. Really, it’s amazing.”
“Stop it, Michael. You’re making me blush!”
“Daddy? Can I try some Bee Bee Q, please?”
“It’s ‘Barbeque’, you silly Billy.”
“I’m not called Billy. I’m Tom!”
“Is this all beef or what?” Eric asked the chef.
“Well, the labels said, ‘Loin’, ‘Sirloin’, ‘Rump’, and Fillet’, so I just assumed it was all beef. Although some of it tastes like lamb, the skewers taste a little like pork, and some even taste like chicken liver.”
Mike was busy scoffing a whole heap of food down his gob, so he couldn’t really say much. Helen attempted to look civilised, with her napkin tucked neatly into her shirt, and using her knife and fork to scrape the meat off of the ribs, which as expected, failed miserably. Eric and Gil were almost fighting over who would get to feast on the BBQ ‘leg of lamb’ first. The tablecloth had turned from a satin cream, to a milk chocolate colour, courtesy of Tom and his sticky BBQ fingers.
“So basically, this guy’s given Eric all sorts of meat, but managed to trick us by labelling them all as different cuts from a cow.” Gil explained, quite intelligently, grabbing a couple of long BBQ skewers from the table.
“Ach, who cares? It all tastes bloody fantastic!” Eric announced, gnashing away at one of the ribs.
“Oh, the news is on.” Mike said, reaching over to the TV and switching it on.
“I thought you didn’t like the news.” Gil spoke, in-between scoffing on his ‘tastes-slightly-like-pork’ BBQ beef skewers.
“I don’t, but I need to find out if there’s been any progression with Terry’s murder investigation. I hope they find that killer soon.”
“Ah, yes of course.”
A neatly dressed 40-something man, with short, back and sides and a floral tie, appeared on the screen. Mike sat back down at the table, made a grab for a glass of rosé wine and began to gulp it down.
“Good evening, and welcome to the six o’clock news. Suspicions are arising for the whereabouts of a missing woman, believed to be the wife of Monty Python actor, Eric Idle…”
That moment made Gil and Helen gasp in shock, Mike spit out his drink and Eric nearly choke on his piece of ‘steak’.
“MY WIFE?!” Eric managed to blurt out, spitting out a large chunk of meat that propelled itself halfway across the room.
“What? You didn’t even realise?!” Gil screeched.
“I was in hospital all morning, of course I didn’t know! Once I came out, Mike picked me up and took me straight here.”
“Mrs Lyn Idle was last seen at the Duke of Wellington pub in Marylebone last night after a night out with friends. Some are being lead to believe that the so-called ‘Snake’ killer might have had some involvement in this case, but that has not been confirmed. As of yet, this infamous killer is still fully at large. Detectives at Scotland Yard are still investigating the double murder of Python star Terry Jones and his wife Alison, who are believed to have been brutally slaughtered by the ‘Snake’ on Monday. More on this story later…”
“Shit… My w-w-wife’s missing…” Eric stammered, as if he was on the verge of breaking down completely.
“Hey c’mon Eric, its alright.” Gil spoke, approaching Eric and clasping both hands around his shoulders, “I’m sure she’ll come back soon. The news, like the newspapers, always exaggerate things. Don’t listen to it.”
Mike also came over to Eric and patted him on the back. “Hey, I know what’ll cheer you up…”
2 hours, a Lemon cheesecake and a game of Chess later…
“What were the chances of me landing on Mayfair… with 4 HOUSES ON IT?!” Gil yelled in disbelief, smashing his hands against the Monopoly board, “I can’t afford £1700!”
“No excuses. Cough up the dough, small fry.” Mike teased. Eric sniggered quietly at Gil’s outburst. Who knew Gil could be so competitive? It’s only a game for crying out loud! Gil sighed and passed his remaining fake pound notes to Mike. Mike grinned greedily and turned to Eric “OK, just me and you now Eric.”
“Don’t think you’re going to win with just Mayfair, Park Lane, the Waterworks, a hotel on Trafalgar Square and a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.” Eric noted, with a sly grin, “I have the Electric Company, a monopoly on both yellow and light blue properties with one house on 4 out of 6 of them, and I own all four stations, so don’t get too cocky. You’re goin’ down, Palin!” Eric tilted his head and glanced at the TV. He glared at the screen as a shoddy looking spinning globe suddenly appeared. Wait, where’s the football? He asked himself.
“We interrupt tonight’s football highlights to bring you an appeal on behalf of the Metropolitan police.” came the announcement.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Eric complained, throwing his hands in the air, “I don’t want any stupid appeals! I wanna see if Chelsea won that match against Not Forest! Bloody BBC bastards!” On the screen appeared another neatly presented 40-something man, bald and clean-shaven, holding a microphone. In the background was the Duke of Wellington pub, surrounded by several police officers. Next to him stood a familiar looking detective.
I’ve seen that guy somewhere before, Mike told himself.
“Hello. My name is Paul Harrison, crime correspondent for the BBC. I am with the man in charge of the double Jones’ murder case, DCI Ian Steele. He has issued this appeal to you, the viewers at home, to contact Scotland Yard with any information about the cases that can help catch the criminal. Now, onto the subject for tonight’s second case. Mr Steele, good evening.”
“I believe you have some vital news of the other case, which you believe relate somewhat to the Jones’ murders: The situation of the currently ‘missing’ Mrs Idle?”
“That is correct.”
“What are your latest findings?”
“By painstaking research made by our expert forensics team, and some very helpful eyewitness accounts from members of the public who were around the area last night, we have been able to retrace Mrs Idle’s steps, and find some crucial information about what happened. Our previous suspicions have been proven true. We found bits of bones and a dried pool of blood, leading off into a long trail down the alleyway and into an open field several miles away. Parallel to what the evidence suggests, it would appear that she had been murdered.”
Everyone sat in silence. You could hear a pin drop. It shocked Eric so much; his face turned white and took on a look of sheer agony, like he’d just been stabbed through the heart.
“OH MY GOD!” he screamed, “OH SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! JESUS CHRIST! LYYYYYN!!!!” and he immediately flew out of Mike’s front door in helplessness and sprinted down Oak Village at an alarming speed. He just ran, ran, and ran, having no idea where he would go. His house was a considerably long way away, but what was the point in going there at any rate? No one was waiting for him there. The other remained seated and couldn’t utter a single syllable. They only sat still and their eyes remained glued to the TV, attentively to what the DCI had to say. Mr Harrison and Mr Steele were now situated in a large grassy field about a mile away from the pub. The detective began to pan his arm around the field, to show his accomplice.
“An eyewitness account said they had seen a shifty looking tall man run across this open field holding a large black box.” The DCI told Paul.
“Black box?” Paul asked.
“Yes. This is quite a distinct black storage box, similar or the same as the one used to store Mrs Jones’ body. It is quite a bulky box, with black faux leather outside and a maroon cloth-like interior. There have only been 100 of these manufactured throughout the world, and there is apparently only 4 of these boxes currently in the UK.”
After the initial shock had finally passed and everyone had calmed down, Mike was the first to speak.
“The description of the box sounds uncannily like Eric’s.” he told Terry and Helen.
“Oh yeah, so it does.” Came the Animator’s reply.
That’s very, very weird. Freakishly weird. Mike thought, furrowing his brow. There’s no way… Absolutely no way…
“We investigated the areas that we knew for sure the murderer had been, but there was absolutely no sign of this box anywhere.” DCI Steele continued on the television, “We inspected the field area, and found a burnt out bonfire, surrounded with decaying flesh and rotting body parts with large teeth marks on them, that would suggest the murderer could very well be a malicious cannibal, and that he had used the box to store the remainder of body parts.” Mr Steele then started to address the camera, “Please, this a vital piece of evidence. It may contain body parts. If anyone has any information about this box and it’s whereabouts, please phone the number on your screens.”
Minutes had past, and as Mike, Gil and Helen continued to watch the TV, they saw a young man approach the detective and hand him a piece of paper.
“I’ve just been given a report. Someone has just phoned up and has reported to have seen the box!” Mr Harrison looked round excitedly, as Mr Steele began to read the sheet of paper. “This morning around lunchtime, an anonymous caller had seen a man carrying a black box, matching the description, whilst walking down Tower Bridge. Then he was picked up by a black Mini.”
“FUCKIN’ HELL!” Mike screeched in horror.
“What?!” Gil asked. He could see Mike shaking violently, eyes widening and teeth chattering together. “Look just calm down Michael! Tell me what’s up?!” he asked him, slight nervousness in his voice.
“I p-p-p-picked Eric up, urm, at T-t-tower Bridge around m-midday,” Mike began, stammering quite considerably, “H-h-he was carrying a, er, b-black box, and I w-w-was driving my b-black M-M-Mini… This can’t be just a coincidence!!!”
“SHIT!” Gil bellowed, “So… t-t-that means… what have we just eaten!?”
Mike’s eyes widened and he began to gag. He held his hand over his mouth and raced to the kitchen and barfed into the sink.
“No, this can’t be!” Helen protested, racing over to the black box and rummaging through the discarded papers, when she found a small note, stuck right at the bottom of the box. She gestured for Gil to read it. His face turned white. None of them could hardly believe it. Poor Gil couldn’t take it any longer and rushed to the kitchen and he too began to vomit violently into the sink. What the note said, was this:
Enjoy ‘Steak a la Idle’ while you can. This will be you next. ~ Snake.
Lalalaaaa! A new chapter for you:- http://pythonline.com/media/citpc-chapter-v-part-1