A Dire Chronical from Ian Culleton, the Publicity Manager PART I

Friends, I do not mean to be rude, but drop whatever it is you are doing and focus all of your attention on me.

I hope you are sitting down.  If you are not, I will give you a moment to find a chair.

Sitting now?  good.  Strap in, because I am about to recount to you the story of how I came upon this noble position.  It is a tale of intrigue, sorrow, and woe, including cosmic revelations which have made lesser men than myself go babbling mad.

It was in the summer of 1968 that I was first approached about the position.  I was sitting in a small cafe  in Budapest, drinking my coffee Americano style, which I feel is my duty as a patriot.  I was just finishing the Saturday crossword when I heard a man sit down, heavily, in the chair across from me.  He wore a long, dark trenchcoat, with wiry spectacles and a ginger moustache which managed to make it almost all the way to his ears before curling up in the most glorious fashion.  But that was not what I noticed first, my friends; what I noticed first was the gun he had casually trained on my solar plexus.

I gulped, but before I could make a noise, he hissed at me commandingly from across the table. "Don't make a sound.  Your life is in danger.  Now, get up.  Move to the door."

Having nothing else to do, I arose, the man pocketing the gun but keeping it pointed at me through the burgundy cloth.  We moved towards the door and discretely he pointed me down the street to a small park.  Behind us, a man in a long-brimmed fedora arose slowly, folded his paper, and moved to pay.  The gunman behind me glanced back at him, noting him again.  There was a sense of urgency in his desire to leave, and this was not lost on me, for the man in the fedora had spooked me.  We moved hurriedly down the street, and as we did...  so did the dark figure behind us.

We reached the deserted old park at what might be described the brink of a run, and the mustachioed man whirled violently, making sure there were no witnesses save the flickering street lamp above.  Our stalker withdrew from his pocket a Luger and, without delay, fired two shots into the shoulder of the man at my side.  Unfazed, my companion pulled out his Beretta and shot his assailant in kind.  The man let out an "oof," and slumped back against the wall, his dark coat masking the blood flowing freely from his chest.

All of this was quite disturbing to me.  I had never seen a man shot before, you see.   I gulped heavily, and then managed to choke out, "who--  who are you?"

My companion moved to the body, and kneeling he pulled back the hat.  "Davies," he said softly.  "I might have guessed they'd send you to do the dirtywork."  then he rounded on me, bowing and declaring, "My name is Sebastian King, and I'm here to change your life."