“Da” ? “Da!”. Trotsky was not really giving his Russian much of a workout, which was fine by me since he’d already exhausted my extensive knowledge of the lingo.  My surprise at discovering that the Hell’s Angles were led by Leon Trotsky was not inconsiderable, but it was not the full deal.

The steel entrance door snicked open and another familiar face sloped in.

“G’day Foodge” said O’Hoo as he flopped down in the chesterfield .  “Lend us one of your Lucky Strikes”, he continued with the tobacco theme – much to the pleasure of a reminiscing Gez.

Now there was a man of iron.  Not only was O’Hoo recently deceased, but he didn’t seem much put out with the new tattoo beaten into his arse cheek.  He just flopped right down and totally ignored the dermal disruption.

“Thanks for coming over”. “My pleasure” I said, keeping an eye on Trotsky and his ice pick.  But Trotsky was looking at O’Hoo as if he (O’Hoo) was Stalin – or more likely Beria.  He was in his box and the crowd was looking to O’Hoo for the run of play.

I was starting to feel less like I was going to be shipped off to do some concreting on a Russian Mafia-owned building site; some foundation work, if O’Hoo was the big cheese at Highbury.

“Jesus”, I’ve got a splitter of headache.  Do you have….” I pulled out my remaining aspirin… “Anything stronger”?.  He was talking to the room more so than he was talking to me.

Pi handed over a small leather bag with the makings of a line or two.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t Rinso.  O’Hoo had only recently come back across the Styx, and now he was off for another dance with Morpheus.  No wonder he wasn’t particularly worried about his new tatt.

This was starting to shape up like the cast list from War and Piece.  Not Tolstoy’s epic“War and Peace”, but Gez and Mike’s attempts to get things published by Unleashed.

O’Hoo was skating along the edge of the local constabulary and playing first fiddle for the Hells Angles.  Nice.  A double agent.  A double agent with a septum that flapped like a loose spinnaker in a stiff nor-easter.  Not a good look for a copper.  A dribbly snoz from a snorting habit.

O’Hoo was flying and suddenly wanted to revisit our night out.  ‘Hey, Foodge.  Let’s go back and score some more ink”.  He said.  It wasn’t a suggestion.  It was an instruction.

“I have a score to settle with that bastard who gave us the spiked JW Reds”.

“What bastard was that ?”.  My memory tape for last night was completely wiped.

“The fuckin’ one-armed guy.  You remember !  The bastard in the cassock !  They were callin’ him Sandy”.

Things were taking a turn for the worse.  I’m tagging along by “special invitation” with a speed-balling cop/Russian Mafia double agent in search of a one-armed drink-spiking priest called Sandy.  I was a bit distracted.  I’d forgotten about Trotsky.  And I had nearly forgotten about my appointment with the blonde Miss Anne Thropy.[1]

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[1] Astute readers will notice I changed the spelling of this character’s name to improve the pun.  Don’t bother going back and checking, I’ve probably changed the previous one by now.