It’s been an open secret in the Pig’s Arms for months that Julian Assnage is no longer in the Bolivian Embassy in London.

He was spirited away – literally – in an empty Chilean wine barrel on the eve of Simon Bolivar Day (1^st of April) by Father O’Way who had temporarily managed to get Scotland Yard’s finest off their guard by changing the sign out the front to the People’s Embassy of Bulgaria.  Bolivia, Bulgaria – it’s a perfectly understandable mistake – and a brilliant ruse – even if the good father said so himself – and he did.

By the time the police and paparazzi got back to the Bolivian Embassy, there was no Assnage, not that they are aware of that – even to this day.

Julian stopped off at the Pig’s Arms to pick up his things – a 12 pack of Thin Svens, a glass tumbler and a digital stethoscope, which Merv had thoughtfully stuffed under the bar so that Rosie could use his old room for overflow clients from her tattoo emporium and house of pain.  The autumn carnival rush had passed and the room was vacant when Julian ambled in through the side door of the pub, drew up a stool and ordered himself a famous pink drink, and a handful of acolytes.

Merv looked shocked.  “What the … ?” “Hi Merv”, said Julian.  “How did you walk free, Jules?

“I have a body double, and AISO hacked the real me out through the Interweb Tubes” said Julian.  “I’ve come to pick up certian classified objects”.

“You mean the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald ? No luck there, sport, Fairfux went belly up Ages ago”, said Merv.

“No.  I mean certain classified documents dealing with the skull duggery perpetrated on a hapless group of would-be immigrants by their own government” said Julian.

“I’m talking about ….. cough…… cough …. urk …… gaarg”

“Gaarg?” said Merv, suddenly noticing that Julian was turning a cerulean blue.

“Quick, Piglets !”

Merv caught Julian well before he hit the floor, but just after he bounced off the stainless steel edge of the bar.  It was an heroic leap. Sensing that Emmjay would debate whether it was “a” heroic leap, more than “an” heroic leap, Merv glowered at Emmjay and waited for Granny to administer the wedges of life.

It has been long known that Granny’s wedges were powerful magic and that many a Pig’s Arms patron had been brought back from the edge of the abyss (Emmjay was considering writing “the edge of the abbess”, but thought better of that).  Julian was coming around but looked phased and Merv commanded Manne to assist Julian into the Bill Clinton Memorial Bedroom on the first floor.

It was the presidential suite as Merv described it on the Pig’s Arms web site.  Apparently “presidential” meant that the resident head of state didn’t need to share the newly-renovated Mondrian Brothers (Tilers to the Abstract Classes) bathroom, with the other guests.  This would later prove a distinct advantage in Julian’s defence.

Merv rang Rosie and gave her the drum.  At least he tried to give her the drum, but Rosie was / is a woman of standards.  High personal standards and she insisted on paying her way, drumwise.

Knowing Julian’s penchant for a blonde, Rosie took Hanna and Frida with her to attend to Merv’s patient guest patient.

“Hello Julian, darling.  I arm Hanna and this arm Frida”, we are gveeks from Sveden who are admiring your wonderful hackles.  Vee have always admired your high moral standards and self-promotion and your deep mistress mistrust of secrety bad government military type bad guys, heh ?”

“Just let me slip into something a liddle more comfortable”, said Frida, who was clearly the more graphic hacker of the two.

“Don’t, under any circumcision give Julian your passwords”, said Rosie, closing the door as she departed the bedroom”

“I think I’d like to consult my lawyer” said Julian.

“Vee don’t need to keep anything in chambers, Mr Julian.  Vee have running water in the Presidential Suite”.

“A liddle potty humour, ha !” said Hanna, loosening Julian’s belt.

“Ah, look, that’s very kind” said Julian, “But I’ve had a bad experience with a couple of, um, arr, Swedish activists in the past”.

“Was they too rough, these hackers, Mr Julian ?  asked Frida who by this time had slipped into something rather more comfortable, and apparently slipped right on out of the other side.

“Well, no” said Julian, “They accused me of non-consensual sex”.

“What kind of hackers were they ?  Cannot be pros” said Hanna, removing Julian’s shoes.  She peeled off his socks, one at a time pretending to not notice his protestantations.

“No, I think they were CIA plants”, said Julian.

“You was having non-constitutional intercourse with plants?” said Frida who appeared not only surprised, but a little green with envy.  “My gourd!” she laughed. “No wonder it took you ages to get out of Bolivia”.

“Don’t worry, Mr Julian,” said Hanna. “We are more smooth than Agnetha and Annifrida.  We are the finest hackers that they stock at holm.  We are here to help teach you how to roll with the rollmops and to expose your more volvoable side”.  She slipped off his Reuben Effs.

“Gaarg” said Julian.

“Oh, my goodness !” squealed, Frida “What’s that I see in your shorts Mr Julian ?”

“Wicked leaks” said Julian.