Hey I'm Eddie. How d'you like me so far?

1 2 3 4 5 6

"Detectives."
Miss Moneypenny didn't rely on words. She was sufficeintly eloquent with her body language. In the time she's been delivering our phone messages as we stepped off the lift, I'd begun reading up on thought transference. Her sentiments penetrated me. Like you wouldn't believe. This afternoon, I gave her a heads up, placing a call as Pippin pulled his car into our spot in the Scotland Yard lot.

"Moneypenny. I'm on my way up. Any messages?" She didn't answer, but I heard a soft rush of air as she suppressed a quiet reaction. Telepathy didn't work over the cellular network.

The lift deposited us on our floor - and there she was.

"What have you got for me?"

"Here. Let us out right over there. No. No, I don't mean you should stop in the middle of traffic. There. By that horse. No, Carol, I don't know. I guess it's enjoying Hyde Park, too. Hey, pal. Any time, okay? Stop already. Yeah, there's the lake. Supposed to be a memorial to the princess. Damn. We forgot the Frisbee. Pete woulda loved this."

continued from here
Apparently, I'm not dapper. Miss Moneypenny's curious to see how I would look in a Saville Row suit. I like my look. Sort of Columbo meets Bullitt. The only think I like more is Miss Moneypenny...

Hey. Still at the hotel with that opera singer, Liese Kohl. Superintendent says I have to be her minder until her performance. The good people of Germany apparently want their national treasure safe and satisfied. She's ignoring the ground rules, though. She's telling people we're an item. The German police seem to think we're going at it pretty good. She's just confused and conflicted because I'm protecting her from the stalker.

( Besides, I forgot my shaver at home. )

It's a dumb case, Carol. I work with people, not horses. The Superintendent is just using us to run around solving this racehorse insemination case for his buddies of influence.

I heard McQueen, King Of Cool, mutter Bullshit, right there in the London flat. Last thing I remembered was loosening my tie and falling backwards on the bed. Fiona was gone and Pete was happily gnawing the remote in the other room. I welcomed oblivion.

It had been a quiet afternoon. However, true to form, we got a call just when I was signing off, intent on finally making an appearance at home. Another report of the happy slapping kids, this time at Godolphin and Latymer girls' school in Hammersmith. "Gadgets," I muttered. "Bullies with cell phones." Two fourteen year old perps had tried to escape at the scene. I think my leftover good humor from shopping with Carol made me feel McQueenish and I nabbed them with a tackle that left me dusty, with a growing bruise on my left shoulder.

A pushy reporter from The Guardian was all over me as we struggled, the kid beneath me gleefully filming our altercation with his mobile phone.

The Hack: "I say, what do you make of this fad?"
Me: "Look, you work your side of the street and I'll work mine." I gave him my best Frank Bullitt deadpan.

Like those tiny lizard dinosaurs from Jurassic Park 3 that flock around the hapless victim, a growing knot of uniformed schoolgirls and pre-teen thugs loosely circled around the spectacle, filming and snapping images with their tiny phones, sending them to their smart mob network. Word was out: Metropolitan police brutality on happy slappers. Good God. Pippin stood at a safe distance, an ad hoc press conference in his mind, talking with writers from the populars.

I handed the two punks over and took a statement from the huffy headmistress of the school. Pippin was subtley frowning at me and making a Madonna vogue move that, for the life of me, I couldn't comprehend. I leaned down to get a look at my reflection in the window of a parked Mini. I looked revolting. After a pathetic attempt to tame my hair, I gave up and headed home for a shower and little else. I was ready to close the books on today. God save the McQueen.

"So you really gonna go on this whole ride without talking to me? I never forget things. I'm sorry. What if I got you that 3248 Tatio Personal handheld whatever?"

The shooting victim was still stable, but the Yard was a madhouse. Pippin and I just got back from going through his place, talking to his family, neighbors, finding out what he was involved in, what he was doing in London. Press was all over us like Charles on Camilla.

In the midst of chaos, Miss Moneypenny materializes midway down the hall. I'd been on the lookout for her all morning, only to duck into a room if I thought I sensed her coming. Coward. I tried it again, only to be blocked by Pippin, engrossed in primping for the reporters. Avoiding her wasn't the goal. It was not knowing the right... framework for our post Sticky Wicket encounter.

I stopped. The yammering of the fleet street bunch died away and reality around me slowed way down.

"Hello, Miss Moneypenny."

Hey. Pippin. Fiona's moving to New York with Nigel. It's one of those good new-bad news kind of things. I have to find a new flatmate.
Dude, I'll help you find a new roommate.
Forget it.

Hey. *I walked into Inspector Pippin's office in Scotland Yard, way too excited for the Tomlinson extortion case we were investigating*
Yeah. Dude.
Who's the luckiest guy you know?
That'd be Edwin Goodman. Has a willie like a penguin. Massive. Actually considering a reduction.
Damn. That's lucky.
That's pretty lucky. But he has one leg shorter than the other so it sort of works out in the end.