|Hank Conan Episode 2|
|Hank Conan Episode 3|
|Hank Conan Episode 4|
|Hank Conan Episode 6|
(EPISODE FIVE - FAREWELL, ABERDOVEY.)
Viv had gone!
I think some wise-ass once said, Smile. Things could be worse.
Well I did.
And they are.
Readers, Hank Conan is at a low ebb. My uncanny cognition, honed by countless daring exploits behind many enemy lines - and Spring Sales in Harrods - adapted and implemented, time and time again in every kind of scenario possible, is giving me the strangest feedback. I can divine some grotesque foreboding. If I was to make a bizarre analogy, its like I was a character in some kind of play or film, with the choc-ices and Kia-Ora fast approaching.
Ridiculous, I know, but who can fathom the deeper levels of meaning of the human brain and psyche? Or even my brain and psyche?
And how did I end up here? Where I stand now, readers, would chill your soul.
Before I tell you my location, I suppose I should use the old film-noir technique of flashback to bring you up to speed.
Viv had gone!
Shed managed, though, in what undoubtedly had been mayhem and bullet-ridden carnage, to frantically scribble an obviously hasty letter detailing how the mob knew shed taken up with me and wanted to take me out (Hah! Someone shouldve told them that flattery wont get you anywhere with Hank Conan. Im not that easily impressed - unless they were talking serious wining and dining at a real swank joint!).
Brave soul that she is, Vivd taken the heartrending decision (on page 17) that, even though turning her back on me was the hardest thing shed ever have to do, if she didnt leave now, and save my life in the process, shed regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But sometime, and for the rest of her life. After all, as she said in her booklet, ...wed always have Parris. (Thats the island used to train U.S. Marines, and where Id planned to have a paintball reception after the wedding.)
She also mentioned, somewhat cryptically, something about going to Yemen (More correctly, 18 Yemen Road, Yemen, if my friends in high places had decrypted it accurately.).
I thought about the sacrifices on going up against the sewer-sucking scum-buckets and the low-lives; the loneliness, the lost opportunities, the gambles, the losses.
Ive noticed that people I meet often end up departing in strange circumstances. I suppose its one of the hazards of this job.
How could some losers call me a sad loner when Ive known countless people throughout the years whove taken on new identities at a moments notice so they could be relocated and moved thousands of miles away from me to protect me from the mob?
Yeh, Id lost plenty in the past through following this lonesome, lawful path. In this game, when you decide that you wont be pushed around by anyone, that no one owns you, and no one can deny you your own little piece of Gods green patch, thats when things get tough. Thats when you realise that things can go down hard for you sticking to the straight and narrow and deciding that youre your own man.
Yeh, readers, I can tell you, Ive lost a lot of things since I stopped kissing ass. Mainly this funny taste I used to get in my mouth first thing in a morning.
Even though Viv had implored me (on page 111) to save myself and not to follow her, what was life without a woman the required three paces behind you? Who would clean the john? How do you cook cereal?
I thought about Vivs cute, turned up nose. The way her hair swirled and framed her face when she coyly giggled and shook her head. I remembered the infectious little chuckle that began somewhere near her diaphragm and languorously, sensually, wriggled upwards, hitching a ride on the phlegm her smokers cough engendered, until it burst forth into the air with a sound like a riotous cacophony of metal plates falling on to tarmacadam.
My mind swam in the remembrances of her. Like the time shed taken up jogging, but then had to stop after the friction between the tops of her thighs kept melting her pantyhose and sticking her legs together.
My mind was filled with visions of her lithe body bent over my prone form, her elegantly manicured, scarlet-glossed nails stroking the exposed skin above my midriff with smooth, deft movements - targeting the exact location, like all women, she knew was the males weak spot.
After lulling me into a post-coital, hypnagogic, doze with that old fashioned ploy of rutting, shed plunge those nails through the flesh, breaking and discarding the ribs like long forgotten and worm-eaten planks of a redundant jetty. The grasping, writhing hands jerking and fluttering through my entrails until they found their prize.
With one swift, well-practised, movement the she-vixen would tear out and hold aloft the still beating heart of her quarry, letting the droplets of life purge the dry thirst of anticipation from her throat as her screams of orgasmic satisfaction climaxed in union with the sounds of the death rattle rasping from the still warm and scarlet-smeared throat and chest of the poor wretch who now lay twitching at her feet.....
Excuse me a moment.........................