INDIANA JONES AND THE ASCENTION OF ONE
Chapter 1
A man was standing in a doorway vainly trying to get out of the torrential rain that was falling all around him, although it was long past doing him any good, as the long brown trench coat and beat up fedora hat, he was wearing were so wet that they were actually beginning to let in the rain. Adding insult to injury, the rain was running down his face, his fedora acting as a funnel and to top it all, his shoes were beginning to fill with water and he could hear them squelch, as he shuffled his feet, in an effort to keep warm. His bluey green eyes smouldered with raising anger, as he scanned the street for the black Austin 11 that was supposed to pick him up here almost an hour ago. Glanced down at his watch, he muttered, "11:30, goddamn it, why do I always do this to myself, agreeing to meet god knows who and why did I agree to meet in such a dumb location, London, in the middle of rainy season, standing out here when I could be warm and dry, sipping a scotch, inside."
A car came round the corner and entered the alleyway, screeching to a halt opposite the doorway, in which the man was sheltering. The cars passenger right hand side door was opened and a thick set man with slicked back hair and handle bar moustache, wearing a matching black suit and tie, stepped out and spoke with a distinct cockney accent, "You listen to me, listen good, I don't want no trouble, you don't want to cause me none neither, otherwise," indicating the other goon, sitting in the back seat, pointing what the man recognised as a fully loaded and lethal looking gun straight at him, fully intending using it, in the case of none compliance, "my friend and me will just have to have a little talk with you so be a good lad and get in the car."
Not wishing to make, what was rapidly turning into a really crappy evening worse, by trying some futile heroics, which would on present evidence, end up with him on a mortuary slap, the man decided discretion was the better part of valour and got in the car. With a smile, the moustachioed good said, "Well aren't you a good boy, I can see we are going to get on just fine." Getting in the man slammed the door shut and the car sped off to destinations unknown.
A man wearing a white dinner jacket, a red carnation in the lapel with black trousers, both had damp patches from where the rain had soaked through the trench coat; he had been wearing which was now draped over his right arm and in his hand, an equally wet brown fedora hat. Stood watching the floor indicator lights of the elevator, while with his other hand, absent mind idly rubbing a scar on his chin, picked up as a result of a childhood accident, "45, 46, What does that bastard, think he is, ordering me about, get off at the top floor, I should have punched him when I had the chance." The destination floor indicator binged, pulling the man instantly out of his thoughts. The elevator doors opened and before he could open his mouth to ask what exactly the hell was going on, a stern, authoritarian voice spoke "Dr Jones, I'm Neville Jameson, Director of M16, British intelligence." Jameson took hold of Indy's right hand and forearm with both of his and gave them a brisk shake, "I must apologise for my men's methods but it was necessary to get you here, what do you know of a man called Alistair Crowley?"