"It's really not my fault I'm late!" Vince lied, silently searching his brain cell for a good excuse. "You see, a … erm… centipede came into my room this morning and asked to try on my shoes." "A centipede?" Howard. T.J .Moon (Jazz maverick) questioned, his eyebrow raised – his pen hovering over a notebook aptly labelled 'Vince's excuses'. "Yeah! You see I would've told 'im I was busy – but he asked so nicely and it's well hard to say no to a centipede, so I just thought 'I'll let him try on the Chelsea boots' and they looked genius Howard! So I couldn't stop there, I just had to carry on with the rest, and I only just finished and I've come straight here." He smiled triumphantly; surely Howard would let him off after that? It was like a bloody essay for God's sake! Howard looked up from scribbling in his notebook. His hazel eyes found Vince's blue ones immediately and he smiled. "Nice try Vince. One day you'll realise you can't fool Howard Moon – I'm like a police dog, sniffing out the truth – you think you've got away, and the Howard Moon comes at you like a truth beam, and all you can do is tremble in awe at his mousta- truth."

"You were going to say moustache weren't you?" said Vince gleefully.

"No I wasn't, I said truth"

"You totally were! It was blates obvious Howard."

"I wasn't Vince"

"I heard you"

"Can you just shut up? I do believe that this is a shop hmm? And if that front window is dirty – no one will come into said shop. So I suggest you get cleaning." He finished, hurling a dishcloth at the smirking Vince – who caught it and held it between his finger and thumb like it was a diseased object. "Naboo wouldn't make me clean the window"

"Well Naboo's not here now is he? I'm in charge. What Howard Moon says, goes. Yes sir. "

"Whatever Howard"

"Look, just get on with it will you?" Howard finished. Proud that he had won that particular argument.

Vince grabbed the cloth and sauntered over to the window grinning, he had successfully avoided a telling-off by Howard about his lateness. And in his books – that counted as a success. It was just as Vince wiped the cloth across a particularly dirty patch of the window that something caught his eye. It looked like the flash of a silver jumpsuit. But that was impossible. Only Vince Noir had a silver jumpsuit.

Unless.

Oh no.

Unless that man had decided he wanted another try at being Vince Noir

That copying bitch.

Lance Dior.