Dude -an update!

...and they ate their minstrels, and there was much rejoicing!

Author's Note: I don't have anything against Russians. I really don't. You see, I just saw an old movie called "The Russians Are Coming!", which was about a Cold War-Era American town getting totally freaked out over some Russians who just wanted to fix their submarine and get the hell home. It was sort of funny. I really wanted to have someone say, "The Russians are in aisle seven!" in my fic. I figure in the world of V for Vendetta, Russian-phobia isn't all that improbable. The Russians are always getting a bad rap.

While we're on the topic of old movies, I also recommend 'Bridge on the River Kwai'.

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Chapter the Second

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Long ago in the days of primeval man, when the first cavewoman had yelled the Stone Age equivalent of "Bollocks, I'm bleeding from my nether regions! Go get me some extra-absorbent moss!" some animal instinct had the first caveman hitting the ground running.

It was with this deeply ingrained instinct singing in his veins that V beat a hasty retreat to the roof, the face under Guy's cheery grin burning. Well, that would explain why Evey's been so out of sorts lately.

The truth was that he was thoroughly embarrassed for the both of them. He mentally gave himself a hefty kick in the kidneys for making such an elementary mistake. Now, to remedy the situation. The city lay below him, ripe for the pilfering...

The problem was that V hadn't the slightest idea of where the government kept their emergency stockpile of feminine hygiene products.

It just hadn't been much of an issue before now.

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In a chemist shop in South London, a teller named Doris lit a cigarette and checked the convex mirror in the corner of the store. Yep. Still there.

The man had been lurking in the aisles for ages. Funny-looking bloke - all in black, with big dark glasses and a prickly-looking beard. He looks like a poorly-disguised secret agent, Doris thought idly.

Whatever the case, he was the most interesting thing that had happened all day. All of London seemed to be staying in today, glued to the telescreens and the latest news on the Leningrad Situation, or whatever the hell they were calling it.

The bearded man finally made his way over to the counter. Up close, his face seemed even more like a bad latex job under the shadow of his hat. He appeared to hesitate for a second, and then asked in a rumbling Slavic accent: "Where is the feminine product aisle, please?"

Doris' jaw slackened a little. She directed to the seventh aisle, and he shuffled off in that direction with a mumbled "Ta." She looked at the newspaper headlines on the counter with beady eyes, then back at the bearded man. Try and pass for an Englishman, why didn't he! She saw right through him!

...What the hell was a Russian doing in the time-of-month aisle?

She scurried into the back room behind the counter, where the frowsy assistant teller was smoking and watching a small telescreen.

"Hey Doris," the assistant said without looking up. "You hear the latest? They say Russia's got bombs. They say -"

Doris hit the power button with a long red fingernail.

"Hey!"

"Don't look now, Matilda, but the Russians are in aisle seven!"

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In the course of his unusual work, V had had cause to acquire certain skills. He could assemble seven kinds of improvised explosives with the contents of a single refrigerator. He could dismantle all the firearms in the government's arsenal one-handed and blindfolded, not to mention the illegal makes. He could operate most heavy machinery given ten minutes and some experimentation in the driver's seat; fly a plane (commercial and private); and drive a lorry through rush hour traffic while in the wrong lane.

However, the Women's Health aisle was a different kind of animal altogether.

V was beginning to panic. The latex mask and false beard were both irritating and hard to breathe through, and he was also getting some decidedly odd looks from the teller at the front of the store. Whether it was because of his hurriedly fabricated disguise or the phenomenon of a male of the species in the aforementioned aisle, he couldn't tell.

I can understand the necessity of colour-coded electrical equipment, he thought wildly as he surveyed the shelves before him. But feminine products...?

Sprays, powders, sanitary towels, wipes, menstrual cups - menstrual cups? What could a woman possibly need all these...things... for?

"I need some tampons," she'd said. What kind of tampons? All-cotton or the cotton-rayon blend? Organic or non-organic? With or without applicators? What was an applicator, and why were they optional?

Napkins. What about napkins? Should he get the sanitary napkins for safety's sake? And if so, would it be ultra-thin? Maxis? Flexi-wings? Overnights?

Male sensibility was screaming at him to him to grab a box, any box, and run with the goods. But V was now a man with a Mission. He'd made a mistake, and damned if he wasn't going to present Evey with the finest that Proctor and Gamble could offer.

He was going to need assistance in this matter.

He glanced back up at the counter. He was starting to attract stray glances from other customers; this wasn't good. His disguise wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny. Also, he was uncomfortably aware that his beard was coming unglued.

Another teller had joined the first at the counter. The older one was casting furtive glances in his direction and drumming long, artificial nails on the countertop. They were whispering. About him. And V had very good hearing.

"...KGB...like in a film...rendezvous in aisle seven..."

"...telescreen...Leningrad Situation... bombs..."

The Russian accent had obviously been a bad idea.

V began to walk briskly for the exit. He would try a different chemist, one where the tellers weren't so curious about clientele. As he did so, he brushed against a couple walking in. The girl immediately turned to her boyfriend.

"That guy just felt me up!"

I beg your pardon?

"Oy! You! Get back here!"

V felt himself hauled backwards and brought face to face with a young man who looked like he ate small mammals for breakfast.

I don't have time for this nonsense. Aloud he said stiffly, "I assure you I did no such thing."

"Bollocks. I felt his hard-on on my leg!"

This is downright insulting.

"Look, you creepy faggot -"

"Ohmygawd! Dylan, his face is coming off!"

No doubt a reference to the fact that the adhesive on his false beard had finally released its tenuous grasp on its native slope and was dangling from one ear.

V groaned internally. It seemed that he was doomed to make the eleven o'clock news no matter what he did.

Before the couple's eyes the man in black produced a throwing knife, which he held out for the girl's dumbfounded inspection.

"I believe this is what you felt, miss."

He flipped it expertly to the other hand and retrieved a second knife, and in the same breath levelled both of them at the staring youths. "Now, if you and your young man could please go and stand behind the counter, we could avoid further confusion. Once there, you may assume whatever position you think appropriate to the situation." He paused and awaited compliance. "Thank you."

Above, the store's ancient intercom suddenly crackled to life. "The Russians are here! He's got a knife! Run for your lives!"

V turned to the teller. She was holding the microphone and pointing a crimson finger at him. "Stay back, Rusky! There's a gun somewhere under this counter, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

"My dear lady, I am quite English. In fact, I am probably the most patriotic individual in the room. Put that microphone down. I'm sure you recognize me from the news of late..."

"I've never seen you before in my life!"

V sighed, turned his back, and made a few unseen costume adjustments before straightening with a frozen smile and harlequin cheeks.

"Oh," said the teller, the mike dangling uselessly. "The terrorist. Wotsisname. Codename V, right?"

The public is becoming jaded, V observed."None other. Now-" he looked at her name tag. "-Doris. Kindly do as the young people have sensibly done and put your hands on your head. I'm sure you've seen it done in films."

At that moment the assistant teller dashed out of the back room carrying an antiquated handgun. Doris waved a red-nailed hand at her. "Nah, s'alright. He's not a Russian. He's the terrorist on the telly."

"Oh," the assistant teller said uncertainly. "What's he want to terrorize a chemist's for?"

"I dunno. I expect he wants to take us all hostage."

Not the reaction I was expecting, V thought, mentally rolling up his sleeves. But I can work with it.

The things I do for you, Evey...

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More to come!