I have completely changed the whole chapter!! Muhahahahaha!
Some answers to my reviewers:
charliegirl2: Happy now?
TrunkZy: Do you get it now?
Disclaimer: I own Fartemit Owl, characters names (except for the countries and cars) and the whole lot! Yeah!
Chapter 1: Upyure Arse
Niggeria (sorry, Nigeria) in the summer. Unless you want to get serious sunburn, don't go there. Needless to say, Fartemit Owl wouldn't have even thought of coming here, even for a holiday, if something awfully interesting hadn't been for grabs. Important to that sort of thing with schedules and objectives. He was sitting outside a café that was in shambles, watching a bunch of ugly teenagers running round in circles, for no point whatsoever.
Sun didn't suit Fartemit. He didn't look good in it. The doctors had said that there was something wrong with his skin when the sun's rays hit it. He replied that they were a bunch of idiots, although they were right. It caused a rash, all red and ugly. Hours in front of either a TV screen watching science lectures and Cartoon Network®, or a computer screen putting in some comments into some chat rooms (for professors) and looking at naughty pictures he wasn't meant to look at had, er, wiped his face clean, so to speak. He was as pale and white as a golf ball and one that just wouldn't fly far in the sunshine.
"I really hope this isn't another damn false alarm again, Buttleg," he muttered, his voice sharp and, well, to say the truth, childish. "Especially after Afghanistan"
He could have put in a way that sounded much worse. They had travelled to Afghanistan on the word of Buttleg's mystery informant, who had turned out to be Osama Bin Ladin in disguise trying to get some money. Fartemit had been nearly scratched.
"No, dumbass. Upyure is a good man, if not a very dangerous, murderous, good man."
"Riiight," stretched Fartemit, pretty much annoyed. He continued playing with his Gameboy©.
Anybody who had just heard the short conversation wouldn't have given a damn that the man-mountain had referred to the boy as dumbass. This was, after all, the modern times. Everybody called each other rude things.
Upyure was late at least half an hour, and the tiny drink in front of him wasn't making Fartemit hyper as usual. Even the Gameboy© couldn't cheer him up. But his doctors had given him ACME HYPER-LESS PILLS©, and no matter how much sugar he took, he couldn't become hyper.This was becoming increasingly stupid, and Fartemit was on the verge of the giving up.
An obese waiter swaggered to the table. His smile was carefree and happy, and his belly bounced up and down every time he walked forward.
"Moore tea, soors?" he asked, his voice sounding suspiciously Scottish.
Fartemit noticed everything above, and sighed, then said, "Don't give me your ass-trocious acting, and sit down without breaking the chair. Or at least try."
The waiter turned with exaggerated ignorance to Buttleg. Buttleg was, after all, the man-mountain (adult).
"Buut soor, Oim the weeter."
Fartemit threw his tiny cup at the obviously false waiter for attention. It ruined the man's shirt, and it must have hurt too, for he shouted "oooch!"
"You are wearing designer trainers, a huge silk T-shirt, and a ring in the shape of bagpipes. Your accent is very much Scottish, and your nails smell of recently eaten haggis. You are our guide Upyure Arse, and you decided to wear that stupid, idiotic, and pathetic disguise to check us for god-knows-what. Oh, and by the way, where did you get the haggis in this country?"
"Well, blee me doon. Yuur a clever littl' bloighter, aran't ye," said the Scotsman, Upyure Arse. He sort of squeezed into the tiny chair, nearly popping the armrests and the legs in the process. "Ooh, and thees wee littl' haggisy beet I goot froom mi antei!"
Upyure was correct for trying to check for god-knows-what, for Buttleg had a triple-barrelled silenced 75/second slugger in his suitcase, two tiny guns, just like the one in Men In Black, shoved down his pants, some unusually strong cotton wool string in his fake Rolex watch, and three extremely effectively strong stink-bombs in various pockets. He also had a bar of soap and his socks to make a crude swinger-banger.
"Let me just inform you about our luggage. I am unarmed except for my self-destructive Gameboy©, which at the touch of the buttons in the sequence ABAB START B SELECT ABA, will explode in ten seconds. The power of the explosion is so great, that some dust will blow about. Of course, it's perfectly useless, but it's nice to know you have something to protect you. In a way. Buttleg, however, is much more thoroughly armed, but I won't bother going through everything, otherwise we'd be here next year. And don't worry, Mr. Arse. Only one shall be used on you."
Upyure was looking annoyingly relaxed, but inside, he was quivering like jelly-o. He wasn't really full of relief when he heard Fartemit's little speech.
But worse still, the Scotsman was especially freaked out of Fartemit's level of vocabulary. A small, pale, ten-year-old kid talking like a damn professor from some foreign university. Upyure had heard the name Owl before – who hadn't in the international animal community? – but he was expecting some hairy, ugly, filthy-rich-looking adult, who, of course, was Fartemit Owl senior, not this kid. But 'kid' didn't sound right, considering Fartemit's vocabulary. And that butler, Buttleg. It was pretty obvious to think that with those massive hands, he could scrunch a rather unlucky can of beer between his thumb and first finger.
"So let's get on with it," said Fartemit, indicating something to Buttleg. Buttleg took out something huge from his suitcase. It was a strange looking object with a lens at the front. Of course, this was a filming camera, but Upyure had never see one before, for some jack-assed reason. "You answered our newspaper advertisement."
Upyure nodded, taking out the advertisement out of his pocket. He started to lick his fingers, a habit caused when nervous. Fartemit was disgusted. But he tried to cover it up, by looking at his own, bitten nails.
"Yee, I noo whear 't iis. Doown the rood, tuurrn riit, goo throo the ootematic duors, aend shees thear." whispered Upyure. He then took out a photo of a smooth, sleek hand that could have belonged to a supermodel. Fartemit's heart started to beat faster. This hand looked very much like Helen Arlington, one of the many, young, hot, women he had 'seen' on the Internet. Just looking at that hand gave him an erection.
"Right, yeah," whispered Fartemit, "explain."
"Thiis woman, oor goorl, foor sh' only looks seventeen, boot she's been har foor 24 yeers. She's a cashier oot the looca' supermarkit. She's the smoolest goorl I've evoor leed me ees oon. As tool as me thise goo, ye'see." He pointed at his thighs for emphasis.
Fartemit half murmured. He was three-quarters asleep. Buttleg gave him a little nudge with his massive, tennis-racquet-thickness finger on his employer's side. Fartemit immediately awoke, saying something incomprehensible (something like, "Oh, what the fin' s was that?"), and then becoming himself again. He silently approved. The not ageing, and the lack of height. He stood, pulling the creasing out of his Spiderman 2© t-shirt.
"Very well, Mr. Arse. Lead on." said Fartemit. Buttleg immediately stood.
Upyure remained seated. He sat there, annoyingly smug, in his nearly wrecked chair. Fartemit was thoroughly irritated.
"I eent gooin'. Infoomation oonly. That's what ye said." Upyure said, with that ignorant grin on his face.
Buttleg stepped behind their informant, and using both of his massive hands, he picked Upyure off the chair and onto his feet. It was quite an effort, for it took two minutes. Upyure was considerably surprised, and fell on his butt.
"We make the decisions, Mr. Arse. And we want you to guide us." said Fartemit coolly. His gaze alone gave Upyure shivers. This kid was real creepy for a ten year-old.
Upyure got up, and was immediately steered to the car he was to drive. It was a MINI, like the one Mr. Bean® drove. Fartemit had insisted, 'The smallest car for three people', and it really was tiny. Upyure barely fit. He was bent double, and his seat was put right back to fit his feet. Buttleg's face was pressed against the window.
The streets were very much packed like sardines, and there was barely room for the car and the civilians. The MINI moved at unbearably slow rate, and Fartemit couldn't wait any longer. After fifteen unsuccessful attempts at over four different continents (Antarctica being one of them), could this be the answer he's been waiting for? Fartemit chuckled. The answer he's been waiting for. He'd said something religious, even though he didn't believe in something like God. That didn't happen everyday.
The people parted like Moses and his magic gone badly. The crowd was infinite, even the alleyways were full up. Beggars and pickpockets roamed around, looking for unguarded valuables. Cooks dropped god-knows-what into sizzling frying pans, teenagers looked bored out of their minds, but what caught Fartemit's attention was, well, let's just say the, um, girls. Catch my drift? In fact, all the men inside the car were looking at these girls, who were flashing their, urm, wares. Which was why they didn't here the screams of agony as the rolled over most of the people on the street. They had already done so even with their eyes on the road, so they ignored it.
Upyure was sweating so much, that the ventilation system and the air conditioner was useless against the smell. Fartemit was once again disgusted by this over-obese Scottish man. Fartemit and Buttleg held their nose for an entire journey of five minutes.
But not even the MINI© could go through the narrow alleyway in which they had to go through. They stopped the car, and got out (with some difficulty). The Nigerian air, still stale and smelly, was much better than Upyure's sweat. As soon as they had left the car and turned their backs to it, a teenage youth smashed the glass, hot-wired the engine, backed it off, and drove away, all under two minutes. Not a good start to the day.
To be continued (after a few days)..........