My OCs, Liesel and Altheus, make another appearance here, and so does Sintendo's OC, Baldo. There's also a plug for A Picture Is Worth Your Life by Sheo Darren, with special thanks going out to my amiga, Deathra for the absolutely brilliant 'flying pink daisy' line.

legge del murphy

"Today... I hear the robin sing! Today... the thrush is on the wing! Who knows, today, what life will bring? Today...!"

Victor Hartman – better known as Hillshire – was strolling home through the bracing morning air, having been hard at work all through the previous evening and night. He was on his way from the Agency's administrative building to where he had parked his car, attaché case in hand, as he had done for the last four years.

In his mind were pleasurable anticipations of a warm fire, comfy slippers, a well-cooked breakfast and the morning paper. There was a rosy glow all over his thoughts. Couple that with the lovely weather (proof positive that the day was promising to be an exceptionally beautiful one), and bursting into song proved irresistible.

This good mood was to change, however, as soon as Hillshire turned a corner and his parking space came into view. Soon, he would be wondering if he had gone chasing a white rabbit and wound up tumbling down its burrow.

Sitting cross-legged on a sandy spot (which had definitely not been there to begin with and was made by design, judging from the sand's nearly pure white hue and the seashells strewn all over it) several paces away from Hillshire's car was Beatrice. She was wearing baggy khaki pants and a perfect example of the shirts so popular among tourists to Waikiki Beach during the Fifties and Sixties. Her hair was in dreadlocks and hung past her shoulders – hair extensions or otherwise, Hillshire couldn't tell, but her bangs were missing, too. Faint strains of reggae emanated from the earphones she wore, which trailed to a Creative ZEN that lay at her feet. A semicircle of bonsai palms stood around her like a queen's attentive handmaidens, and near Beatrice's arm was a bottle of liquorice water with a sliver of lime stuck near its mouth.

Hillshire stopped short, one stolid German eyebrow raised in utter astonishment at the curious sight. "What are you doing, Beatrice?" he asked after an initial moment of perplexed quiet.

"Wasting away in Margaritaville, searching for me lost shaker of salt," was the reply, delivered in Beatrice's usual deadpan style – with one exception. She was now speaking with an ersatz Jamaican accent.

"But... why?"

"Some people claim there's a man to blame, but I know it's me own damn fault." Beatrice slowly closed her eyes as if completely immersing herself in her music.

Hillshire took a look at the ZEN's screen, hoping it would give him some answers. As it turned out, the words he read only raised more questions.

"'Exodus'?" he said, squinting. "Is that the artist or the title?"

"Title. Bob Marley an' the Wailers be the group, mon."

"What's this accent about? And... why the hair?"

A hint of annoyance appeared on Beatrice's poker face. "Don't diss me dreads, mon. Now run along and let me finish me brew."

Up again with the incredulous eyebrow as Hillshire glanced from Beatrice to the bottle and back again. The container sported a faux – and obviously homemade – Dos Equis label. You can always tell Crayola work when you see it.

"And you're supposed to be...?" asked Hillshire, despite knowing full well that posing such a question would not bode well for his already bewildered mind.

"I be an irie Rasta, mon."

Silently boggling, Hillshire shook his head and reached for the driver's door handle of his car – only to stop short again to answer his cell phone, which had suddenly begun to ring.

"Lorenzo's got a job for us, Victor," said Altheus on the other end of the line. "Sorry, my friend – no going home just yet."

Hillshire's heart sank. The rosy vision of the warm fire, comfy slippers, well-cooked breakfast and morning paper seemed to have retreated to an incalculable distance. Beatrice languorously sipped her drink, looking on with little interest.

666

Giuseppe, Hillshire, Altheus and their respective cyborgs – with Rico present, too – stood around a drawing-room table, upon which lay an assortment of maps and charts. An undercover agent mingling with the shadowy figures of Rome's underworld had recently discovered the location of a major drug smuggling operation, and the fratello teams were being tasked with the dual objectives of shutting down the joint and getting their man out alive.

"I wish Jean were here," said Altheus as he studied the plans. "This job's certainly no pushover, and we need all the skill and experience we can muster. Where is he, anyway?"

"I haven't seen hide nor hair of my brother since the day before," said a concerned Giuseppe, "although the Agency records indicate that he reported in sick. It's totally unlike Jean to go absent without telling me the reason – he isn't even answering my calls or replying to my text messages."

Nearby, Rico hummed an all-too-familiar tune, and Hillshire's stomach flip-flopped as the truth dawned on him.

"Jean will be alright; the man's hard as nails," he put in hurriedly, eager to change the subject. Clearing his throat, he niftily redirected everyone to the matter at hand. "I've performed operations like this during my time with Interpol, people, including a major raid against the Baader-Meinhoff Gang in Bavaria, and I'm confident that my experience can contribute significantly to making this mission a success." Altheus and Giuseppe nodded approvingly as Hillshire began to draw a series of lines on the blueprints depicting the drug smugglers' headquarters. "First and foremost, we..."

"Hold up, Mr. Hillshire, hold up," put in Henrietta abruptly. Excitement was writ large on her face. "Where did you say that raid happened again?"

"In Bavaria," said a puzzled Hillshire. "Why?"

Henrietta and Rico looked at each other, grinned, and nodded.

"Er erinnert sich eine an Erfahrung im Bavaria – ja, im Bavaria, wo die Berge aus dem Boden ragen, wo die Bäume aus Holz sind, und wo die Schafe selten Brillen tragen! Ja, im Bavaria, und nicht im Venezuela!" they recited in unison, before collapsing in a fit of wild giggling.

Hillshire and Giuseppe both looked as though they would turn into Biting Pears of Salamanca any moment, while Liesel smiled, Altheus chuckled and Triela burst out laughing. "British humor's a hell of a thing," observed the Swedish-Italian.

Déjà vu as the front door suddenly swung open with a cacophonous crash and all turned to look. Silhouetted in the portal against the sunlight was Freda Claes Johansson. Her attire of a farmer's faded jumpers, rubber boots and gloves and straw hat, complemented by the rake on her shoulder and the bucket in her hand, would have been cause for much unbridled amusement had she not been wearing an expression so terrible. Or so we shall see.

"What happened to the grass in my garden?"

Claes' voice was harsh and heated, so much that all present had, quite simply, never experienced something so fearsomely intimidating in their entire lives. Henrietta and Rico were holding each other in fright, Liesel looked a tad paler than normal and the handlers were trying their best not to show their apprehension. Only Triela stood unfazed.

"Well?" snapped Claes.

"Beatrice was smoking some very pungent roll-your-owns earlier," said Liesel hesitantly.

Silence reigned; with Claes staring as though Liesel had just told her she was a flying pink daisy, looking to join a troupe of daffodils passing through town come the next full moon. Behind the bespectacled girl, Baldo wandered about in Arctic camouflage, chewing the aforementioned plant, muttering assorted lines from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle and looking for the entire world like a large Friesian bull.

Then the stillness was shattered by the whirr-flash-click of Triela's camera phone. "Here's one for all time!" the blond girl chortled, before prancing past her stunned roommate and out the door.

This was more than enough to shake Claes out of her stupor.

"Up until now," she hissed, "I thought us cyborgs could coexist peacefully, with our watchword going vaguely as follows – 'I don't swim in your toilet; so don't urinate in my pool.' Thanks a billion for violating these terms, and turning my water park into a vivid re-enactment of Two Girls, One Cup!"

The events that happened next were a blur. With a roar that would turn a young person's hair gray, Claes raised her rake and intercepted Triela with a running leap that would have put the finest Olympic long-jumper to shame. Henrietta and Rico screamed with terror and dashed clean through the closed back door with Giuseppe calling in vain for them to come back. Liesel and Altheus rushed to pry apart the feuding roommates, who were grappling like pro wrestlers in a puddle of mud outside. Baldo stood there, grinning like an idiot, as he immortalized the fight on a camcorder...

... and Hillshire realized, too late, that the whole business with the ZENs had gotten completely out of hand.