5d
The phone rang.
"Yes."
"Am I speaking to Agent Nick Moore?"
"Who's asking?"
"This is the Poetic Justice Bureau. We have a job for you. A poet has recently gone missing and is feared dead. Your mission is to find this poet and return him safely to the bureau."
"Understood."
"The poet's name is Roger and he was last seen over a week ago. He is connected to a former employee of the bureau, ex-Agent Echo. Find him, and you’ll find Roger. We're emailing you details of a known associate of his, Jimmy The Silk, a small-time **** dealer in Liverpool. Good luck, Agent Moore."
The line went dead.
Nick made his way to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe door, and there, hanging in all its glory, was a black suit and tie.
After changing into the Bureau attire, he sent for a car to take him to Liverpool.
A Rolls Royce Spectre Coupe pulled up outside Agent Moore's home. The driver's door opened to reveal a striking blonde beauty. "Get in the back," she ordered.
They drove away.
"Agent Moore, I am taking you to the contact's address. You shall ask him about Echo's whereabouts and come straight back to the car. He may try to tempt you with his illegal substances. You must resist."
Nick nodded.
Arriving in Edge Hill, an affluent and beautiful area of Liverpool, the Rolls Royce quietly parked outside Jimmy The Silk's apartment.
The front door had an intercom, which Agent Moore pressed. A disembodied voice came through the speaker.
"Yeah? Who's that?"
"Jimmy, my name is Agent Nick Moore from the Poetic Justice Bureau. I need to speak with you on an urgent matter."
A buzzer sounded, and the door opened.
There, dressed in a *****-stained Liverpool FC top and a pair of boxer shorts, stood Jimmy The Silk.
"You better come in, lad," he said, beckoning Nick into his abode.
"Now, what's it to be? A spliff or a ****? 'Cause I ain't saying **** all to you unless you're on the same wavelength as me."
"Jimmy, I'm working. No thanks."
After a lot of persuasion and the realisation that this would be a dead end unless he complied, Agent Moore joined Jimmy for a round of pipes and spliffs.
Totally off his face and barely in control of his faculties, he attempted to ask questions.
"Jimmy, do you know the whereabouts of Echo? We need him to help us find Roger the poet."
Jimmy slowly lifted his head, then promptly projectile vomited, just missing Nick. Clearing his mouth with a gulp of Special Brew lager, he started to laugh.
"Echo... is Roger. Roger is... Echo."
He then stood up from the sofa and motioned for Nick to follow him. Swinging open his spare bedroom door, there was Echo, sat, frantically tapping away on his phone.
"Echo, the bureau wants me to take you to them. There seems to be some misunderstanding. You are Roger?"
Echo stopped tapping.
"Yes, I am Roger, and I am Echo also. I created Roger to show what poetry I really write and what comes from my soul. I'll come with you, sure."
After a few more spliffs and Jimmy puking up once more, Agent Moore and Echo/Roger stumbled out of the apartment and into the waiting car.
The blonde driver looked at them both in disgust, then drove them to the Bureau's headquarters.
"So, Echo, Agent Moore has been sent all the way to the beautiful suburb of Edge Hill to find you and Roger, and now we find out you faked the whole thing. We are not happy with you at all. You are hereby sentenced to two years hard labour at All Poetry, with no access to Hello Poetry until your sentence is served. Guards, take him down."
Echo looked distraught and close to breaking point as he was led away.
The Chief of the Bureau turned to Nick.
"Agent Moore, you have more than proved your abilities out in the field. Take a break, and we'll be in touch."
"Yes, sir. I'll be ready, anytime, anyplace. I'll be there."
"Yes."
"Am I speaking to Agent Nick Moore?"
"Who's asking?"
"This is the Poetic Justice Bureau. We have a job for you. A poet has recently gone missing and is feared dead. Your mission is to find this poet and return him safely to the bureau."
"Understood."
"The poet's name is Roger and he was last seen over a week ago. He is connected to a former employee of the bureau, ex-Agent Echo. Find him, and you’ll find Roger. We're emailing you details of a known associate of his, Jimmy The Silk, a small-time **** dealer in Liverpool. Good luck, Agent Moore."
The line went dead.
Nick made his way to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe door, and there, hanging in all its glory, was a black suit and tie.
After changing into the Bureau attire, he sent for a car to take him to Liverpool.
A Rolls Royce Spectre Coupe pulled up outside Agent Moore's home. The driver's door opened to reveal a striking blonde beauty. "Get in the back," she ordered.
They drove away.
"Agent Moore, I am taking you to the contact's address. You shall ask him about Echo's whereabouts and come straight back to the car. He may try to tempt you with his illegal substances. You must resist."
Nick nodded.
Arriving in Edge Hill, an affluent and beautiful area of Liverpool, the Rolls Royce quietly parked outside Jimmy The Silk's apartment.
The front door had an intercom, which Agent Moore pressed. A disembodied voice came through the speaker.
"Yeah? Who's that?"
"Jimmy, my name is Agent Nick Moore from the Poetic Justice Bureau. I need to speak with you on an urgent matter."
A buzzer sounded, and the door opened.
There, dressed in a *****-stained Liverpool FC top and a pair of boxer shorts, stood Jimmy The Silk.
"You better come in, lad," he said, beckoning Nick into his abode.
"Now, what's it to be? A spliff or a ****? 'Cause I ain't saying **** all to you unless you're on the same wavelength as me."
"Jimmy, I'm working. No thanks."
After a lot of persuasion and the realisation that this would be a dead end unless he complied, Agent Moore joined Jimmy for a round of pipes and spliffs.
Totally off his face and barely in control of his faculties, he attempted to ask questions.
"Jimmy, do you know the whereabouts of Echo? We need him to help us find Roger the poet."
Jimmy slowly lifted his head, then promptly projectile vomited, just missing Nick. Clearing his mouth with a gulp of Special Brew lager, he started to laugh.
"Echo... is Roger. Roger is... Echo."
He then stood up from the sofa and motioned for Nick to follow him. Swinging open his spare bedroom door, there was Echo, sat, frantically tapping away on his phone.
"Echo, the bureau wants me to take you to them. There seems to be some misunderstanding. You are Roger?"
Echo stopped tapping.
"Yes, I am Roger, and I am Echo also. I created Roger to show what poetry I really write and what comes from my soul. I'll come with you, sure."
After a few more spliffs and Jimmy puking up once more, Agent Moore and Echo/Roger stumbled out of the apartment and into the waiting car.
The blonde driver looked at them both in disgust, then drove them to the Bureau's headquarters.
"So, Echo, Agent Moore has been sent all the way to the beautiful suburb of Edge Hill to find you and Roger, and now we find out you faked the whole thing. We are not happy with you at all. You are hereby sentenced to two years hard labour at All Poetry, with no access to Hello Poetry until your sentence is served. Guards, take him down."
Echo looked distraught and close to breaking point as he was led away.
The Chief of the Bureau turned to Nick.
"Agent Moore, you have more than proved your abilities out in the field. Take a break, and we'll be in touch."
"Yes, sir. I'll be ready, anytime, anyplace. I'll be there."
