19

'Tache On Delivery.

The evil moustache was still laughing manically as it gunned the yellow cab and sped off downtown.
"I can just see him." Despite the fact that she was effecting a racing change as she weaved her cadillac through the mid-town traffic, Pauline's voice was even and welcoming.
"So what happened?" The high-pitched voice of evil crackled with the static of the phone link.
"It was all a bit of a disaster, really. I was watching it on my remote monitor and... Well to be honest I nearly had to intervene."
"What?" The squawk was like that of a startled chicken.
"I said 'I nearly had to intervene'!" Pauline raised her voice.
"I heard what you said, Number 3. That was a 'what' of surprise. Now, why?"
"Why, what?"
"Why did you nearly intervene?" The words were spoken through teeth gritted in a vain attempt to stay calm.
"Oh yes, that..." Pauline swerved to miss a pedestrian, "...It looked like Number 4 was going to kill them..."
"Kill them? Kill them? Has he gone insane?"
"But I thought that was why you took him on - because he was insane. Don't you remember your advert in 'Supervillains Monthly'? You specifically asked for someone, and I quote 'Clinically insane with violent, sadistic tendencies - must be able to work Bank Holidays'. The ad went right opposite that article about Rupert Murdoch."
"Yes, yes!" Number 1 shouted. Pauline winced. The voice was like having an ice-cold knitting needle jabbed into her ear.

"But I only wanted them softened up. His attempt to eliminate them is completely out of order."
"Well..." Said Pauline accelerating hard to pass a dump truck, "At least you'll be able to redeem the cost of the advert. Supervillains Monthly has a money back guarantee if henchmen employed through its ads don't come up to scratch. That's why it's the periodical of choice for the discerning evil genius..."
"Don't quote their advertising slogans at me yer daft cow. The fact of the matter is that Number 4 has failed and there can be no room in this organisation for failure."
The yellowcab headed towards Brooklyn and Pauline followed in its wake. She sighed.
"And now I suppose you want me to eliminate him."
"Do I detect from your tone of voice that you don't want to perform this simple task?"
"Well it's just that I did my nails half an hour ago and if I get into a mortal struggle with Number 4 I might chip the varnish..."
"How can you put your nails before my plans for vengeance? Honestly, I've never met anyone with such a topsy turvey set of priorities!"
"All right, I'll get rid of him - but you'll have to buy me a manicure."
"Eeh!" The voice dripped with Blackpool, "You drive a hard bargain our Number 3, but you're on. And there's a pedicure in it if you get him by the end of the day. Oh yes, and when you've finished with him, contact Number 2. He's putting a tail on our friends and will give you instructions for your next move. Okay, this is Number 1 signing off – ta’ra!"
"Bye!" Pauline was happy. She pressed the accelerator and moved into the fast lane of the highway that would end in a free pedicure.

The moustache was laughing manically as it steered the cab through the streets. It might have nearly lost its life, but it now had a cab and control of a man who had a beautiful wife. Now the infernal creature was planning its future. That day had brought defeat, but soon it would have its revenge! It would lie low for a few months, then slowly make its way over to San Francisco. It had friends there - bushy moustaches with nothing to lose - they would draw up a plan and then they would conquer!
CRUNCH! There was a loud bang and a jolt of whiplash. What? The car behind had rear-ended it! The moustache checked the rear-view. Its look of happiness turned to one of horror. There, right on its tail in a black Cadillac, was Number 3. The disinterested look on her plain features gave no hint of the stern resolve within, but the moustache knew it was in danger. It knew of her methods. The world had been shocked by her infamous Stockholm 'hit'. Four Swedish scientists found dead in a hotel room - all choked on their own chinchillas, and not a clue as to why. But the 'tache knew why - the men had all been experts in optics and had just finished a job for Number 1. They had known too much and Number 3 had been the instrument of their destruction. And now... Now the moustache knew that it knew too much, too...
CRASH! Again the Cadillac bumped into the back of the cab, harder this time. The lip fur looked at the traffic ahead - a queue on the Brooklyn Bridge. To be caught up in it was certain death. It thought quickly... The cab's tyres squealed as it made a handbrake turn to the right. There was a moment of inertia as the rubber gained purchase on the tarmac and then it was accelerating away. In the Cadillac behind, Pauline looked dully at the yellowcab, but saw the driver's hand moving towards the handbrake. The sudden turn was therefore no surprise and she shadowed it exactly, her face showing none of the strain her arms were having to take to execute the manoeuvre. Her breasts listed heavily to the left as the car hit the apex of the turn, then joggled as the car straightened, and were still in motion as her tyres gained their purchase on the tarmac. She had taken the turn better than her quarry and with a push on the accelerator she was behind it again.
CRUNCH! This time the cars did not part after the sudden bump and the moustache could feel the Cadillac weighing heavily on the cab's rear suspension. The bumpers must have got tangled! There was no way to outrun her now. A glance in the mirror at the look of indifference on Number 3's face told the moustache that its race was almost run. The psychotic brush was desperate now, glancing left and right, hoping (praying!) to see anything that might be its salvation. Then there it was! An Italian restaurant - perfect! With all its strength it leapt from the face of the cabby, out of the window of the moving cab and dashed through the front entrance.

It heard the screech of brakes, but didn't look back. It had only one thought in mind - hiding. It ran through the main body of the restaurant. It was dark and cool with a red quarry tile floor and square tables with wrought iron bases laid out neatly with red and white checked table cloths. Along the left side of the room ran a long bar, stocked with wines, Amaretto, different kinds of Grappa and a range of herb-filled olive oil bottles. The air was thick with rosemary, bay, garlic and lamb - the kitchens were cooking up a ragu and the place reminded the 'tache of its time in Bologna, when it lived on the face of the head waiter at a small trattoria.
The desperate lip mop headed straight for a pair of double doors with porthole windows at the end of the room. The kitchens would be beyond those doors - the kitchens and safety. The 'tache knew that at least half of the kitchen staff would have moustaches - it was a given in any Italian restaurant - so all it had to do was hop on the face of one of the clean shaven men that made up the other half of the staff, and then it would be safe. When Number 3 arrived, she would not be able to tell the docile moustaches from the feral one. Once Number 3 had left, the 'tache would simply help cook up some amatriciana sauce, wait on some tables and slip away at the end of the night. It might even make a few dollars in tips on the way. As it reached the kitchen it could hear the crack of Number 3's showgirl style stilettos on the concrete outside. There wasn't much time. The 'tache burst through the double doors, salvation a heartbeat away... Then its heart stopped.

As the doors swung shut it looked around the room and the half dozen men therein looked back at it. Disaster! Each and every one of them had a luxuriant growth of hair nestling between the base of their nose and their top lip. There was not one clean-shaven face in sight. The 'tache squealed in horror, raising itself up on its tendrils to see if it had missed anyone. It hadn't and the cracking footfalls were approaching across the tiled floor of the restaurant. What could it do? It couldn't get onto one of the existing moustaches - there had only ever been five cases of men having double moustaches, and they had all had the second 'tache surgically removed. There was no way it could get away with such an unlikely subterfuge. It had never been any good at impersonating beards, so there was only one route left. It leapt up at the nearest man to spread itself across his eyebrows, hoping that Number 3 would think the man was just one of those people who had eyebrows that met in the middle. But the man recoiled in horror and caught the moustache before it could get a hair hold. The struggle was futile. The man had powerful hands from years of kneading pizza dough, and try as it might the follicular freak could not get onto the man's brow.

The kitchen doors opened, then closed with a sigh. The 'tache wrenched itself from the chef's grip and turned to face its nemesis. Pauline stood in the doorway, resplendent in her be-jewelled bodice. She had the curves of Marilyn Monroe, the legs of Cyd Charisse and the mind of Charles Manson. The moustache backed away, squeaking inarticulately. Without a top lip to move it couldn't speak, couldn't plead with her, couldn't bargain, couldn't offer to double Number 1's price. Pauline walked towards it, past the dumbstruck Italian chefs who were all caught between horror at the entrance of the moustache and lust at the entrance of Pauline.
"Ooh you've been so naughty!" Pauline wagged a finger at the moustache as if it were a rambunctious child, rather than a psychopathic facial appendage.
"Number 1 is very cross and says that I have to punish you." She was closing in, backing the 'tache into a corner towards the catering sized food mixer.
"I didn't want to... I told him I'd just done my nails, but he wouldn't listen... D'you like my nails? I'm not sure whether russet goes with these rhinestones..." Pauline held out her hands for the moustache to inspect. What did it care about her nails? It was cornered and only moments away from death! In final desperation the moustache sprang for Pauline's throat - pale and open to attack. She had seen the move coming as soon as the first follicles started to twitch, and had raised her hands to counter the attack before the moustache had covered an inch. She caught it in mid air, squeezing the strength out of the flailing tendrils.
"Now let's not be silly!" Again the patient tone of admonition, this time coupled with extreme violence as Pauline whipped the 'tache against the marble worktop. The first blow stopped its breath in a burst of crunching pain. Then the blur of the backswing... Another freeze-frame of chill stone as it was hammered against the marble. Darkness encroached, the spinning room winking in and out of existence. The sharp smack of reality as the third blow effectively knocked the last life out of it. All in a daze and upside down...
Pauline stepped across to the food mixer, the half-dead moustache hanging limply from her hands.
...There was the surface, a mixer, the feeling of falling and landing on cool, soft vegetable matter. The smell of cabbage, carrot and onion all rough cut together. Was someone making coleslaw? As the lights dimmed a hand moved across and fitted the lid above. The hands were elegant, but the nail varnish didn't suit. There was a muffled click, then turbo-spun oblivion.

Pauline gave it thirty seconds on the top speed, then turned and walked calmly to the door. She didn't need to look inside the mixer to be sure. She knew that she'd earned a pedicure. She pulled a twenty from the valley of her cleavage and threw it onto the table by the exit.

"Sorry about your coleslaw." She smiled to the head chef who was a silent statue of shock. Then the double doors with the porthole windows swung behind her and she was gone.
As she walked through the quaint restaurant, Pauline stopped to pick up a card from the box on the bar. It was a jolly little card with the restaurant's name printed in red ink. She loved the decor and the food smelled fantastic. It would be Number 1's birthday in a few weeks and she hoped she'd be able to book the whole restaurant for the party. She walked out and looked at the tangle of Cadillac and cab, with the driver still unconscious from his shock. She would have to leave the car. That wasn't so bad, she reckoned, because it was a lovely day - the sun was slipping out from behind a cloud and it was bright and warm on her bare shoulders. She headed for the main drag and as she did she reached down between her voluminous breasts, plucking her mobile phone from its succulent holster. She dialled.
"Yes?"
"It's me Number..."
"Three!" The voice was terse. "Well, is it liquidated?"

With the hirsute horror cut to shreds, what will our heroes have to deal with next? And will they ever get to go to the loo?

Find out in the next somewhat flushed chapter...