In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

18. Mona Lisas, Mad Hatters, and an Omelet

"Guys, I told you I'd be right back," Freddie said.  "I know you missed me but sometimes I just need to-"

"Quiet, we're not alone," Pudding Face ordered, his Irish brogue showing through.  I almost fell over.  Who was this guy, thinking he could order Freddie around like that?

Freddie turned to Cackles.  "What's he shitting himself about, Peter?"

Atta boy, Fred.  So Cackles is Peter?  Let's see, Peter, Peter... Oh, now I know!  It's that darn cat Straker!  That's why he looks familiar.  Who's Pudding Face though? 

"There's someone sneaked in here," Peter said. 

"Really?"  Freddie turned to Pudding Face for confirmation, his eyes wide- and, from where I saw, hopeful.

"Yeah, some UGLY little c---," Pudding Face said in a loud voice.  

I seethed, I don't know who you are, you Irish prick, but I hate you. 

Even Freddie looked horrified.  "The f--- was that?" 

"I can only tell the truth, Freddie dear."  He smiled a sick, reptilian smile.

Freddie scowled and turned back to Peter.  "Are you any more help?  What's she look like?"

Peter was impressed.  "Whoa.  How'd you know it was a she?"

"Fifty-fifty shot."

"Oh, well, she's got long brown hair, dressed stylishly.  And I think she was barefoot.  That's all I got."

"Really,"  he said softly.

"And she just dropped down out of nowhere," Peter went on.  "I think she was up on your balcony."

"Really."  Freddie's hands now were confidently planted on his hips.  He gazed through and past Pudding Face, his eyes glazing over. 

"Hadn't you better call the police?" Pudding Face suggested impatiently.  "She might be some renegade guerrilla journalist!  You know how hot those buggers are for a juicy tidbit.  They'll do anything!"

"She's no journalist," Freddie said to himself.

"Wait.  You know her?"

My host snapped back to reality, and crooned in that fancy tone we all know so well, the one he saved for his dandy friends, "My dear ladies, I shall deal with the girl myself.  You two go pick up David for me and I'll meet you at the club after I take care of her."

"Call the bobbies already!" Pudding Face demanded.  "Th' little p---y could be dangerous!"

Freddie whirled on him.  "F--- off, Paul!  I know what I'm doing!"

Paul!  Not the Paul?  Not Paul Prenter?  Not yet another (and perhaps even the very worst) lowlife that paved the way for Freddie's demise?  Ooo, now I was feeling it.  In my mind I screamed, Get out of here, you ugly bastard!  But Paul stood there and stared Freddie down, which made Freddie roll his eyes.

"I'll call them after I find her," he explained.  "How's that?"

"I'll help you look for her," Paul stated.

"No, my love, you're coming with me to get sweet Mr. Minsy!" Peter trilled in a very annoying falsetto.  "We mustn't keep the poor dear waiting!"  He took Paul's arm and led him outside before he could protest. 

Freddie walked over to close the door, when Paul shouted something at him.  "What?  Huh?  Oh, yes, I promise, I'm a man of my word."

"So am I," Paul hollered back.  Freddie thought this was a laugh riot, threw back his head and guffawed.  Yet in my ears, the words rang as ominously prophetic.