Alistair Raven and the Stormtrooper in Stilettos (Book 1)

Part 2 - Chatter 7

Julian relished being the centre of attention; he swanned about quaffing on a flute of bubbly champagne, throwing his hands in the air as Capt Baker debriefed him of Alistair's sticky situation. Alistair petted Balderick and they shared some supper. Capt Baker sipped from a bottle of ginger beer, when unprompted, Julian snorted.

"O Captain, my Captain, is it me or are you carrying an extra couple of pounds?" Julian asked flippantly.

"Howse a'boot you cut that out?" Capt Baker sniped, his Canadian fleck betraying his ire. He had removed his trench coat and disarmed himself; underneath the great coat was an elaborate mechanised girdle strapped to his back whist spring-loaded Mauser C96 handguns ran up each of his arms. An ammunition clip rack was saddled across his shoulders and after unclasping the contraption, he tugged it off. He now placed his hands on his hips and admired his physique; his tight white T-shirt hid a well-toned chest and abdomen.

"No extra weight here sweetheart," Capt Baker noted.

"Be still my heart," Julian mockingly swooned.

"All Canadian beefcake, my friend," Capt Baker replied. "And if you know what's good for you, don't mention my weight again."

"Touchy," Julian teased.

Capt Baker looked around the room, then listened intently, chugged his ginger beer and posed a question.

"Where's your puppy?" Capt Baker asked obliquely and Julian replenished his tipple.

"My Chelsea girl? Oh she's down in her kennel. She has been quite the bitch today," Julian answered tipping the empty champagne bottle into the ice bucket. "Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

Retiring to a spacious, bohemian living room, Alistair looked over Julian's veritable treasure trove of belongings. Dim, rosy red lamps set the tone, whilst a number of scented candles burnt on a variety of candelabras around the room. Furniture was handcrafted wood with plush upholstery, and accessorised with a mountain of pillows. There were scatter rugs aplenty and at jaunty angles across the walls were a number of framed posters. One was quite recognisable: a pastel-chic image of a handsome gent with a header brazenly advertising The Corey Kershaw Experience, except the poster boy's eyes had been gouged out and the face scribbled over with purple Posca Pen. Next to Corey was another framed photograph of a moustachioed man, wearing a yellow jacket and standing alone on a long stage; he was lit in a spotlight and before him appeared to be an adoring congregation.

To the side, a long, deep display case was filled with porcelain dolls, antiques and knick-knacks and keepsakes from around the globe. As Alistair wandered, checking everything out, attached to the wall in a vacuum-sealed casing was a worn Union Jack flag. The red, white and blue colour was faded, the material frayed and torn and abused, with a number of unsightly brownish stains.