Tomcat Tompkins – Part 3

“Oh, nothing much, became Mayor of Lyons, Minister of the Interior under Sarkozy, and then Minister of Finance under Hollande, although she’s rumoured to have spent a lot of time under Hollande, ministering to his sexual predilections. Nothing ever happened between us because she was stolen away by a Hungarian count, of all things.”

“Anyway, Tomcat, did you want a lift to your Archery meeting?”

“No thanks, Spiffy Wiffy, I am almost there, so I thank you for the conversation, but bish and bosh, perhaps next time you could travel in something with more class, that looks like a hearse, y’know.”

“It is a hearse,” replied the Deputy-Commissioner, “we’re going undercover to catch this Big Whopper gang, who are persecuting unemployed immigrants in the belief they’re dragging the country down.”

“What a terrible name for a gang,” said Tompkins, vaulting over a 5-foot high fence as though it was a bonsai hedge, “do they eat junk food all the time? Watch out for the cyclist.”

“Oh what, oh yes. Thank you. Just missed them. I think. Oh, perhaps not – still they should have been wearing a helmet.”Tompkins nodded in agreement as he jumped over three dustbins.            “Anyway, where was I?,” continued Spiffy Wiffy, “oh yes, I think the whopper in question refers to a lie, though I can’t be sure which lie, as there are so many around these days.”

“Well, good luck with that, old chum, I’m only concerned about my archery these days, trying to score more bullseyes, y’know, with my trusty little bow and arrow.”

“You’re trying to be cupid, Tomcat, which doesn’t suit you, anyway, I will see you soon, we’re just going to The Meeting House up here on the left, that’s where the gang’s meeting this evening.”

“What a coincidence, that’s where my Archery Club meeting is, well I hope you catch ‘em.”

With that, Tompkins ran in front of the hearse to give himself time. He bounded up the front steps with limitless energy. Tompkins had to get to his pals before the police did, so he charged up the staircase three at a time, like a gazelle being chased by a cheetah. He stood in the doorway of their meeting room, almost wearing the frame like a wooden overcoat.

“Hello, Wet Bob,” said Tompkins, “start talking about archery, because our beloved boys in blue are on their way to arrest the Big Whopper Gang.”

“Right,” said Wet Bob, “well in that case, does anyone know where I can buy left-handed arrows for me bow, I think that’s the reason the arrows are heading sideways.”

“Fortnum and Mason,” replied Tuppy Tupton, “saw some near the hamper section, where they had the idea of shooting your own lunch and seeing whether you could land it in your own sandwich. I remember Wefty Kingston and Merty Tidville-Wilson cavorted into each other as they were running along with their sandwiches open. They were trying to land the pheasant, both having shot the same bird. Didn’t end well, both Wefty and Merty were gonners. The cat got the pheasant too.”

“What a rotten shame,” said Dry Bob Bentonshaw, “I remember Wefty he was a promising origami artist and would have played for the Varsity at conkers…”

“…if he hadn’t been conked on the head himself” said Binky Bengston-Smith, guffawing at his own joke,” anyway what’s this about the fuzz, Tomcat, with you in the door no human being will ever get past you, so what do we have to worry about?”

“           I don’t want to get caught just yet,” replied Tompkins, “this is a good wheeze and our country will thank us for sending all those people back, who aren’t earning their keep.”

“           Speaking of the unemployed,” said Spinky Mills, “do you know whether one can hire people to help with one’s William Tell impressions – don’t want to shoot mater and pater or the sis, so can I hire a few foreigners to help reduce the familial death rate, due to my short-sightedness and all that?”

“           I thought you were aiming at the apple on their head,” said Detective Inspector Clive Ingram. He peered into the room from underneath Tompkins’s left armpit. Everyone feigned surprise at his arrival.

Published by Julian Worker

Julian was born in Leicester, attended school in Yorkshire, and university in Liverpool. He has been to 94 countries and territories and intends to make the 100 when travel is easier. He writes travel books, murder / mysteries and absurd fiction. His sense of humour is distilled from The Marx Brothers, Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, and Midsomer Murders. His latest book is about a Buddhist cat who tries to help his squirrel friend fly further from a children's slide.

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