The digital watch on the wrist of a certain Mr.Chalkjabot told him that the time was 9:23 AM. On a normal day, he would have spent twenty-three minutes in his office by now. This was, however, not a normal day. The previous evening he had won two thousand British pounds in a lottery. As he had a very spartan lifestyle, his calculations showed him that depositing one and a half thousand of those pounds in a bank account would earn him a sufficient interest to allow him a continued life in relative luxury without having to work. After depositing the money, he had spent four hundred and forty-eight pounds to buy the previously mentioned digital watch, and two pounds on an ice cream cone to celebrate. The remaining fifty pounds had been invested in a modest but sturdy paintball rifle and a supply of red ammunition for it, with which he intended to announce his early retirement.
As he approached the office building, however, he noticed a character leaving it. He stared at the slowly receding back, and realized that it could belong to none other than Mr.M, his until-now-superior and the intended target of his planned crimson assault! Not wanting to alter his scheme now, Mr.Chalkjabot gave chase, and was about to catch up with his supervisor just as the same boarded the 9:25 bus toward Blightnumble. An elderly lady entered right after right after Mr.M, so when Mr.Chalkjabot arrived at the doorway he found his line of fire blocked. He briefly considered taking the same bus and awaiting a better opportunity during the journey, but realized that paying the bus fare would cause his economic future to collapse. Instead, he raised his weapon and aimed at a spot slightly to the side of the elderly gentlewoman, where Mr.M would appear when making his way to the seats.
Mr.Chalkjabot waited, his watch dutifully counting the passage of several dozen seconds, but no Mr.M appeared. It slowly dawned on Mr.Chalkjabot that Mr.M must have had begun one of his frequent conversations through his Bluetooth earpiece. When those conversations occurred Mr.M had a habit of dropping all other immediate concerns, much to the chagrin of anyone interacting with him. Mr.Chalkjabot pondered whether he should leave, and make another attempt the following day, as those conversations tended to stretch on for tens of minutes. However, as he met the gaze of the poor bus driver whose schedule was about to be mercilessly butchered, his rage was once again rejuvenated and he decided that revenge could not be postponed.
He was in luck! The elderly lady, apparently having dropped something, slowly began to bend down, exposing the head of the detestable Mr.M. Mr.Chalkjabot waited until the lady was well out of his aim, and then fired a barrage of scarlet projectiles at his unsuspecting victim. He lowered his rifle and saw with satisfaction the mayhem he caused: The head, shirt, tie and overcoat of Mr. M was covered with paint. The despicable Bluetooth had fallen off, and now lay broken and recolored at Mr.M’s feet. Mr.Chalkjabot defiantly mumbled an apology, and scurried away never to be seen again.
The elderly Mrs.Tiddlywinks awoke – as usual – in panic. She also awoke – as usual – with the firm conviction that she was the only one aware of the vast communist conspiracy that held the British Isles in a frightening iron grip. Furthermore, she awoke – though this was for the first time – in the quaint riverside motel named Three Jolly Midgets. The reason for her horror was her sudden realization that C – the first letter of the word ‘Communist’ – was the third letter in the alphabet, and that a motel with the word ‘three’ in the name therefore must be a communist establishment. She looked around the room for surveillance equipment, and decided that it must have been hid behind the clock on the wall. She picked up a toaster from a little breakfast table, and used it to smash the clock to pieces. It froze on quarter past seven, and little cogs rained down on the floor, but there was no electronic device to be found. She proceeded to break the lamps, the mirror, the television set and the water cooker in the room as well. When none of those contained traces of spycraft either, she figured that the devices were built into the furniture. She made an attempt to destroy the breakfast table, but it was too strong; The toaster shattered in her hands, and she understood that this task would require better tools to accomplish. She ran down the stairs and out on the street, and made it to a bus that she figured had to take her to a hardware store sooner or later. When she entered the bus she found herself standing behind a man in a dignified, capitalistic overcoat. This calmed her down a little, and she forgot what she had been frightened of in the first place. She began turning around, intending to return to the motel for a nice cup of tea, but was suddenly filled with terror once again. A stranger, a depraved communist spy, was pointing a strange weapon straight towards here. With cat-like reflexes, she ducked, just as the man fired. The weird, futuristic bullets missed her and instead hit the poor businessman who stood in front of her, and covered him with a mysterious red substance. Finally, the last puzzle piece fell in place and made the entire conspiracy obvious; This liquid which she had so narrowly avoided was the macabre secretion used by the Party to convert common citizens to communism. What a nefarious intrigue!
Agent Ogorets solemnly switched the channel on his headphones, and contacted the Bolshevik headquarters.
‘I.. I have a problem to report’ he said. ‘We have lost track of Subject T.’
‘How is that possible?’ asked agent Baklaszan. ‘I personally installed the microphone in her toaster!’
‘She must have found it, it has been completely destroyed.’ Said agent Ogorets.
‘In that case,’ said agent Baklaszan ‘send out agent Marinovat to find her!’
‘I.. Uh.. I already did’ said agent Ogorets ‘But I lost contact with him at the bus stop.’