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Sunday 31 July 2011

Slasher McGoogs

The back room was windowless, dimly lit and untidy.   A large, ageing, cast-iron printing press dominated the space, bottles of ink and turpentine, sheaves of fresh paper and tied bundles of newly printed pamphlets littered shelves and benches around the slightly grubby walls; wallpaper lifted at its edges, moss green paint cracked and pealed.   Ink-blots stained the bare boards and wads of cotton waste lay undisturbed where they had been dropped.      The short and balding owner of the establishment, the frayed cuffs of his faded flannelette shirt turned back, had been discussing a layout for the latest Broadside when Slasher McGoogs' ears pricked to a sharp scraping sound that may have come from the street.   He gave no other indication that his concentration had been disturbed.
"Your toilet through here?" he asked as he picked up his homburg and moved to a door at the rear.   Without switching on the light, and standing on the lavatory seat he opened a small window, screwed his hat firmly on his head, turned up the collar of his pinstriped drape jacket and slipped effortlessly out onto a drainpipe that was positioned close by.   He was ascending towards the roof as the shop door burst in.
The printer had barely had time to kill the lights and wonder why he had never preplanned an escape strategy when he was transfixed in the beams of several flash lights.   The room filled with black uniformed officers in body armour.
Peering over the roof ridge, close to a chimney stack so as not to present a silhouette against the night sky McGoogs could see the unlucky proprietor being bundled into the back of a dark van; policemen followed carrying clear bin-bags containing large quantities of impounded printed material, a desk top pc and back-up hard drive.   He moved cautiously over half a dozen of the roofs that made up the terrace and slipped through a half open sky-light.   Moments later he emerged from a shop door down the street.   Weaving through the shadows between the pools of jaundiced street lighting he crossed the road and  turned sharply towards the police van, striding out briskly.   Passing close to one of the burly characters who were playfully abusing their hapless, handcuffed prisoner he tipped his hat, innocently obscuring his face with an arm as he spoke.
"Good evening constable, nice night for it." and he was gone.

Barely a mile away at the far end of Ratcliff Highway in their Limehousesailortown penthouse bed-sit, Boz and Phoebles were deep in contemplation.   They were perusing two inflammatory pamphlets that they had picked up in the Charing Cross Road earlier that day.
"I'm convinced these are both the work of Slasher McGoogs." declared Boz, waving one of the handbills aggressively towards Phoebles.
WAKE FROM YOUR SLUMBER
Scrutinise the world about you.
Think on the
Widow in her hovel,
The infant in its pram,
The prisoner in his shackles,
The lonely little lamb.
The MOGUL in his mansion
Cares nothing for these wretches.
In thrall to the Merovingian Dark Lords,
Manipulating the guardians of State and Law,
Hypnotising you with media pap,
With Capitalist trinkets and baubles
He revels in his wealth and power.
Open wide your sleep clouded eyes
And be ready 
The days of retribution come!
A Metropolitan Police dirigible passed slowly by the window.   It was following the London River, moving down stream, a search light panning across the water, sparkling off ripples and eddies.   A steam whistle piped shrilly.
"But if this is his too, what is he playing at?"   Phoebles jabbed at the second sheet of paper.
RALLY TO THE FLAG BOYS
Rally to the cause
This land of hope and glory
This septic isle
At this point in the text Phoebles had smudged a bit of a paw print across the type and in attempting to clean it up had made a hole in the paper.   However he was fairly sure that he remembered what it had originally said and had pencilled 'septic' in above the blemish.
The enemy is without your gates
The vandal at your door
Your country needs you
Be ready to defend those treasured institutions
That are forever
ENGLAND!
"Hm..."   Boz frowned.   "He's up to something again - and it's probably going to end in tears."