That's right. I say relative calm because the intervening years have not been without their trials and tribulations, no sirree Bob. Firstly, there's been the issue of the cliffhanger we left you on back in 2017. Clark ended by saying he saw Petit's booted appendage heading towards him followed by everything going black, leading some of our loyal fans to believe he had been rubbed out by the tiny terror - but think about it for a nanosecond, if he had been, he could hardly have written about the event, could he? Nope, as he explained on Monday, he merely sprained his ankle. After explaining this to Michael and I, he re-sprained it by attempting to dance, but he put some ice on it and all was well.
So what had we, the individual members of the Unbelievables, been doing with our valuable time for the last seven years?
Michael had tried his hand at many things befitting a retired, independently wealthy man-about-town. Art, for example. Not painting or macrame or batik as you might imagine, but given his predilection for pantslessness he thought, "Why not go the whole hog and get naked? And why not let the wider community enjoy this fine Vitruvian physique, this Adonis-like specimen of a body?". So he immediately became a life model for a couple of years, shedding his garments for the benefit of budding artists in Stiletto Flats and beyond. Let me tell you, the life drawing classes of Nevada have never been so massively oversubscribed.
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| "Hmm, need more charcoal." |
He also got his realtor's license and opened a small office in nearby Winnemucca ""just as something to fall back on should the funds dry up", as he says. And dry up they almost did, as he developed a tiny, weeny, incy-wincy little Go Fish addiction after a trip to a casino in Washington State.
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| "Do you have any threes?" |
Fortunately he beat that addiction by using some of his remaining funds to kit himself out with some decent rods and tackle and took up actual fishing instead.
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| All the gear, no idea. |
Myself, I became an ultramarathon runner, a speedwalker and a dancehall DJ, specialising in dub reggae nights and Mantovani & Kostelanetz waltz weekends. I also got my realtor's license, but that was after I was dared to by one of my Irish drinking buddies, "just for the craic."
Clark was reticent about letting on what he'd been up to after being presumed dead, and only time will tell whether he'll reveal all (although I did see him whispering to Michael while I was brewing the tea, so maybe Michael knows something...?).
Anyway, back to the story of this mysterious Meta message. On Monday Clark told you that the lady's name was an anagram of SAINKLAIESWRU, the noise made by a person suppressing a sneeze, which got me thinking, mainly because of the book I'd recently reading.
The book was A House For Mr Biswas by V.S Naipaul, which involves a man with an "unlucky sneeze". It was published in 1961 and later adapted as a musical (although it was never produced). The musical compositions were written by Monty Norman, and one song "Bad Sign, Good Sign" had a melody that was later used by Mr. Norman in a piece of music for Dr.No. Yes, I'm talking about the iconic James Bond theme.
A lightbulb switched on in my head. It couldn't be, could it? Surely not after all this time?
Bames Jond, really? Mr. Shifter, Mr. B, and Bobo the Enforcer?
Those fiendish chimps that tied Michael and I to a pole and written "poop" on the walls with their own poop? Those asshole apes that had violated Charley Chimp? Were they back on the loose?
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| We don't know what they did to him, but he was never quite the same afterwards. That.. stare. Chilling. |
I'll let Michael tell you on Friday what happened after I shared my concerns with him and Clark, but not before I tell you the even more mysterious thing that happened - we received another Meta message. An exact duplicate of the one from Laura Wisniewska, only this time it was from a different person, and you're not gonna flippin' believe it.
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| Surely not, right? |
