Jailbird's Warning

All we wanted to do was throw a wickedly spooky All Hallows Eve shindig to delight and entrance as well as entertain the good folks of Stiletto Flats (and a few special guests). Why anyone would want to stomp on our good time is beyond me, but like Michael said on Monday, there are always a few complainy-pantses out there who can find nothing better to do with their time than, well, complain.

But we certainly didn't expect it to be our adversaries. I mean, they are usually opposed to our actions as a matter of course, but Halloween? The night when spooky stuff is supposed to happen and all sorts of demons, sprites and goblins walk the earth looking for mischief to do? You'd have thought that a bunch of ne'er-do-wells and so-called 'master' criminals would fully embrace that scenario!

We were busy doing our party-organising duties (making the VIP list, ordering supplies in bulk from Costco, music playlist, etc.)

Including this one, natch.

...when wouldn't you know it, the phone rang. Kip the Mail Boy picked it up and from the next room we could all hear that whoever was on the other end of the line was not happy. Screaming down the phone is not a behavior that we regard highly, but that is what this person was doing. 

Kip transferred the call to the conference phone.

I dipped my toe in the water first. "Er, hello? Unbelievables here, how may we assist you?"

"NOW JUST YOU LISTEN TO ME, YOU UNBELIEVABLE PLONKERS! JUST WHAT THE BLINKY O'STINKY ARE YOU GEEZERS PLAYING AT!?!"

"Rest assured, sir," said Clark, "we are not playing - we're rather busy at this moment in time. With whom do we have the dubious pleasure of conversing?"

"'ERE, MUSH!" came back the voice. "I MAY NOT BE THAT CLEVER AN' ALL THAT, 'N THAT, BUT I KNOWS SARKY ASM WHEN I 'EARS IT, DUNNEYE? FUHGEDDABOUDIT, IT'S MCGEE."

"McGee? Again? But didn't we...? And aren't you...?" McGee was supposed to be in jail. 

"YER, WHAT OF IT? LISSEN, I AIN'T GOT MUCH TIME. ME AND THE BOYS IS MIGHTY UPSET ABOUT NOT GETTIN' INVITES TO THIS 'ERE PARTY. PRETZELS, BEER, THE WHOLE SCHMEER, BIM BAM BOLEO. YA KNAA'I MEAN?"

There was no mistaking that it was Tony "Monobrow" McGee, the world's only New Jersey cockney, on the other end. Clearly, he was ringing from jail, meaning that whatever had upset the man, he'd found out about it whilst in clink. Meaning it was something big.

 "Forget it, McGee" said Michael. "No dice. Whatever the problem is, we are not, repeat not interested."

"OH YER?" he replied. "LISSEN UP, UNBELIEVABUBBLES. 'ALLOWEEN IS S'POSED TO BE A NIGHT FOR NOT-DO-GOOD PEOPLES LIKE ME AN' ME BOYS TO DO NOT-GOOD STUFF, NOT FOR YOU DO-GOODERERS TO 'AVE PARTIES. THE CRIMINIMINIMAL FRATERTERATERNITY ARE FROWNING ON THIS, AND WILL DO WOT EVER IT TAKES TO STOP IT. YOU 'AVE BIN WARNED. FUHGEDDABOUDIT.(Click)".

We sat for a brief moment in stunned silence, then looked at each other and grinned. 

Then we fell about laughing.

"BWAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAHAAAHAAAAA!!!"

"Tee-hee-heee!"

"Chortle!"

"Chuckle!

"Snicker..."

"Ha-ha."

Then Clark said, "Quick question...."

"Yes??" Michael and I asked in unison.

"Jack-O-Blast or Pumpkin King?"

"BOTH!" we cried. "HAHAHAHAAAHAHAAHAHAHAAHA!!"

Cockney Balls

In the car, on the way to Henri's lair, we three Unbelievables were still puzzling that cryptic email and its apparent lack of instructions. Suddenly an oblique thought crossed my mind.

"Fellas, what if the three dots after the word 'below' aren't dots, but... something else?" I asked.

"Like what?" said Clark.

"Yeah, like what he said," added Michael.

"I dunno, like, uh, BIG dots."

"What, you mean circles?" Michael replied.

"Or balls," said Clark.

Suddenly it hit us.

"BALLS!" we shouted in unison. "The pawn shop!"

Luckily, we were only about three streets, two avenues and a boulevard away from the nearest pawn shop to Petit's hideaway. When we got there, sure enough, standing underneath the three balls, was a man. A man we had encountered before - none other than Tony "Monobrow" McGee, the world's first and only New Jersey Cockney.

"What are YOU doing here, McGee?!" bellowed  Clark.

"Nice work, fellers," McGee intoned. "you figured it out. I'm here to give you the instructions."

"Oh my giddy aunt," I cried. "Instructions below dot dot dot! That's what it meant."

"Fazackerley, me old china plates, innit. Fuhgeddaboudit. I'm yer actual instructor. Here's your next move - get a monster double burger and listen to Swingtime Express in Snohomish, WA."

"Alrighty, lads. That sounds like a Yelp review to me. Jump on it."

Clark turned out to be right. Tune in on Monday for the continuation of our story!

Hirsute's You, Sir

Hi folks! It's Monday, and I bet you're all a-wonderin' where the heck we were last week, eh? Well, we'll tell you. The picture we posted was a clue to what we were experiencing.

The other week we noticed that our disguise kit was looking a bit sorry for itself. We were low on supplies. Scarcely any greasepaint or eyeliner, only 2 prosthetic noses, one wig (afro), and zero, that's right, ZERO fake mustaches.

We had to replenish our kit, so we went to the local Party City.

Conveniently, the shop was located adjacent to the Sally Beauty Supply.

"Woohoo!" cried Clark. "One stop shoppin'!"

"No kidding," said Michael, gesturing to another store just yards from where we were standing. "I don't recall seeing that store before."

Once in the store, we were approached by a store associate who was proffering flyers for an upcoming seminar on new disguise techniques. We initially pooh-poohed the idea.

"Pshaw! As if you have anything to teach us!" crowed Clark.

I nudged him and reminded him that we were supposed to be acting like regular folks and not professional crimefighters.

"On the other hand, " he quickly corrected himself, "we're not busy on Monday, so we might pop along."

And that is precisely what we did. Not because we thought there was anything we could learn from this seminar, but because it seemed odd that a spy supply shop would pop up next to a Party City and a Sally beauty Supply, especially when the Army, Navy and Police Surplus store was on the next block.

On entering, we noticed the store was strangely empty, save for a few chaps sporting unusual moustaches. 

As soon as the doors closed behind us, we heard the telltale click of automatic locks securing the doors, barring our exit. Then, out of nowhere, appeared a man we'd encountered before on numerous occasions. A petty crook, lightbulb salesman and moustache supplier, and now, it seemed, someone hell-bent on kidnapping The Unbelievables.

Yes. Tony "Monobrow" McGee, the world's only New Jersey Cockney. 

What happened to us then would take us all week to deal with and recover from.

Michael will pick up the story on Wednesday. In the meantime, I'm going for a little lie down with my friend Captain Morgan.

In A New Jersey State of Mind

Feast your eyes, folks. This is the ad we should be paying attention to. The one that Clark shared on Wednesday was just a cover, and after some surreptitious and judicious investigation, we found that all the rogues in Wednesday's gallery of hirsute horribles also ordered product from the address above, in East Orange, NJ.

So we trekked across the continent to said address, and what should we find?

A coin-op laundry, no less.

So we decided to go in and inquire as to the whereabouts of the owner, and why a laundry would be advertising fake facial hair.

The surly counterstaff at first ddn't want to tell us anything, but after a little persuasion from our friend George (Washington, that is) we got to meet the owner. Or so we thought...

This was getting good. Tony "Monobrow" McGee was well known to us as a petty crook and lightbulb salesman, but we never figured he'd get himself mixed up in the lip-rug game. But, looking back, I guess it makes sense.

"What's the game, lads?" he cried as he saw who he was dealing with. "I ain't done nuffin', I swears to ya." Did I mention he was a New Jersey cockney?

"A likely story," interjected Clark. "What's the deal with the fake face furs, eh? Eh? EH!!??"

"Oh, is that wot this is about, lads? Calm dahn, no need to lose yer rag. Lemme just explain, it's all completely innocent, above board. I got me boney-fridays and everyfink, innit?" At this he produced from a drawer beneath the counter his business documents. Sure enough - he was licensed, bonded AND insured.

"Hmmm. Looks like he's on the level," said Michael, trying to sound like a hardboiled cop (New Jersey tends to have that effect on people), "but still, I think we should have a look around."

As it turned out, we never got the chance, because at that moment, the front door opened and who should saunter in but these two...

Mr. Waverly, sans Pith helmet. Handy with a machete.

Papa Dolmio, pitch man for Dolmio sauces. Handy with a ripe tomato.

I had seen enough. 

"Cuff'em and stuff'em boys," I barked (see what I said about New Jersey rubbing off on a person?), "and book'em, Danno, whatever that means!"

Once we had all three mustachioed villains in custody, we turned them over to the Feds. 

Unfortunately, Waverly and McGee were let go, because they couldn't find anything they'd done wrong.

And Papa Dolmio? Sent down for a long stretch. His crime? Crimes against the Italian language, including casual racism and playing a stereotype. As were his entire family. Need proof?

And the connection between foul fiends and hirsute hairiness? Search me!