It seemed to Frank as if he'd been stuck, petrified, crashing violently against the ink-black and thoroughly bruising confines of the trunk for an absolute age. In reality, the unnerving car journey had probably only lasted a matter of minutes, but then what was real anymore?

 

The car seemed to be slowing to a more sedate pace. Frank merely rocked against the bags of kibble now, allowing him to think about the previous weirdness to befall him where he had awoken on the decrepit and dangerous Macro-golf course, home to the now-derelict attraction, the towering "Locker room", which once served as a splendid clubhouse. "How the mighty fall," thought Frank.

 

As to how he'd gotten there, and why his Grandma had raced with such urgency to get his ass out of there, all Frank could do was whisper "What the fuck?" to himself.

 

What the fuck, indeed. The car's progress had markedly slowed now, and the sounds from outside the trunk grew louder, indicating the end to his journey trussed up like a hobo in the back of the car. Hopefully this was a beginning to his finding out why the weirdness had occurred. Frank knew that he needed to speak to his Grandma, if only she'd stop the car!

 

With that, the car came to a halt, the engine died, and the trunk was opened.

 

"Come on, out! Make it snappy!" the Mohawk silhouette of his Grandma spat, impatiently.

 

The streetlights and neon signs blinded Frank as he fell out of the car, scraping his knee on the trunk's lock. After a second or two, his eyes readjusted, and he regained some composure as his new surroundings became all too familiar to him.

 

"What are we doing in the middle of Main Street, Grandma? You know what it's like down here after dark!" Frank bleated.

 

"Listen boy, shut up, grow a pair and follow me! The sooner you're off the street, the better. Now come on!"

 

"But…" Frank began, but he soon caught his tongue as he looked around at the squalid bars, clubs, and seedy joints all brimming with the thousand different flavors of life's detritus and thought it better to take his fearsome relative's advice. Follow he did.

 

Pursuing his Grandma down the winding alleyways that branched off of Main Street's multicolored, fetid morass of debauchery and glitz, Frank found himself amazed at the woman's stamina, as his shapeless body tried to keep up with the more athletic form of an entirely more senior figure. As they ran deeper into the winding underbelly of Randomville's back streets, Frank was finding himself quickly running out of landmarks and into new territory. "Was that the Bronze Boar?" he thought, as the two figures tromped past the entrance to one of the town's many strip clubs. It was enough just keeping in step, but ahead, his grandma slowed in front of an ancient and foul looking saloon, the sign above murkily identifying it as "The Scarpa Flow."

 

"Ok, Frank, we're here." She glanced quickly up and down the seemingly deserted street and then towards him. "For His sake, you look a bloody mess! Straighten yourself up, we're going in. Stick with me and keep it shut!" she barked, then turned on her heel and entered the bar. Frank followed reticently, but he needed to sort out what all this crazy shit was about, plus a drink or four would be most welcome right now.

 

The place was like nothing he had seen before – Randomville was a landlocked town, and Frank had never experienced the sea, but the place looked like a dozen bars he had seen in old European movie scenes, set in dangerous harbor towns, full of villainous looking sailors, colorful and exotic women, and other outlandish creatures he'd never beholden (Martians? Welshmen?) Frank couldn't quite remember.

 

As he approached his Grandma, already talking to a large man at the bar, a figure cut in; "Help you, buttercup?" asked the figure.

 

"No, I'm with the lady," Frank responded, a little irked by now, pointing towards his Grandma. In fact Frank was getting a touch pissed with this all, and he turned to face the figure fully, in order to cook the guy's grits…

 

"Oh, we're all with the lady, sweet nuts. What makes you so special, huh?" said the guy. Normally, Frank would have dealt with him firmly, but he was built like a weightlifter, yet somehow looked wonderful wearing the Karl Lagerfeld dress.

 

"Oh, I'm Frank, her, uh, Grandson."

 

"Well swell sugar, I'm the Queen of Sheeba!" the colossus responded, edging closer, unamused.

 

"DJANGO!! Leave it, dear! He's not your tip for the night! Now get back on the door and keep the place cool, ok? You get to keep any we throw out tonight, y'hear?" boomed a voice from the direction of his Grandma.

 

Frank turned and started walking towards his relative, and the ancient looking man that had got rid of "Django" seconds before. The pair waved him over, as if time were pressing.

 

"What's going on? Where are we? Why the subterfuge? Give me something here…"

 

"Frank, you're here because here is safe," whispered the ancient fellow, who obviously knew his Grandma, considering their earlier apparent, huddled conversation. The man looked at her and said, "Rosie, the boy needs to get safer, though." Then, back towards Frank: "I'm Scutter Chavskoiova – my friends know me as Chavvy. This is my bar, and you are among friends here."

 

"Yeah, what about the big guy in the dress? He seemed about as friendly as a pitchfork!" snapped Frank, now a little more hot under the collar again.

 

"Ha ha, that's Django – he's my doorman. Believe me, he was being very polite."

 

"Listen, Frank – someone is after you, it's obvious to me. Has been for a while now. People skulking around at night while you were dishing dinners to crackhead Stu and all the others down at Kneebo's Grille, notes in the letterbox…"

 

"Notes?"

 

"Like I said, all kinds of stuff. It always ends with a spark of blue light – every sighting, note, hell, found a slashed bag of kibble and *FLASH*! With that bastard light again?!"

 

"Why me? I'm a fucking loser! Nobody has trouble from me anymore!"

 

Chavvy chimed in: "Frank, I know this town real well, and I used to know your Grandma when she was a young feuerkopf. Trust her, and me. We don't know who wants to put your ass in a sandwich, but until then, let's assume it's someone you know, maybe from your past. What we do know is, we have a safer place to take you, and the time to go is probably now."

 

"What? This is ridiculous, Sir. I'm in no trouble; your roubles must be melting or something!"

 

At that, the door to the bar exploded. Several figures all dressed in dark clothing stormed the area nearest the open tables, intent on reaching the bar. Alarmed, Chavvy sent a signal to Django using a boson's whistle, and the big man threw several willing participants forward to take on the shrouded intruders. Chaos was all around, with the regulars forming a wall around the three at the bar, Django joining them.

 

"They're strong, Chavvy! Who the fuck are they?" shouted the big man.

 

"Django, get the motor ready – we need to get out of here now! And Django? If it comes to it, defend Frank with your life."

 

"Chavvy?"

 

"Yes Django?"

 

"Does that mean I can use my stockings and stiletto trick?"

 

"Sure son. Enjoy." At that, the four fled.

 

The threat to Frank was real.