Part 1 (Narrative transcript)
"It is suspected that a library patron has stolen the priceless artifact after threatening the head librarian with a sharpened library card. The Cockney Intelligence Agency has refused to comment thus far. I'm Stanley Cruton, and this has been Chewsday News." The ambient electromagnetic radiation hitting the television antenna and subsequently being converted into mechanical pulses of air finally startle me awake.
"Shit mate... what time is it?" Mate doesn't answer. "Oi, Scruffy! Get over here."
Scruffy is hungry and waiting for breakfast. Having heard his Pavlov's bell, his tail immediately starts gyrating, paired with a faucet-like drip of saliva from his tongue. "Lets get you some breaky, fam." I start towards the fridge to pull out some minced pork, but then remember that its empty. Not only that, but the bills have piled up on the kitchen table, and the threat of eviction sinks in again.
"Fakin' ell," I sigh to nobody. Poor old Scruffy lets out an understanding whimper and settles back down on his bed. I promised him that there'd be something to eat this week. Hell, I promised myself I wouldn't let things get worse. Yet here I am. Clearly, there's more to promises than just making them. It's something I know but also can't seem to learn. Just then I hear a THWIP and a stabbing pain in my...
I wake up again. I didn't drink that much last night did I? Was I dreaming just now?
"Oi, Mista' Sleepy 'ed is awake!"
"That's me," I say. The snark is strong with me this morning.
"Ya think you're funny, don'tchya mate? Or should I call you by your surname, Mr. Groovey?"
"I'd ask you the same thing to be honest. May I ask who's couch I crashed on last night?"
"Don't know anything about last night, apart from what's classified, anyhow."
Suddenly I realize I'm not on a couch. I'm not even laying down, I'm sitting. In a chair. With my hands tied behind my back.
"Oi! Get me outta this fakin' chair or I'll... I'll..."
"That's enough, Jean," another voice starts. Its American sounding, so of course he pronounces my French name wrong. The snark comes back without warning:
"Who do you think I am, ya filthy patriot? You take me to be some 'Jean Groovey?' Groovy jeans? Is this all a sick joke??"
The patriot chokes back laughter. "Groovy jeans, haha. That's not exactly what I meant. Is it Jean, by any chance?"
This time it is pronounced correctly. I also now realize I am blindfolded, and that this American man's shoes sound very expensive.
"Yes, sir... thanks." I relent.
"Oh, but its I who should be thanking you, Agent Groovy." Said the American, cheekily.
"Agent wot? This must be a mistake! You must have the wrong Groovey, I'm just a-"
"Nobody. That's exactly why we've selected you."
"Selected?? Are you going to farm me for my sperm in some breeding experiment??"
I begin to panic. I do NOT want to loose my virginity to a jacker-offer machine.
"Agent, if you would allow me a moment to explain?" The American asked. Then, sounding even more American than before, he continues, "This is a choice, mind you. We are not in the business of violating basic constitutional freedoms."
Well knowing that as a Brit my only freedom is the freedom to get punch drunk at the pub, I'm struck by yet another realization.
"Wait a second! Am I in the United States? How faking long have I been out for?"
"Yes or no, Groovey. Time is not on our side."
"If time wasn't on your side, you shouldn't have flown me across the fakin' ocean" I think to myself.
However, being removed from my desolate circumstances has made me more than excited. I'm feeling adrenaline coursing through my veins for the first time since I outswam Scruffy in a dog agility contest. These people seem to need me, and those expensive sounding shoes make me see pound-sterling signs all over a near future deal with this American.
"You know wot, sure, Mr. Star Spangled Buttocks. Call me Agent Groovy. Whatever it is you need me for, I'm in. It sure as hell beats working my deadend job and starving both myself and Scruffy."
The last sentence never left my lips, as I am sucker punched by yet another realization.
"Scruffy! Where's my mate? My best pal?" I begin to panic again.
"The dog? Don't worry. He is stationed at our finest accommodation, being served only the best doggy food."
I could feel the smile in the man's voice, which made me relax a bit.
"Buckley, take the blindfold off him. I've prepared a special PowerPoint presentation for our brand new agent that will explain the whole thing." So that's what the English bloke's name is.
"Faking 'ell. You mean to tell me that GI Joe over here uses Microsoft PowerPoint?"
"We all belong to Bill Gates, Jean. Even the most highly trusted defense authorities of the U.S Government."
"Fair enough." I settle. "Go on, roll the slides then!"
Just then an egregious amount of animated flying clipart floods the screen, along side a barely readable "The Ninth Edition of the Oxford Dictionary was stolen!!1" I jump as a loud meowing sound blares from the P.A system.
"Unfortunately, that's all we have time for, Agent Groovy. We need to get you on a plane, and into the fray."
"Wot?? Wot tha fakin' hell was that? What was stolen? Where? Who?" I cough after having choked on my own shock.
"We're sending you to the British Library in your homeland to find out the answer to that last one. Strap in." the American finishes.
"Am I on the bleedin' S.H.I.E.L.D Helicarrier right now?" I exclaim, with more joy and excitement than I had intended.
Buckley chimes in, "Som'in like that." and, adding with a wink, "But its classified."