Milan

After Marrakesh the antiheroes returned to Europe for a while to let things cool off. Whilst on this tour of the continent they spent sometime in Milan. Now they knew they were being followed they had decided to stay as mobile as possible and had stolen an old camper van they had found parked in a lay-by in France. The occupants had probably gone out for a walk, and had kindly left the van stocked with food and wine. It would have been rude to refuse such an opportunity, so, breaking the window (“Smashy smashy!” muttered Therapist Evil) & some nifty hotwiring, off they drove. They wandered aimlessly for a while, trusting that fate would throw them a bone, and eventually pitched up on the outskirts of Milan. The van was empty by now, so some five-fingered discount shopping was required. Italian security were red-hot and as quick as bunnies, and the dastardly duo found themselves hiding in an alley behind some particularly fragrant dumpsters, trying to stifle their mad giggles. When they were sure they were no longer being pursued, they started to climb out from behind the rubbish. SheDon’tWriteNoMore stumbled and put her boot through a bin bag, revealing a large plastic bag full of white powder. After a row along the lines of “No, you stick your finger in it” they grinned at each other. They had stumbled on pure cocaine. Further rootings unearthed about three kilos, so they gathered their stuff together and made like the wind, back to the van.
Of course, these are the anti-heroes we’re talking about, so they cut it with unmentionable substances, drawing on the experience gained in Marrakesh. Then they hit the streets, selling high because of the shortage (caused by their good selves) and stayed quick on their toes, in case they met the original owners of the marching powder.
Rumours of the horrible two reached the ears of the ever-determined bangbang, who, still smarting from Marrakesh, made haste to the city with revenge on his mind. He took a room in a low-rent hotel on the seedier side of town and started asking around. It wasn’t long before he got a lead from a skinny young man with a nose bleed, and he set off in hot pursuit.
Sadly for him, the anti-heroes knew he was coming and had decided upon a little mischief. Whilst he doggedly tramped the streets they slipped up to his hotel room for a little fun. They were surprised and pleased to find he had a good taste in wine and set about emptying his cupboards. Mellowed on the plonk, they conceded that although he was a pain in the hole they were actually getting quite fond of him, but it didn't stop them covering every peice of fabric they could find with itching powder. In an advanced state of refreshment and cackling like maniacs, they decided to depart, but not before Therapist Evil had vommed in the dying rubber plant by the door; she was suffering a little after trying her own wares. That puddle of pleasantry, a cloud of roll-up smoke and empty bottles was what awaited bangbang on his return from his fruitless search in the baking hot city.
Drugs all sold, the anti-heroes decided to get while the going was good, put and egg in their collective boot and beat it. Van full stocked and pockets bursting with cash, they were in high spirits.

Another Market, Another Scam

The ‘fake fur’ stall was a roaring success. We only ever had a couple of items back because they began to smell. But we got really good at the process and only a few ever slipped the net. Unfortunately, one of these sub-standard items we sold to a young lady who was an animal rights protester. When the bag started to smell, her vegan hippy left-wing tree-hugging lentil-munching unwashed acquaintances accused her of buying real fur. She had already been criticised for buying fake fur, and this upset her greatly. Our customer relation skills, never one of our best points, involved us laughing in her face and telling her to sod off. She took the bag to a saddlers, who told her it was indeed badly treated pelt, and she contacted trading standards. We got wind of this and quietly disappeared for a few weeks, until they lost interest and assumed we’d left. Irritatingly, the story got into the local rag and it wasn’t long until this unwelcome attention put us back on the radar of bangbang.

Abrakebabra

The all-night kebab shop was called Abrakebabra and had an interesting and varied menu, renowned for its northern specialties. Among local favourites were such gems as the kebab pastie, the fried four-meat pie (battered and onna stick), the donner pizza (known locally as the 'doner' pizza - little did they know how close to the truth they were), and the chicken Maryland (two pieces of fried chicken, bacon, two sausages, battered pineapple fritter, fried tomato and mushy peas, all on top of chips), which looked like someone had already been sick in the box.
One night, staggering gently home after a lock-in at our new favourite local, we noticed the large amount of rats eating discarded take-away and feasting on puddles of vomit deposited by drunks (or was it just a dropped chicken Maryland?). This provided us with an idea for another money-making scheme.
Whilst in India we had noticed that the rats loved peanut butter, and before the extent of the problem with the Sam’n’Ella had been realised, had used it to keep the population down. We loaded rat traps stolen from a farm and pets supplier with peanut butter we shoplifted from the supermarket down the road, Supabargin, and collected the bodies every morning. We sold them to the kebab shop owners, who were lacking in scruples and more than happy to have a cheap supply of meat. After some weeks we caught ourselves a fox, something we had not thought of before. It seemed a shame to waste all that beautiful fur, so we skinned it before we sold it on. We spent some time admiring this lovely pelt, wondering what we could do with it. Then we struck on a goldmine - fur accessories sold as fake fur! We killed a few hours in the library on the internet checking out how best to achieve this, and experimented with our first stole. We were impressed with ourselves, and quickly decimated the local fox population. This was too much of a good idea to let go, so then we started trapping local cats and dogs. To sell these goods we resurrected our collapsible stall and once again found ourselves a cosy spot at the back of a near-by market.
Business had never been better at the Abrakebabra, the rat meat was a real hit, and could be passed off as almost anything as long as it had chilli sauce on it. We were getting busy now, this was becoming something approaching a full-time job and the money was rolling in.

Keith

As nothing particularly interesting came our way we killed time selling stolen goods on e-bay. Bored with kicking our heels and waiting for another scam to fall into our laps, we found ourselves a nice little watering hole with an excellent beer garden. One drunken lunchtime, sunning ourselves out back, we got chatting to Keith, an amiable bloke with an astounding capacity for real ale. Sensing the presence of a boozy soulmate, we encouraged him to stay out with us. We drank through the afternoon and evening, eventually ending up in an illegal twenty-four hour drinking den that served its own moonshine. It was potent stuff but the three of us were experienced drinkers and gave the other punters a run for their money. It turned out that Keith worked in the music industry as a band manger. One of these, Blanco Diablo, were an American group based in North Carolina. At some point, we must have decided it would be a good idea to visit them because the three of us woke up two days later in Charlotte. With no money, no change of clothes and no passports, Keith ‘phoned one of the band, Jamie, who kindly supplied us with breakfast. Keith persuaded him to lend us some money and we contacted an old acquaintance who ran a questionable air taxi firm. It was a long journey back to England, although the passage was eased by the beer we’d stolen from Jamie’s garage while he was being fleeced by Keith.
We dropped Keith off where we found him and said our goodbyes, vowing to keep in touch because we’d had such a good time, and sensing that we’d found someone who might be useful in the future.

Marrakech

Why hasn’t bangbang forgotten Marrakech?...

The scurrilous duo spent some time in Marrakech after spotting how much money could be made in the dope business. Of course, SheDon’t and Therapist weren’t happy trading like everyone else, theirs was the nastiest dope on the market, cut with boot polish and floor scrapings (ever seen a floor in Marrakech? These two have no scruples!). Disguised in burkas and not stopping in one place for too long (they had learnt not to be too cocky after Hamburg), they set up an export business shipping out their poisonous wares. Life was good for a while, the money came rolling in and despite the death and imprisonment of a couple of their ‘mules’, business was booming. Of course, eventually word spread about the two crazy women who were peddling dodgy gear, and these words eventually wended their way to the ears of bangbang. He knew it was the antiheroes straight away, the limited descriptions fitted and they were certainly crazy and immoral enough. He boarded the very next plane.
But SheDon’tWriteNoMore and Therapist Evil knew bangbang was on their tail by now, and had bribed and threatened staff at all points of entry into the city. Once they knew he was on his way they set their devious plan in motion.
After a few days asking around and discrete investigation, bangbang tracked the lunatic pair to an abandoned warehouse. He crept through the disused building to the office, bursting through the door in time to see the hem of a burka disappearing out of the window. But they’d left him a present. . . Police stormed the building even as he cursed and tried to climb out after them. A search of his rooms at the hotel revealed a large stash of their worst merchandise, planted by one of their informants. After a full cavity search and a few days in Boulemharez prison, bangbang’s release was secured by an old contact of his.

This meant war…

Introducing bangbang

Early on in their travels, SheDon’tWriteNoMore and Therapist Evil stayed for a while in a cosy little flat just off the Reeperbahn. They were making a tidy living selling sex toys to the less salubrious shops in the famous street, imported from sweatshops that ran on child labour in China. Unfortunately, these goods were sub-standard, and so many were returned to the shops that they demanded their money back from our two entrepreneurs. They had, of course, squandered it, and would never have had any intention of refunding the money anyway, knowing all along the goods were faulty. After all, that’s how they’d got such a good price for them in the first place. So they simply changed their phone number and, being as no-one knew where they lived, started up another business fencing stolen pedigree pets.
What the amoral pair didn’t realise was, one of the businesses they had been dealing with was owned by Gruff McKillem, a retired Scottish gangster who didn’t take kindly to being conned. He got in touch with a private investigator he’d used in the past, a man known only as bangbang. He charged bangbang with hunting the duo down but, as he got closer, they realised they were being investigated, quietly shut up shop, and hit the road again. Gruff was getting soft in his old age, and was content that they’d left Germany behind and wouldn’t return. But bangbang was not used to failure, and the hunt became personal…

bangbang is right

bangbang is right, we are slippier than a buttered ice rink. This time we decided to go for a larger town where we wouldn’t stick out so much. With the money we hadn’t yet drunk from the vegetable stall , we rented a flat above an all-night kebab shop. We had agreed to keep in touch with Richard via coded messages in the lonely hearts column of a well-known tabloid newspaper, so we placed an ad to let him know where we were. We got a reply a week later, saying that he was up to his neck in nefarious dealings and would be in touch as soon as he could. We decided it was time for some nefarious dealings of our own and set about arranging another supply of beer money….