Pucker Up and Think of England

 'New Castle? Where the fuck is that?'

The limey sighed ever so slightly under his breath. I found myself nostalgic for the simple, Ivy League condescension of Hartford. 

'It's a city in the north, near the border with Scotland. And it's only one word, not two. And the locals pronounce it - '

'I don't care how they fucking pronounce it, I'm not going deep cover there, am I? I can't believe Langley fucking signed off on this.'

To say I was not enjoying my time in the no-longer entirely United Kingdom would have been the mother of all understatements. I'd barely got off the plane before the situation I'd been told I was going to monitor turned into an actual shooting war. It would have been nice if the Brits had told us they were going to off Fred the First's she-he boyfriend but I guess those fruits figured Royal business always counted as an internal matter, even if they killed the bitch in Gay Paree. The Directorates were not happy, and my superiors even less so. And now I was stuck in Limeyland, officially disavowed by Langley, living out of a holdall full of cash, Marlboro and fake passports I'd picked up from a locker at the St Giles Y, and having to be patronised by this prick. 

'Look there's no need to be rude. I don't like this situation any more than you do but the fact is we need a big win right now. There's no getting through Bulsara's security in London but this speech in Newcastle might give us an opportunity. That's why we need you there.' 

Bulsara. Typical Brit, I thought. They couldn't lay a glove on the dude so they'd resorted to...what was it all these sissy kids were calling it? Deadnaming. Schoolyard crap. No wonder their papers were so smug they were unreadable. There were mornings when I wished it wasn't just Farringdon Road that got bombed.  

'Might give us an opportunity. This is a Hail Mary play and you know it, chum. We may as well pack up and go home.'

'And how do you intend to do that, Mr Billings?' He bristled. 'Are you going to swim?'

The fucker had me there. There were no passenger flights in or out of the country and the rebels had the ports locked down. I was going nowhere. Except New-fucking-castle, one word, don'tchaknow, it seemed. 

'Alright pal, you convinced me. I'll go to King's Cross, take a train up country, double-tap the guy who wants to ride his bicycle, and get cut down in a hail of fucking gunfire, most likely. Never say we don't make sacrifices for the special relationship.'

He snorted. 'Really Mr Billings, our plan isn't anywhere near that crude.'

Oh, here we go, I thought. 

'You won't be slotting the target, Mr Billings. In fact we hope there won't be any need for gunplay at all. We simply need you to act as a bodyguard for our real assassin.' He cleared his throat and pressed a button on his phone. 'Vicky, darling, could you send in JR? Thank you.'

The door buzzed and a woman walked into the office. She was a little short, with messy red hair and a face just chubby enough to set off her hatchet nose. Oh great, I thought, we're going to honeytrap the world's most famous homo with some British fucking dolly bird. Great plan, 007. 

I mean, seriously, fuck these people. 

'Billings, meet JR. She's going to neutralise Bulsara for us.' 

She reached out a surprisingly large hand.  'I prefer Jo,' she said.

I shook it. 'Pleased to meet you. I prefer not being in your shitty fucking country.'

She glared at me, just for a second, then pretended to laugh it off. 

'Jo, show Mr Billings the weapon.'

Oh, this is gonna be some bullshit, I thought, and was proved right when the broad pulled out a tube of fucking lipstick.  'For fuck's sake...'

'We shouldn't have to go that far, Mr Billings. This lipstick contains a slow-acting topical neurotoxin, virtually undetectable. Jo here has been inocculated with the antidote, but Bulsara has not, and by the time he realises he's been poisoned it will be too late to administer it. Jo will push through the crowds posing as an adoring fan and give Bulsara a kiss on the cheek. And that, as I believe you say, will be all she wrote.'

'This is the stupidest - '

'Really Mr Billings? Is it any stupider than exploding conch shells? Or cigars laced with thalium salts? Mr Bulsara is a pop star. He's used to this kind of fan interaction. It won't seem suspicious.'

'Maybe, but this isn't Sun City, buddy. Mercury's gonna have heavy security.'

Jo chuckled. 'Oh trust me Mr Billings, I can be very forceful when I need to be. I'll get to him.' Her expression changed, and she began to jump in place like a teenybopper. 'Oh, Freddie Freddie Freddie, I love you! I'm your biggest fan!' Just as abruptly her face changed back to her usual scowl. 

Her boss giggled too. It was a regular limey laugh fest, Carry On Assassinating. 'You're sure you're up to it, Jo? Mr Bulsara isn't a little too old for your tastes?'

She smirked. 'I'll pucker up and think of England, Rory.'

Jesus wept. So this was the latest stage in my glorious career: babysitting some kind of British pervert. Fine, I thought. Ours not to reason why. But I also thought: fuck this Q branch bullshit. When I get a bead on that bastard I'm dropping him old-school.