International Spoofing Committee Records
Message found on a scrap of paper located in Buenos Aries Marketplace.
Suspect Identification Number 24.
My name is Jean Le Fete. A few days ago I was tricked into becoming a Spoof writer by the mysterious #3. An assassination attempt on my life has prompted myself, as well as several satirical writers to go into hiding.
We've fled the country via aeroplane and have landed in Buenos Aries. Having gone our separate ways, our small team is scouring Argentina for the Ultimate Prize.
If you're out there, remember this. Don't trust Mark Lowton. Don't trust #3. Don't trust anyone who offers you a golden ticket.
And beware the Gerbils of Hell.
A stream of daylight lit the small padded cell. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and noticed a tiny window: probably smaller than a gerbil.
My first thought was for the handcuffs which bound me to my seat. Spoofing sure as hell was a dangerous job. In a chance moment, I recollected how it had all started when #3 had led me to that tiny little bar, and how it had changed my life.
The barman Skoob stood in the airport, tugging at the stewardess's skirts as they passed. In the cocktail lounge sat Birbee who was accompanied by the enigmatic Juan. Nearby sat a guy known as the Buddah, as well as Monkey. The young man from the bar, Masterchev, was flicking through the magazines disapprovingly and commenting about Wales.
Nobody saw the guns us writers carried. Nobody saw Monkey and Masterchev pocketing the guide books.
In a haze, I watched as the door opened and she walked in. The woman from my nightmares. The one I'd dreamt about. The one I'd seen on some social website. Dressed only in a long trenchcoat, and pointing a Magnum in between my eyes.
"So Mr Le Fete. Why don't you tell me where the Oracle of Knowledge is?" she asked.
"Head to the mountains Jean," Juan had offered as we wandered the deserted marketplace. A dozen SUVs were patrolling the streets nearby, and we skirted through the abandoned stalls. The only light deceivable was from my watch which pointed quarter past nothing.
Alone in the foreign country with someone I knew nothing about. The others had paired up and were scouring Buenos Aries. Searching for an Oracle which only existed in legend.
"I'm not going to tell you bitch!" I yelled defiantly at the woman in front of me.
"In the next room we have captured every single one of your colleagues. The barman. The sporty one. The religious one. The leader. The Welsh one. Tell me or one of them will get it!" she warned.
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded, trying desperately to think of a way out.
The door opened again, and a man with a briefcase entered. He nodded twice at Mudder and then smiled. He hastily opened his briefcase and removed an Uzi. Aiming at my head, he prepared to shoot two rounds.
And then the wall exploded in a blossom of chaos.
Shrouded in flames stood Birbee, who was gripping the shotgun tightly in his hand. Down below stood a few other satirical writers he had found in America, each throwing grenades up towards the Argentian prison.
Moving forward, Birbee unhandcuffed me, and we hobbled out. Mudder lay on the floor, unconscious amongst the debris. The other writers seemed to be escaping too, and we congregated on the lawn of the prison.
Then the man with the briefcase was stood before us, a gun pointed directly at Skoob's head.
"What the fuck do you think you're playing at?" Skoob yelled. As one, our guns were dropped to the floor.
"Tell me where it is," he said calmly, and I saw a flashback to a few days ago.
We ran past the image on Mark's desk.
"I can't tell you," I responded. "Who the fuck are you anyway?"
"I'm Simon Cockle. Former Writer of the Week. And I'm pretty pissed off."