O' Halloran hides in the back streets, careful to avoid eye contact with those French bastards. The age of Terror had long passed but this bizarre gateway to the past had allowed some evil maniac to go on a modern-day killing spree using the most vulnerable (and smelly) citizens of PsychoTown.
Back when he first became a policeman, O' Halloran remembers arriving in PsychoTown and learning bits and pieces about the city's secretive past.
Apparently the city's founding fathers kept poor records: Greatest Hits of Limahl; Boy George Sings Country; Donny Osmond Does Disco III - but laying aside their dreadful taste in music, they also seemed reluctant to write about how the place originated.
It seemed like it combined references from several different locations and cultures: the seedy backstreets of Baltimore were evident in the shitty buildings and the way people talked; late 1970's to 90's British television clearly influenced sentence structure and odd expressions which permeated the typical PsychoTown resident's language; the Mongul traditions possibly explained why half of the children were named Genghis or Jubla; the local public toilets showed influences from the Taj Mahal; Barry's Carpet Palace was modelled on the ancient Pyramids.
But there was always something Frenchy about the place. Something….snobby and stuck up like a freshly baked croissant shoved up a dogs arse.
O' Halloran remembers one Anti-St. Patricks Day (Which celebrated the lynching of ever Irishman this side of the PsychoTown River in 1876) when a man dressed as a garlic and wearing a blue and white stripy shirt stared chanting "Vive La Revolution!".
O' Halloran himself booked that crazy bastard and he ended up spending a night in the clink. After that he was never seen again. Just vanished into thin air. Nobody spoke of the French. Everyone seemed fearful. An old man said the French had been run out of town because they were so annoying and smarmy. The last remaining descendants kept to themselves in the upper-middle class area's of town and nobody really noticed them unless they rang in local radio shows about how their yacht had sprung a leak or how disgusted they were about pornography and other moany shit.
He remembered one young woman flash her boobs at him….but that story has nothing to do with this. He just liked the memory of her mammeries.
"Stick to the facts, O' Halloran", he tells himself, "Just the facts, nothing but the facts". Leave the boobs for later when he has the long-deserved wank.
Could a disgruntled French descendant have created a pathway to the past? It seems highly probable.
Bit fucking stupid if you ask me, but , meh, a plots a plot, I suppose.
Gotta take the story you're dealt, isn't that right?
Well isn't it?
Of course so!
On with the story…
O Halloran needs to keep out of sight. He doesn't wanna end up like that other homeless guy.
He ducks into an opening and climbs up onto a second floor balcony then enters what appears to be a spacious bedroom.
He hears someone coming. Ohhh, naughty!
No! Not that kind of coming, you dirty-minded freak.
A female voice sings a little tune and enters the room wearing nothing but a smile.
Long black hair as dark as a ravens, lightly tanned flawless skin, a bottom like a juicy peach and those breasts as supple as two bags of floor draped over a donkey's neck.
O' Halloran farts. Yes, I said farts. He is a dirty bastard.
The girl is frightened but curious.
"Ooo iz dere?", she says in a sexy French accent that the author fucks up by typing it as if they are a character from 'Ello, 'Ello.
O' Halloran steps out from behind a curtain.
The beautiful woman looks at him with amazement. She has never seen such odd clothing before in her life, her being French and extremely fashionable and all…
"Whad are yooo doooing in my room?", she inquires while containing any sense of fear.
"I am a time traveller from the future and I have come to capture a dastardly murderer and I need your help", he says out straight with no bullshit (makes a change).
"Fair enough", she answers.
"Fair enough? What? You are just going to accept what I've said blindly without questioning?", O' Halloran says dumbfounded.
"Oui. No point wasting a bunch of time, is there?"
"Makes sense. Hey! How come you can understand m and I can understand you when I don't speak French?"
"Artistic license. It happens all the time in shitty books and TV shows. The reader will accept it if you don't draw attention, ok!"
"Rightio! Say, what's your name, fair maiden?"
"Oui. Doris Cuntswallow Vaginacus Ivanafuck IV…but you can just call me Doris, big boy"
"I'm O' Halloran", he says kissing her tender hands then sucking on her fingers.
"No first name?"
"Grizzled ex-cops don't have first names, baby. I need to remain incognito. I'll need a change of clothes to blend in and then we can make sweet, sweet love on that big ornate wooden bed over there".
"Why wait? Let's make love like rabbits right now against this wall and then I'll get you a disguise", she flirts.
"Sounds good to me, honeyboobs".
And they make love, mad passionate love, the love that only happens in novels, the kind of love the only Prince can write songs about, the kind of love that lasts all night and involves 53 positions and all night standing, the kind of love only a time travelling ex cop can make to a sexy French babe from ye olde Europe.
When they are finished and she smokes a cigarette in bed, O' Halloran tries on his new clothes. The feather in his hat makes him look like a real dandy. Or gay.
"That was incredible, O' Halloran. ".
"You weren't too bad yourself, nipple face"
He slaps her behind and buttons his poncey shirt.
"Say when is the next execution taking place?", he asks as he puts his foot into a big shiny buckled boot.
"Opening times for La Guillotine are 8 til 5, Monday through Friday with rest day's on Bank holidays and all major holidays - except Bastille Day which 'asn't been invented yet"
"Who is the executioner? I need to know everything about him: where he lives, what he eats, what brand of cereal he has for breakfast, his first pet, his internet account password, the works.."
"Eez name eez Barry Napoleon - no relation. A little short guy ooo likes fiddling about in his jacket with one 'and while portraits are being painted of him. Eeee is a personal friend of Robespierre. I don't mean sexually, but eee probably is. "
O' Halloran lifts her out of bed and pulls her close.
"I need you to take me to him. Are you ready, pussy breath? Are you up for this wild adventure?"
She kisses him passionately on the nose. He's never been French kissed on the nose (her tongue tickles his nostrils) but he enjoys it immensely despite its oddness.
"Put on your bra ad knickers, baby. Let's roll!"
And they leap out the window into a waiting carriage below, and then ride off through the narrow Parisian streets to await their date with the mad hobo murderer…..