The Faint Taint of Deceit #6

And so we reach the end. The bitter end, you might say. In this exclusive serialisation I have teased you with snippets from my new book ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’, a veritable Golden Gate Bridge of heavy weight suspense. You experienced fistfights, time travel, ball breaking bosses, sexy flight attendants, planes nose-diving out of control, well pressed tuxedos and gun-shots to the face. You’ve had it all. And it was to be at this point that I would reel you in, having hooked you with a fat juicy wriggling worm of suspense. I would close the net and casually (yet firmly) suggest that you wipe the crumbs of mediocrity from your vest, put some trousers on, for God’s sake, and shuffle down to your local high street bookshop to buy a copy of your own and perhaps even one or several for family and friends. And you would obey… like the mindless consumer zombies that you are. However… a slight problem has arisen. Due to a dearth of vision and courage within the publishing community at large, the book will now not be available in many bookshops this Christmas as planned. In ANY, if truth be told. To cut a long story short, promises were made and not kept.

Many would expect me to be bitter at a time like this. They would expect me to badmouth various dishonest odious miscreants, who know perfectly well who they are. They would expect me to start vile rumours about certain people in high ranking positions in leading publishing houses that spend more time trawling red light districts than reading great fiction when hit over the head with it. They would deem it perfectly reasonable for me to sit in a car across the street from said publishing house and follow said fat deviant home, wait for him to fall asleep, paint the words ‘LIAR’ across the front of his house in 12 foot tall red lettering and wait for him and his family to come out the next morning and watch as their faces turn pale in a grim cocktail of disgust, terror and confusion. I would be well within my rights to do all this, but the thoughts haven’t even crossed my mind. I’m better than that. I’m an author.

This serialisation was supposed to be a marketing tool. A free hor d’oeuvre designed to whet your appetite, to entice you to get your fake leather wallet out and stump up for the main course. But now, without any main on the menu, you’ve effectively been stealing food for the last six weeks. I hope you’re suitably ashamed. When I received word that this book would not be published, I contacted Entertainment.ie and told them that I would not be finishing up the serialisation, that there was no longer any point. They informed me that I was contractually bound to deliver a final excerpt from the novel. We argued. Well, I argued. They just spouted a load of hyperbole about nothing, if I’m being completely honest. Nevertheless, having consulted my lawyers (that’s right, plural), I have decided that honouring our agreement is the correct thing to do. After all, I’m a man of principals. I’m an author.

Chapter Six: ‘The End’

“Well done on killing that bad Russian.” said Garrison’s boss.
“Thanks.” He replied. That night he went to sleep and woke up back in 2011. When he told everyone what had happened, they dismissed it as a coma dream from the coma that he had been in for ages. But he knew deep down that it was real.

THE END.

The Faint Taint of Deceit #5

Oh, hello. You’re back for more. I thought you might be. On we press with the exclusive serialisation of my new novel ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’. Since we’ve begun, John Garrison has travelled back in time to 1957 and been ordered to fly to the Bahamas and assassinate a prominent Communist, Dimitri Dimitrov. When we last checked in, he was at the controls of a nose-diving private jet, headed straight into the Caribbean Sea. Did he survive? Yes. Yes he did.

Chapter Five: ‘Snake Thighs’

The lobby was alive with life. John Garrison stepped out of the elevator, his tuxedo bunching uncomfortably around his crotch. He had left his own specially tailored tuxedo back in 2011, so this was an irritation he would have to live with. Garrison, or ‘Harrison’ as he was to call himself on this mission, crossed the lobby and entered the hotel casino. He looked across the room, over the neatly pressed tuxes and the immaculate cocktail dresses with their sparkly accompanying diamondry. ‘So this is the sweet life?’ he thought, but all he could smell was the putrid sour stench of corruption and greed.

Garrison sat down at the Baccarat table, directly opposite a man he recognised well. He was hunched and pale, his greasy hair slicked back over his elongated head. He looked like a duck would look if a duck dressed up convincingly as a man. His small dead eyes darted upwards and the rank stink of four day old vodka wafted across the green felt towards Garrison. Everything about this man was repulsive, but he was still surrounded by beautiful women. This man was Dimitri Dimitrov, the man he was here to kill.

Garrison had spent hours upon hours in CIA headquarters practicing Baccarat, perfecting a cool facade and studying intricate strategies. Some of the top players in the world were brought in to teach him to determine odds and maximise his chances. After three intensive weeks they declared John Garrison now to be one of the top five Baccarat players in the world. He was ready. His mission was to take Dimitrov on in the hotel casino, convince him that he was millionaire businessman in the Bahamas on vacation, earn his respect by beating him at Baccarat, have Dimitrov invite him into his inner sanctum and then, when he eventually let his guard down, strangle him with his own shoe lace. It was perfect.
“Good evening Mister, eh?” sneered Dimitrov.

Garrison smiled warmly at the Russian and opened his mouth to reply, but then just shot him in the face with his gun.

Garrison had been feeling a little under the weather following dinner. He suspected that he might have eaten a bad prawn or something, so he didn’t feel up for a long night of cards and espionage. Why he hadn’t just thought of this as a plan before was beyond him.

“Ah well” he thought as he holstered his gun, gathered up his chips and headed wearily off to bed.

The Faint Taint of Deceit #4

Greetings. It’s time, once again, for another gripping dip into ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’. John Garrison finds himself back in 1957, on his way to the Bahamas to kill a Communist. Seems straight forward enough, doesn’t it? Haha! Think again…

Chapter Four: ‘Cabin Pressure’

John Garrison peered nervously out the window, down at the Gulf of Mexico, 40,000 feet below. He hated flying. He still had no idea why he suddenly found himself here in 1957, but he thought it would be best to leave that for another day and just enjoy his adventure without asking any such complicated questions. He hoped that everyone else would do likewise too.

He was the only person, save for the cabin crew, in the swanky jet, laid on by the CIA. It was all part of his cover. For this mission he was no longer John Garrison, he was John Harrison – a millionaire commemorative mug magnate vacationing in the Bahamas. Garrison looked down at the photograph on his lap. It was of Dimitri Dimitrov, the Communist he had been ordered to kill.

“Can I get you a drink, Mr. Harrison?” purred the stewardess. Garrison looked her up and down and smiled all over. With all the anxiety of the flight, he had neglected to check out her smoking body. A joke about what she does with this smoking body when the captain turns on the ‘no smoking’ light ran through his mind, but he couldn’t figure out a way to work it into the conversation, so he just answered normally.
“Bourbon, straight up on the rocks.” he replied.
“Of course.” she re-replied and wiggled off to fetch it. Maybe all this time travel had its perks after all, he thought, as he watched her walk away. He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. The next thing he expected to hear was that beautiful stewardess’ velvet voice saying something along the lines of ‘Your drink, sir’, but instead he heard her voice saying this:
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” She was screaming, loudly and horrifically. He was out of his seat like a shot. He found her standing in the doorway of the cockpit, still screaming.
“What’s the matter?!” he shouted as he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Why are you screaming?”
“He’s gone.” she wailed. “The pilot’s gone.” He was gone. The cockpit was emptier than a bank on a bank holiday Monday. Completely empty. Completely empty, apart from a note, that is. But apart from the note, it was completely empty. He picked it up off the dashboard (is it called a dashboard if it’s in a plane?) and read it. ‘Dear John Harrison, or should I say John Garrison? Give my regards to the Caribbean Sea. Ta-ta, Mr. F.’

How did they figure it out who he was? Did someone at the Agency rat him out? Who is Mr. F? So many questions flew around in his head. How do you fly a plane? That was another one.
“Stop screaming and get me that drink.” he barked. “I’ve got a plane to land.”

The Faint Taint of Deceit #3

Good day to you. It is, once again, time for another exclusive serialised sneak peek into ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’, my brand new suspense novel. When we last left John Garrison he had just woken up in 1957, having been hit by a taxi in present day, following a confrontation with a foreign diplomat who was smoking in a café. Let’s dip in once more…

Chapter Three: ‘Once Upon A Feeling’

“Where the hell have you been?!” barked Rock Mosley as he beat his desk with his fist “You were supposed to be here at 11am.” Garrison recognised Mosley from his bust in the lobby of CIA headquarters. He was one of the greatest directors the IA ever had, and certainly, its most feared.
“Look, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. One minute, I’ve got an old man in a headlock and the year is 2011. The next minute, I’m lying on West 29th Street and it’s 1957. I need a moment to get my head round this.” There was a tense, quiet silence.
“Is that supposed to be funny, Garrison?” whispered Mosley.

When Garrison graduated from the academy, he wrote his final report on Mosley. He had read in several interviews with colleagues that Mosley always started to whisper before he got really mad. Thinking back to that report, he remembered the section that outlined Mosley’s pet peeves. They included: “far-fetched stories” and “being late.” Garrison could see Mosley was shaking with rage now. “Why were you late?!” he growled. Garrison was sure that one more mention of time-travel would see Mosley leap across the desk brandishing his legendary solid gold envelope opener. This wasn’t the time for the truth.

Garrison thought back to the report once again. He remembered that Mosley only had one soft spot, his rather eccentric love of squirrels. It was a secret that he managed to keep hidden until after his death in 1958, when he left his entire fortune to a squirrel he met once in Central Park. Mosley included a detailed description and DNA sample of the squirrel along with instructions that the money be burned if the exact squirrel couldn’t be tracked down. The squirrel was never found and so the cash was incinerated. It was obvious this was a man who was serious about his squirrels.

“I… eh… was late, sir because on my way here… I… eh… found a squirrel.. with a broken paw. I had to take it to a vet. He’s OK now, but it was a close call,” Garrison punted. He knew it was long shot, but it was the best chance he had. Mosley seemed unmoved, though. He narrowed his eyes and Garrison was sure his gambit had failed.
“The squirrel.” Mosley growled. “Was it grey or red?” The blood drained from Garrison’s entire head. ‘Oh shit.’ he thought. Which ones was it that Mosley loved? He loved one kind and absolutely hated the other. Garrison simply couldn’t remember which was which though.
“It was… red, sir.”
Mosley stared at Garrison and finally asked “And what would you do if you came across a Grey Squirrel, son?”
Garrison swallowed deeply and chanced “Eh… step on its head, sir.”
Mosley smiled warmly. “Good job, Garrison. I wish I had more men like you in the Agency.”
Garrison breathed deeply and thanked Mosley. “As for your mission, Garrison. I’m sending you to the Bahamas.” Mosley handed him a dossier. “There’s a Ruskie I need you to kill.”

To be furthered…

The Faint Taint of Deceit #2

Dear Reader,
Welcome back to this exclusive serialisaition of my new novel ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’. When we left John Garrison last, he had his massive gun cocked and pointed at a foreign diplomat who was smoking in a café, only for said diplomat to inform Garrison that he could smoke anywhere he liked, because he had diplomatic immunity…

Chapter Two: ‘Terminal Nostalgia’

“So if you don’t mind, Officer” chuckled the fat diplomat “I’d like to get back to my breakfast.” Sandra put a gentle hand on Garrison’s shoulder. “Come on, John. Let’s go.” Garrison lowered his gun and turned away. “I think I saw someone double parked down the street.” the diplomat sneered as Garrison walked away. “Run along and write them up a ticket.” he sniggered as he took a long deep drag of his cigarette. BANG! Before Sandra could stop him, Garrison had turned and fired. “What have you done?!” she screeched. The bullet had entered the cigarette, completely obliterating it (it also hit a waitress in the leg but she was OK). The diplomat rose with angry all over his face. “You insolent dog!” He moved fast for a grossly obese man and had Garrison round the neck before he could react.

They grappled. It was fat against fit, the irresistible force versus the immoveable object, good against evil. The diplomat tossed Garrison onto a nearby table. “Breakfast is served.” the fat man rasped. But Garrison mustn’t have heard him say this because he used the exact same quip when he flung a plate of scrambled egg back at him. Garrison flung himself at the diplomat and the pair tumbled backwards, through the café’s front window. It exploded in an exciting mess as they tumbled out onto the street. Garrison landed on his feet, like a maverick cat and had his gun trained on the diplomat in the blink of an eye. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that smoking will kill you?” he smiled as he cocked his gun. The fat diplomat raised his hand limply and started blubbering like a little girl. Garrison looked at this big pathetic lump, begging for his life and asked himself what he was doing it all for? And that’s when it hit him. Garrison was so busy soul searching that he hadn’t realised that he was standing in the middle of the road. The taxi hit Garrison at 60 miles an hour and he was sent flying. All that was left now… was black.

Garrison lifted himself up off the ground, gripping his neck. He looked down at the body he thought he would never inhabit again. He was alive. He’d never been so happy. From this day forward he would change his ways. He would learn to relax, learn to do things by the book. He was going to live for the moment and to hell with the past. He would find Sandra and kiss her, square on the mouth. That’s right, today was the first day of the rest of his… but Garrison didn’t recognise where he was. He looked around and saw that he was surrounded by men in suits and hats, with thin little ties and old newspapers under their arms. Only they seemed like new old newspapers. “Are you OK?” they asked him. “Yeah, I just…” The more Garrison tried to get his bearings, the more disorientated he became. Everything looked so different. “Where am I?” he asked one of the men who had come to his aid. “West 29th Street… in the year 1957, why?” he replied. “1957?” Garrison thought. “1957?! What the hell is going on?!”

The Faint Taint of Deceit #1

Dear Entertainment.ie Readers,

You are in luck. For today marks the first in the six-part serialisation of my brand new novel. In the past I have brought you ‘Tainted Milk’ – the futuristic sci-fi adventure about a journalist who uncovers a government plot to psychologically control the population using infected milk supplies. Sort of 1984 meets Bladerunner, but with mutated cows who are trained to kill. This was followed up by ‘Tainted Nog’ – a thriller set on Christmas Eve 1989 about a group of European soy-fundamentalist terrorists who take over the LA headquarters of a Japanese dairy multi-national. And finally, there was ‘Tainted Outcome’ – a Choose Your Own Adventure novel in which YOU are the hero; a work experience student who must help an investigative journalist (who specialises in dairy-industrial espionage) stem the flow of illegal milk from the East. And now, comes the fourth in the trilogy (this may give you an insight into how I feel about the status quo) – ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’, a gripping spy suspender*. Over the next six weeks, you will be treated to a free sneak peak into the novel that will have everyone talking upon its release this Christmas.

Enjoy,
Shane Langan

*like a thriller, but more suspenseful than thrilling. Not to be confused with the popular alternative to belts.

Chapter One: ‘Beginnings?’

The year is present day. John Garrison looked around and sighed. The polyester was really starting to chafe against his crotch. “I can’t believe I got busted down to uniformed street patrol just because I didn’t do things by the book.” he grumbled to his partner Sandra. “That’s what happens when you don’t do things by the book. You get a paper cut. Figuratively speaking.” she whispered back. Garrison smiled as he looked Sandra up and down. Seeing her taught, curvaceous body in that uniform meant that their recent demotion wasn’t all bad news. “No!” he thought, “Stop thinking those thoughts. It’s wrong.” Sure, Sandra was everything he ever wanted from a woman. She was smart, warm, funny and had similar dietary restrictions. But, dammit, she was his best friend’s wife. Was. But the day he fell out of that helicopter, survived the fall only for the helicopter to then fall on him, Garrison swore an oath to protect her. And that oath didn’t include sexy sex. But he could feel she felt it too. It was going to be a long hot day.

Garrison looked up and saw a fat suited old man sitting in a café across from where they stood. The man produced a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. “Indoor smoker. Three o’clock.” Garrison growled. He strode across the street and right into the small café. “I’m gonna give you five seconds to put that filthy little death bullet out, Mister.” The man smiled. His yellow teeth sneered at Garrison. “No, I don’t think I will.” the man coughed. He had an accent that Garrison couldn’t quite place. It was either Russian or South African. “Oh yeah?” Garrison drew his gun and pointed it at the man’s face. Sandra had finally caught up. “John” she pleaded “Shooting him won’t bring back your parents from dying of lung cancer.” The old man reached into his inside pocket. Garrison cocked his gun. “I am merely trying to show you my credentials. You see I am a foreign diplomat. I can smoke wherever I like.” he grinned “I have…” And then he spoke the two least favourite words of any cop who dislikes doing things by the book “… Diplomatic Immunity.”

To Be Continued…

Treasure Trove

I was asked to write a poem about my favourite Dart station for a local TV show called ‘On The Dart’. This is what I came up with. (You can see me read this poem right here.)

For so many nights I have not seen
What others have, I have not been what others were.
Not a soulless drone with only dreams of getting home.
Reviled, unloved and if you’re lucky ignored.
Ungratefully trampled by the mucky shoes upon your slighted treasure trove,
But I see and love you, Sandycove.

Stubborn iron spine your electric web entraps me ‘til all reason starts to ebb
From my being and my soul starts to yawn.
They call you ugly duck, I call you mighty swan.
The stinking rotten walking weary and worse still get on at Dun Laoghaire,
But I know that I’ll be with you soon. We’ll sit together beneath our moon,
Our stars, our breeze, our chill, our time, our secret love, our frowned ‘pon crime.
But then a poison arrow through my heart,
Like the express non-stopping Bray bound Dart.
You say it was just a brief flirtation,
But I still love you Sandycove Station.

Beetroot & I #13

First of all, my apologies for not writing for so long. As you will soon read, it has been a hectic couple of weeks. Since I spoke to you last, when I received some valuable advice from the gas man, I have been trying to get a grip on my life. I have tried to restore some level of normality to my existence. I reconnected with Christine, my short term, one-legged Belgian girlfriend and I have set boundaries for Beetroot. I told him that he was my cat and that was that. For a little while, everything seemed to be going great. This, however, did not last…

Wednesday, May 11th

He just stared at me. If he was breathing, he was doing it silently. All I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall. He must have been breathing though. Obviously. I’m just trying to create atmosphere here, but he WAS a quiet breather. Anyway, he clicked on his Dictaphone. “Just tell me what happened from the start.”

I cleared my throat and introduced myself. “My name is Shane Langan. Writer, storyteller, raconteur, author, novelist, teller of tales, yarn spinner…”
The Lawyer shook his head and banged the metal table with his fist. “SHANE! Please.”

I apologised and cleared my throat. “For the record, the following is the account of the last Saturday night, the events that have led to me being here. And would like to do so… in the form of an epic poem, as is my constitutional right.” He raised his eyes to heaven but I continued on. “It’s a poem about a cat… who’s a dick-head. And its called ‘The Cat’ – I hope you find it both informative and entertaining.” I settled myself, took a gulp of water and began. In my mind I rose a haunting cinematic score as I recited. You might want to do the same as you read. “As I set an excited plate. This, as I waited for my date – Careful not to tread ‘pon unseen pile my cat had shat upon the floor. Lest this point it needs recapping, endlessly it seems he’s crapping, my figurative face it seems he’s slapping – crapping on my kitchen floor. ‘Is this my life’s lot?’ I ponder? Picking crap up off the floor? – But then a knock upon my door. Pausing cooly as I should, more softly knocks on solid wood, check my hair in grubby mirror as I walk towards the door – A tender greeting leaves me smitten – take winter coat from hands frostbitten. One moment later she steps in kitten – Kitten shit right near the door! ‘Give me your shoe’ I awkward bid – Upon hot water I then pour. And leave to dry, next to the door. At dinner, stony quiet blooms, we dance round elephant in room. Trunkless bitter kitten watching, squatting POOING on the kitchen floor – without an appetite between us, I lamely joke – ‘ha, who could blame us?’ Beholding sight of my cat’s anus, doing laps across the kitchen floor. The girl starts to make excuses, excuses that will take her from my door. But now she lies – upon my floor. The kitten took her from behind, she had no chance, her side was blind, I wish I could say that he was kind as he mauled her on the floor – When she was dead, he resumed pooing, knowing well what he was doing, my face now grey with sickness brewing, brewing with night of mixed up gore. I turned to cat for explanation, a reason for this rotten core. He looked at me… And just shat on the floor.” I took another gulp of water and waited for the Lawyer to speak. He shook his head ever so slightly and finally spoke.

“That’s ‘The Raven’, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s ‘The Cat’” I replied curtly. He could sense my feelings of hurt.
“Sorry. So… what you’re saying is that your cat killed Miss Claes?”
“Did you know that Poe based the structure of ‘The Raven’ on Elizabeth Barrett’s poem ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship’? Did you know that?”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
“So, your cat killed Miss Claes?”
“Were you not listening to the poem?”
“Perhaps we should pick this up again tomorrow.” He sighed deeply, packed up his files and left.

Shane

Beetroot & I #12

“If you don’t mind me saying… it’s not healthy” he said. “It sounds to me like your relationship with this cat is really putting the skids on your relationships with real human beings.” I nodded. He was right. What he was saying made perfect sense. Deep down it was everything that I had thought myself but never had the guts or eloquence to vocalise. “For whatever reason, whether it be out of convenience, or fear, or perhaps it’s something from your upbringing, you have handed all the power over to your cat. You have relinquished responsibility for your own destiny – your successes and failings are now longer your own. Now I’m not a doctor. But I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Obviously not with a cat, but the same rules apply.” I couldn’t believe what was happening. This man was taking me seriously. I had never talked about my relationship with Beetroot to anyone before. The fear of rejection, of disapproval, or repulsion always prevented me from doing so. But somehow I had opened up to this man and he was willing to listen. He was willing to help. He would be my hero, my saviour. “You need to set this cat straight. You’ve got to sit her down…”
“Him” I politely corrected.
“Him?” he raised an eyebrow. His whole demeanour changed. He was looking at me differently now. The look of sympathy in his eyes was tinged with a faint hint of disgust suddenly. “Oh… I see” he muttered. He was looking at the floor now and took the smallest step backwards. There was a heavy silence.
“You were saying?” I offered, trying to get things moving once again.
“I – I don’t want to be sticking my nose into someone else’s business.”
“No, please. I’d love to hear what you have to say. I’d really appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry. I have to go.” He couldn’t look me in the face now. His face was red and he was fidgeting with his hands.
“But you haven’t read the meter yet.”
“Ah… I’ll just take an estimate” and he started down the stairs.
“But it’s just here.” The door below slammed shut and the Gas Man was gone. Damn.

Shane

Beetroot & I #11

Ever since I was a child, I loved the ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ series of books. I loved feeling like I had a hand in what was going on. In fact, I loved them so much that, for a while, I used to imagine that the grown up novels I started reading in my teens were CYOA books too. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it – overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” If you’d like Carraway and Gatsby to attend another high society soirée at the Long Island Mansion and deal with their feelings, turn to page 53. If however, you’d like them to blow off the party and instead go undercover on the streets of Hong Kong to find a diplomat’s daughter who has been kidnapped by Triads, turn to page 9. Much better!

Anyway. Having already done serious work on Tainted Milk and its festive follow up, Tainted Nog. I thought that I should conclude the Tainted Trilogy with a CYOA romp featuring John Garrison. It doesn’t work exactly the same online, but I’ll guide you through how it would work.

Page 1…
You are on work experience in Dairy Tales – Ireland’s premier milk, cheese and butter quarterly. You have just arrived at the office and have yet to be assigned your work for the day. The staff seem tense. “What’s going on?” you ask an old photographer. “The editor and John Garrison are having a blow out” he says. You can see through the smoked glass of the editor’s office, a blazing row is in full flow. Having missed breakfast you feel slightly hungry. You look down and see a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the desk beside you. There is also a banana on the other desk. If you want to eat the banana, turn to page 77. If you want to try a Jaffa Cake instead, turn to page 4.

(Let’s play it healthy and turn to Page 77. We might need that potassium later…)

You take the banana and begin to eat it. You suddenly hear a shout. “Hey! That’s my banana!” You turn and see an angry looking secretary. “How dare you eat someone else’s food? What the hell were you thinking? I think its best if you go home now, you’re fired!” Disappointed, and not completely sure why you decided to eat someone else’s food off their desk, you go home and think about what you did.

The End.

(Hmmm… OK, that didn’t work out very well. Perhaps we’ll go for Page 4 afterall…)

You take a Jaffa Cake. It is tasty. You love Jaffa Cakes. Suddenly the Editor’s door swings open and out strides John Garrison. You recognise him from his from his photo above his by-line. He strides up to you. “Hey pip squeak – you’re sitting on my desk.” His face suddenly turns sour. “What’s that in your mouth? Is it one my Jaffa Cakes?” Garrison pulls a large gun from the small holster on his inner thigh and points it square in your face. If you want to come clean and admit that you did indeed eat one of his Jaffa Cakes, turn to page 7. If you want to lie and tell him that it was a Jaffa Cake that you brought yourself from home, turn to page 6.

(He seems mad. Better tell a little fib, I reckon. Page 6 please…)

“No, its one of my Jaffa Cakes. I brought it from home” you say. He looks deeply into your eyes and… smiles. “OK. It’s a good job you didn’t eat one of my Jaffa Cakes, because I would have shot you in the face without a moment’s hesitation. Anyway kid, what’s your name?” You reply by saying… (Say your own name aloud now)… Garrison tells you that that was his Grandmother’s name and that you remind him of her. “Come on kid, I’ve got a government to bring down! You wanna come with me?” If you want to accompany John Garrison on his mission of danger and adventure, turn to page 10. Or, if you’d prefer to stay in the office and do some filing, turn to page 13.

(We’ve only just got here. I can’t justify heading off without at least checking with the Editor. I need a good report for my module. It might not be glamourous, but I think we should do some work. Page 13 please…)

Garrison leaves and speeds off on his exciting sounding motor bike. You sit down, sigh and begin filing subscription applications for the magazine. You ask the secretary if it’s OK if you bring a coffee from the kitchen and drink it at the desk while you file. She says that usually staff aren’t allowed to bring hot beverages to their desks, but that she didn’t mind as long as you don’t let the editor see it. She tells you a long and only intermittently interesting story about the reason behind the rule against brining hot beverages to your desk. It involves a reporter scalding his hand slightly and being unable to type properly for a couple of hours. You nod politely, not really enjoying the story, but all the time knowing that the longer she talks, the less filing you have to do. You think about Garrison’s offer to accompany him and briefly consider whether you had made a mistake in not going, but you soon dismiss this and get back to your filing. Your job is to compile all the new subscription applications from the last month and put them in the correct folder. The folders are broken up into geographical regions, and the applications are ordered alphabetically within each folder. The first application is from a Miriam Gallagher in Douglas, Co. Cork. You put this application in the G section of the Cork folder. The second application is from Daniel Harrington from Longford Town. You put this in the H section of the Longford and West Meath folder. The third application is from Philip O’Reilly from Dublin. You take the Dublin folder in your hand but are unsure whether to put it in the O or the R section. If you want to file Philip O’Reilly’s application under O, turn to page…

(OK this is going nowhere. Let’s go with Garrison afterall. We turn to Page 10)

You hop on the back of Garrison’s exciting looking motor bike and think to yourself “I wonder if it sounds as exciting as it looks.” As he turns the ignition and starts the engine, you realise that it does. Garrison tosses you a helmet. If you want to put on the helmet, turn to page 11. If you don’t want to put on the helmet, stop reading this book, because you’re an idiot. When it comes to motorcycle safety, there is no decision to be made – A healthy life is the biggest adventure of all.

Page 11… You put the helmet on and speed off – safely – into the city. You arrive at the docks. Garrison points out a massive milk tanker that is leaving port. He says that the tanker is full of illegal milk that is being shipped illegally out of the country. “Illegal milk?” you ask, but he dismisses you as if he isn’t quite sure himself what he meant. “We have to stop that ship leaving the port. What should we do?” he asks you. If you want to suggest driving very fast down the pier and using the ramp on the back of car transporting lorry that you’ve noticed parked at the end of the pier to do a flip in the air and land on deck, turn to Page 14. If you want to suggest stealing a motor boat, chasing the ship and using a whale’s back as a ramp, flipping through the air and landing on deck, turn to page 16.

(Page 16 with the boat and the whale sounds insanely good. Let’s go with that one…)

Your plan worked. You land on deck safely and look around. You are immediately surrounded by …

(I have to admit I’m curious to see if the other plan would have worked too? Let’s have a sneaky peak at Page 14…)

Your plan worked. You land on deck safely and look around. You are immediately surrounded by two dozen illegal milk traders. Judging by their posing and vocalisations, it is immediately clear that they are all experts in karate. “What do we do, Garrison?” you ask him. If you want Garrison to suggest surrendering, go to page 18. However, if you want Garrison to suggest fist-fighting to certain death, go to page 19.

(Given that it clearly says “certain death”. I don’t think we have much option here. Page 18 please…)

“I think we should surrender” says Garrison, but winks ever so slightly as he does so. You both raise your hands and tell the Karate men that you surrender. They laugh at your cowardice and momentarily let down their Karate hands. Garrison takes this opportunity to remove the very large gun from the very small holster under his armpit and begins shooting. He kills all the Karate Milkmen. “You did good, kid. Do you want to continue helping me fight crime, file stories quarterly and stem the flow of illegal milk from the east?” Your eyes light up but you soon look sad and disappointed. “I’m sorry John Garrison, I don’t think I can.” “Why the hell not?” he growls. You smile and say “Because I’m lactose intolerant.” Garrison begins laughing heartily and you join in. The two of you laugh all the way back to into port.

The End.