The Grasshopper Lies Heavy

Of course I’d witnessed Gough’s prowess with a cutlass before during our odyssey around the coasts of Scotland in search of the old Satyr Tom Devine who had made off in his boat with my wife while I was basking in the glory of beating him at penalty kicks, but to see Gough now, his movement and thrusting, footwork and parrying, you’d never guess his age. He dismissed anyone blocking our way with a flash of cold steel until at last we’d reached Lawwell’s bunker which was shut off from the rest of Parkhead by an electronic security door, feet thick. Albertz put his hand on the keypad and closed his eyes.

‘Fucking morons make this kind of thing so easy – I shouldn’t have wasted any magic, the password is 1967, same as the alarm at John Reid’s mansion – and he wonders how I get in and out all the time,’ and as he said it, the door opened and we were through.

We passed various doors I recognised from when I’d been here many times before with the Scottish media, being told what to report and how specifically to lay into the Rangers but I’d not seen many of them open but since Lawwell wasn’t expecting us, the rooms were there for all to see and it wasn’t a pretty sight: one was full of Hugh Keevins clones in suspended animation; one had Steven House and Steward Regan chained to the walls; one was empty save for a huge steam powered contraption at the end of which was the biggest dildo you’ve ever seen with a spike on the end of it – that’ll be Kearney’s office then?

Finally we came to Lawwell’s office and without hesitation, Gough kicked down the door and swashbuckled into the room, pistols at the ready. We caught Lawwell off guard, he was standing in front of a large mirror dressed only in his undershorts which had a swastika sewn into one leg and a dazzlingly cut Wehrmacht jacket which he wsa obviously trying on for size – it fitted him perfectly. He jumped a little as we crashed in but then composed himself and made for the horsewhip on his desk but Gough cut him off and pinked him with his cutlass.
‘We’re here for Lennon,’ said Albertz. ‘But since you’re here, perhaps you’ll tell us why you’re sending bombs to anyone connected to Celtic?’
‘Oh cut out the melodrama Albertz,’ sneered Lawwell. ‘It’s hardly me sending these packages to any comedy Catholic I can think of – no, I have the Green Brigade for that and you can mop them up if you like, they’ve done their job for me, I don’t need them anymore.’
‘Oh we will,’ snarled Gough. ‘But first, where’s Lennon?’
And Lawwell started laughing, an insane laugh I hope never to hear again because as he did, he looked upwards and as we followed his gaze, there clinging to the ceiling like an obscene spider, was Lennon. He dropped on Gough and catching him by surprise, held his head in his hands and was about to rip out the Captain’s throat when Albertz spun round and threw something in Lennon’s face, Lennon screamed like a monkey with his balls in a trap and collapsed in a steaming pile. Of course such is Neil Lennon’s behaviour these days, who was to know that Albertz had opened a vial of God’s breath and sprayed him with it?
‘God’s breath?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Cost me a fortune, lucky I can afford it, eh?’ smiled Albertz. ‘Now come on, the demons inside Lennon won’t be out for long, there wasn’t much in the phial, I’m not that rich – we need to get Lennon to my apartment and the safety of a magic circle before we can exorcise him. And Lawwell?’
Lawwell looked at Albertz who said,
‘We’re taking you too.’