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So? Wilson double checked. Satan is on his way to
Baghdad?
Certainly.
How close?
Fifteen minutes ten seconds from the airport. Has anybody
got any corn? I m starving!
Half an hour later they were stopped by Israeli security
forces who took no chances and gunned down the driver at the
checkpoint. They marched around to the others in the back.
Don t shoot! Brother Julius cried. We re not Arabs!
Are you Europeans? asked the man with the most imposing
rifle.
Yes.
Hmmm.
I m American, Wilson said in a quite ridiculous Texan
drawl so that the soldiers all started bowing and scraping.
Two hours later, after a three course meal and a helicopter
ride, they were smoking cigars, drinking brandy and wearing
slippers in the study belonging to the Minister for Exacting
Revenge on the World for Persecuting Jews and the Holocaust.
Shylock Barabas Silverstein relaxed in his leather armchair and
smiled at his guests.
I m glad to see you again my dears! I left British politics to
take up my rightful place here. I m quite enjoying it all really.
Shooting Arabs with bulky coats and rucksacks is rather easy. The
whole Arab world gets pissed off with us but I just name drop a
few high ranking Yanks and they start hiding their weapons of
mass destruction.
Don t you find that the aggressive way in which you re
suppressing the Arabs could be counter productive? the Chicken
asked as it sat in Wilson s lap. You might get on better with your
neighbours if you stopped being so militant.
Shut up Wilson!
Actually it was the Chicken who spoke Minister Silverstein.
Well my dear, you try looking after your own interests when
you live slap bang in the middle of a bunch of turban wearing
Koran obsessed suicide bombing nutters!
I can t say I ve ever been in such a position, clucked the
Chicken.
Well shut up then, or we ll be having Chicken broth!
We need to get to Baghdad, Wilson kept his mind on the
mission in hand.
Why do you need to go there my dears? Shylock Barabas
Silverstein scratched his incredibly long nose.
We are on a secret and very important mission, the details
of which I cannot possible disclose.
I see, so what do you need my dears?
Well preferably a plane.
That ll cost you my dears, he chuckled.
But it s for a very important mission& Wilson insisted.
Let me see& the podgy little Jew stroked his chin in deep
contemplation. I would charge you several thousands of pounds or
demand precious jewels or gold bullion. However, as I have all of
those then it might take something a little more different&
Like what? asked the Chicken.
That Nazi member of the Bunt family. I want him so that I
can drag him through the streets of Tel Aviv with his entrails
hanging out. Then I ll take him to a gas chamber and finish him
off!
Wilson and Benjamin exchanged glances.
We can t do that, Wilson said finally. It wouldn t be the
civilised thing to do.
Really? Shylock Barabas Silverstein raised his eyebrows.
Plus we can t get hold of him.
Well then& .I want the Chicken.
No fucking way! clucked the Chicken. I m not just some
poultry you can trade off!
The Monks all debated in Latin about the deal and the
overall verdict was that the Chicken was expendable. Wilson
refused point blank to swap a plane for the Chicken.
I will travel through the desert in only rags with just a
thimble of water to drink rather than sell this brilliant Chicken! he
stroked it s little beak and patted him on the head.
Chapter XII
Always baste your bird in butter and Herbes
de Provences and then place it in a roasting
tin so the juices are collected. Then pop it
in an oven preheated to 200 degrees for an
hour and a half. Ensure you visit it at regular
intervals to spoon the meat juices and more
butter over it. After cooking leave to settle
for twenty minutes before carving. Meanwhile
chop your carrots& oh I m boring myself&
Although I have always maintained that the Jews are not to
be trusted, began the Sicilian Monk as they trudged through the
desert. I think this is one time where you were definitely wrong
Wilson!
This Chicken is wise, Wilson calmly replied, undoing the
top button of his shirt and loosening his black tie. He will lead us
to the anti Christ.
Hang on a minute! I never guaranteed that! remarked the
Chicken, not wanting their hopes to ride on him.
See! the Sicilian Monk flicked his thumb off his front teeth
at Wilson in contempt. He doesn t have a clue! We could be flying
to Baghdad by now! Instead we re walking thousands of miles with
no supplies and basically no idea where we re going guided by
some stupido Chicken!
We head towards the Sun! the Chicken said for about the
tenth time.
But the Sun heads West! spat the Sicilian Monk. We want
East!
That s what you think, the Chicken walked on ahead
leading the way and ignoring the Monks. I am sure that the man
you seek is in Baghdad.
Suddenly a Royal Air Force plane shot over their heads and
they all went to ground terrified they d be bombed for being in the
desert. It flew away before disappearing over the horizon causing
them to draw long sighs of relief.
The Chicken was first up and fluttered forwards excitedly.
The others all arose once they were sure they were safe to see the
Chicken heading towards a crate that had been dropped in the
sand with a Union flag parachute attached to it.
The RAF must have dropped it, Wilson caught up with the
Chicken who pecked the side. He undid the straps and opened the
lid. Removing a layer of straw he picked out a note from Detective
Inspector Banks.
Supplies? the Sicilian Monk asked hopefully.
Yes, Wilson handed him the note. The honourable
Detective Inspector Banks sends his apologies for not being able to
attend personally but apparently there s some issue with suicide
bombers in the House of Commons. Several Tories have taken it
upon themselves to threaten to blow Westminster up unless they
are voted into Number Ten.
How did he know we d be here? Benjamin wiped his brow.
Apparently the Anti Terrorism satellites in space picked us
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