Free The well of lost plots by Jasper Fforde Page B

was near the three cats and they stared at us hungrily while consulting a large recipe book.
    “I had a bit of trouble at the bar and Tweed stepped in to help.”
    “Good thing, too. Ever see one of these?”
    He rolled a small globe across the table and I picked it up. It was a little like a Christmas decoration but a lot more sturdy. A small legend complete with a bar code and ID number was printed on the side.
    “ ‘Suddenly, a Shot Rang Out! FAD/167945,’ ” I read aloud. “What does it mean?”
    “It’s a stolen freeze-dried plot device. Crack it open and
pow
! — the story goes off at a tangent.”
    “How do we know it’s stolen?”
    “It doesn’t have a Council of Genres seal of approval. Without one, these things are worthless. Log it as evidence when you get back to the office.”
    He took a sip of his drink, coughed and stared into the glass. “W-what is this?”
    “I’m not sure but mine is just as bad.”
    “Not possible. Hello, Emperor, have you met Thursday Next? Thursday, this is Emperor Zhark.”
    A tall man swathed in a high-collared cloak was standing next to our table. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and precise goatee. He looked at me with cold, dark eyes and raised an eyebrow imperiously.
    “Greetings,” he intoned indifferently. “You must send my regards to Miss Havisham. Snell, how is my defense looking?”
    “Not too good, Your Mercilessness,” he replied. “Annihilating all the planets in the Cygnus cluster might not have been a very good move.”
    “It’s those bloody Rambosians,” Zhark said angrily. “They threatened my empire. If I didn’t destroy entire star systems, no one would have any respect for me; it’s for the good of galactic peace, you know —
stability
, and anyway, what’s the point in possessing a devastatingly destructive death ray if you can’t use it?”
    “Well, I should keep that to yourself. Can’t you claim you were cleaning it when it went off or something?”
    “I suppose,” said Zhark grudgingly. “Is there a head in that bag?”
    “Yes, do you want to have a look?”
    “No, thanks. Special offer, yes?”
    “What?”
    “Special offer. You know, clearance sale. How much did you pay for it?”
    “Only a . . . hundred,” Snell said, glancing at me. “Less than that, actually.”
    “You were done.” Zhark laughed. “They’re forty a half dozen at CrimeScene, Inc. — with double stamps, too.”
    Snell’s face flushed with anger and he jumped up.
    “The little scumbag!” he spat. “I’ll have
him
in a bag when I see him again!” He turned to me. “Will you be all right getting out on your own?”
    “Sure.”
    “Good,” he replied through gritted teeth. “See you later!”
    “Hold it!” I said, but it was too late. He had vanished.
    “Problems?” asked Zhark.
    “No,” I replied slowly, holding up the dirty pillowcase, “he just forgot his head — and careful, Emperor, there’s a Triffid creeping up behind you.”
    Zhark turned to face the Triffid, who stopped, thought better of an attack and rejoined his friends, who were cooling their roots at the bar.
    Zhark departed and I looked around. At the next table a
fourth
cat had joined the other three. It was bigger than the others and considerably more battle-scarred — it had only one eye and both ears had large bites taken out of them. They all licked their lips as the newest cat said in a low voice, “Shall we eat her?”
    “Not yet,” replied the first cat, “we’re waiting for Big Martin.”
    They returned to their drinks but never took their eyes off me. I could imagine how a mouse felt. After ten minutes I decided that I was not going to be intimidated by outsize house pets and got up to leave, taking Snell’s head with me. The cats got up and followed me out, down the dingy corridor. Here the shops sold weapons, dastardly plans for world domination and fresh ideas for murder, revenge, extortion and other general mayhem.