Date:         Thu, 6 Apr 95 22:57:14 -0600
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@vanagon.com>
From:         wself@viking.emcmt.edu (Will Self)
Subject:      Story! Part 2 [f]

Another Friday Second! from Will Self:  Continuation of the highly acclaimed 
first installment of the Case of the Counterfeit Emblems.

Story so far.  Against my better judgment, Marsha the Blonde had talked me, 
President and Treasurer-pro-joko of the Uncle Willy Automotive Detective 
Agency, into helping her track down the source of the counterfeit Volkswagen 
emblems.  She claimed to know where it was, an old dark three-story on the 
South Side.  Right then I should have smelled something.  Something like maybe 
twenty-year-old Bonded Tranny Oil.

   We got there and started up the narrow, darkly lit stairway.  It was scary 
as hell.  My teeth sounded like collapsed hydraulic lifters in all eight 
valves.  It wasn't helping that the wet spot on my crotch was spreading.
   Marsha held on to my arm as we climbed.  Hey, this was great.  No dame had 
actually touched me since 1965.  No dame had been within fifteen feet of me, if 
you want to know the truth.
   "You stink, Willy," she said.  Cool dame.  Great sense of humor.
   We reached the third floor landing.  I was gasping.  I was pretty sure I was 
going to die of asphyxiated arhythmia or whatever that crap is.  Suddenly, with 
no warning, a door opened and a man came through the door with a gun in his 
hand.
   "Been waiting for ya, Willy," he growled.
   "Von Wokker!"  I panted.  "Jokker Von Wokker!  I should have <gasp> figured 
<gasp> you'd be mixed up in <gasp> a caper like this one."  I paused to light a 
a fag.  I needed time to think.  Von Wokker was a shady character with a heart 
like the vast interior of an air-cooled bus in January.  A well-known 
international dealer in Volkswagen emblems.  The greatest collection of Volks 
paraphernalia in the world.  He even had microfiches of ...  but wait a minute.  
Maybe I'm slow, but I'm still alive.  It didn't take an Einstein to figure out 
that there had to be some dark and insidious connection between Von Wokker and 
Marsha.  Otherwise, I reasoned closely, how did V.W. know to be expecting me?
  "Okay, dame," I sneered.  "What's the connection?"
   She leered at me.  "Ever hear of GNATT?"
   I leered back.  "German Nameplates Are Top Trophies," I replied.
"It's an international cartel that deals in stolen Volkswagen emblems.
So what?"
   She leered back.  "So make the connection, fool."
   We fleered at each other.  "Okay, dame," I sneered.  "What's the
connection?"
   "The connection, idiot," she said sweetly, "is that Von Wokker is the
President and I'm the Treasurer, no joko."
   My heart fell like a rusted-out muffler and was dragging the floor between 
my legs as Von Wokker waved me through the door with his gun hand.

---------------------------to be continued------------------------------