I’m re-reading the James Bond novels, with pleasure, and so:

BATTLE ROYALE

a 0010 adventure
by Ian Y. Fleming


The license to kill for the BrotherHood, the double-0 prefix, was a great honour. It had been earned hardly (one thousand posts). It brought Thalo’s Finest the only assignments they enjoyed--the dangerous ones.


Chapter 1

THE SECRET AGENTS

Aquanistan border

The scent and sweat and boobs of a lapdance bar are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by constant erotic tension becomes unbearable and the higher brain functions awake and revolt from it.

Be En suddenly knew he’d had enough -- and he acted on the knowledge. Unobtrusively, with both hands, he shifted the girl’s heavy, firm and succulent breasts away from his mouth, lips and tongue, and stood up.

Philippe le Cayun, the bar’s -- it was called Shalomplace -- glib owner, was still at it and still, apparently, enjoying himself immensely, grabbing boobs here, there and everywhere. He groaned like a pig.

En watched the X-Man’s curious, bearded profile amid the mass of undulating boobs for a time and then he shrugged his shoulders and made for the exit. Little did he know ...


Meanwhile in Londonistan

“Mind the hardware, 0010,” said T impatiently. “Don’t push it in. Screw it in.”

Rico X, making a mental note to pass T’s dictum on to 009 --Brother Be En--, again picked up the jeweller’s glass from the desk where it had fallen and this time managed to fix it securely into the socket of his right eye.

He picked the brilliant-cut stone up and held it to the light. As he spun it between his fingers, all the colours of the rainbow flashed back at him from its mesh of facets until his eye was tired with the dazzle.

T. -- Admiral Sir Brother Thalo Thunderball, to call him by his full name -- looked at Rico quizzically. “Fine stone?”

“A wonderful diamond,” said Rico. “When one spins it, it looks almost like a tiny beachball. The cutest thing I ever saw. It must be worth a lot of money.”

“A few euros for the cutting,” said T. dryly. “Poor show, 0010. That’s a bit of friggin’ QUARTZ, man. It comes straight from that most hopeless of unholy hellholes, Aquanistan. O yes. It is utter horseshit, in other words. And lately, the stuff seems to be everywhere. To the point that it has become a menace to Western civilization. Quartz addiction is a terrible thing. Turns people into little more than chimps. The Forces of Darkness are after our youth. You see that, don’t you, 0010?

Rico looked across into T’s watchful, cold gray eyes. “Sure,” he said. “I see.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t our old friend baron Jobst Stevro Bloatfeld who’s behind this current quartz epidemic,” continued T. “However, that is for you to find out, 0010. But first, let’s talk guns. What are you carrying? Let’s see it.”

Rico unholstered his Glock and placed it softly in T’s outstretched right hand.

“It’s a Glock X.4,” he said. “State of the art, a beaut, and it has never let me down. It is, in my professional opinion, the most advanced handgun in the world.” Rico eyed it fondly.

“Aye, that’s a Glock,” T answered, and with a flick of his wrist tossed it out of the (open) window behind his head. T’s office was high up on the ninth floor.

“Polymer crap,” he explained. “That toylike feeling, eh, 0010?" T's cold gray eyes narrowed to slits. "Now hear this. In MY organization, guns are made of metal. And I don’t mean mind metal. I’m talking platinum all the way. And that means the Kahr 9.1. Best handgun in the world. Is that QUITE clear, 0010?”

Rico cursed under his breath. Damn the less-is-mooooring cold old bastard!

[to be continued] Everyone is most welcome to jump in and post a chapter.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: yabor,

Rico looked at the weatherbeaten face he knew so well and which held so much of his loyalty. Oh crap. The old geezer was right, of course. Rico grinned.

“Quite clear, sir,” he said.

“On your way, then. Good luck and return home safely. My Chief of Staff will give you the dossier.”

Rico marched out, closed the door behind him, and lit a much-needed cigarette. He drew the smoke deep inside his lungs and all but purred with pleasure. Then he opened the heavily padded communicating door to Miss Snobbeypenny’s office just a tiny fraction, and peeked through the slit.

Miths Darr, T.’s Chief of Staff, was sitting on T.’s beautiful secretary’s desk.

“Pffff. My, it’s hot in here, Penny,” Miths was saying, fanning himself energetically with a top secret dossier. “Tell me again Global Warming ain’t real. El Gore is right: our planet’s goose is cooked. I’m melting away here. In fact, I think I’ll take my shirt off. And my pants. Why suffer unnecessarily?”

Miths started to undress.

“Does the old greybeard work you very hard, Snobbeypenny? Life should be more than work, work, work, you know. Gotta take time out for play. It’s later than you think, girl. Why not join me? Come, at least take your bra off, don't be shy.” Now Miths, with his trousers in his hands, jumped on top of Miss Snobbeypenny’s desk and made a few clumsy belly dancing moves.

“Hullo there,” said Rico, stepping inside the room. Miths frooze with one leg in the air.

Miss Snobbeypenny greeted Rico with a dazzling smile.

“Any news from 009, Snobbeypenny?” Rico asked.

“Nothing,” she sighed. “How long has he been gone now? I’m getting worried, I don’t mind telling you. Really worried.”

Rico decided to cheer the girl up.

“Remember the time old 009 fell madly in love with a friggin’ horse?” Rico laughed. “In Washington State, was it? That figures. Redneck country. I seem to remember the story made the local newspapers. But, it was all perfectly legal, of course. The horse was over eighteen years of age.”

Quietly, Miss Snobbeypenny started to sob.

Now what? thought Rico. He produced a deck of cards and fanned them under Snobbeypenny’s nose.

“Take a card, Penny. Any card,” he said.

Miss Snobbeypenny dried her tears and took a card. It was the Queen of Hearts.

“Look at it. Remember it. Don’t let me see it ... okay? Now put it back in the deck ... just so ... I’ll give the deck a quick shuffle .... and a couple of cuts ... there we are. Now look!”

Rico spread the cards on Miss Snobbeypenny’s desk between Miths’s hairy legs. The Queen of Hearts was not among them.

“Do you see your card, Penny? You don’t, right? It’s gone, isn’t it? Ha, ha. Wanna know where it is? It’s ... here!”

At this, Rico’s right hand shot out and pulled a playing card from between Miss Snobbeypenny’s cleavage. In his hand he held the Queen of Hearts.

Miss Snobbeypenny screamed with delight and clapped her hands. “That’s amazing. I don’t know how you do it. Well, I never. You should be on television, Rico, you really should.”

[to be continued]

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Rico took a bow. Outside it had started to snow. A fierce winter gale rattled the office window. Three weeks to go untill Christmas. Rico hoped it would be a white one.

“Ah, 0010,” said Miths, jumping to the floor. “I have a dossier for you. Come to my office, will you? Just give me a minute to get dressed.” Miths pointed to the green velvet trousers draped over his left arm.

“Sure thing.” Rico looked at Miss Snobbeypenny’s iMac. “Motherboard still going strong, Penny?” he asked.

Miss Snobbeypenny lowered her head and blushed a deep crimson red. “It’s fine, Rico, thanks,” she mumbled.

With a cheerful ‘See you round, Pen’ the two men left. They walked through the thickly carpeted corridor towards Miths’s office.

“Sit down. Care for a drink?” Good old Miths: always the perfect host.

“Thanks. I’ll have a bone-dry Martini please. Shaken, not stirred.”

“Sorry, old pal. No alcohol in THIS office. Bad for your health. I can offer you a coffee (decaf) or a Pepsi Ultra Light.”

“Thanks anyway.” With a flourish, Rico plucked a cigarette out of the air. “Mind if I smoke?”

Miths wordlessly pointed his thumb at a huge placard hanging on the green wall behind his head. SMOKING CONTRIBUTES TO GLOBAL WARMING it said. Rico slowly crushed the cigarette in his fist.

“I’m in a hurry, Miths,” he said. “Duty calls. You know how it is. Time waits for no man. Let’s make this a quick briefing.”

“Fine. Okay, your mission is the same as 009’s. 009 left in the spring -- I definitely remember it was on a VERY hot day -- and we haven’t heard of him since. Here’s the dossier.” Miths handed it over.

“I’ll give you a quick rundown of the facts as we see them. But first, the good news is, you’ll have unlimited funds at your disposal. As you know, our last podcast, featuring Brother Yabor’s stuff, was a world-wide megahit. Twenty million downloads in just one week. We earn five euros per download. You do the math.”

“When the old buzzard appointed Brother Yabor head of Propaganda and Subversion,” Miths continued, “I admit I had my doubts. I mean, a bloke from Holland who can’t speak proper English? But as it turned out, this was yet another of T.’s master strokes. I can’t speak too highly of Brother Yabor. His zeal, his psychological insight, his wife, his coolness under (metaphorical) fire, and his rock-solid dedication to our holy Cause are a daily lesson and inspiration to us all. I’m sure you agree, 0010.”

Rico nodded, thoroughly bored by now. He ached to be away.

Miths drew a deep breath, sprung up and started to pace the room, his hands folded as if in prayer. “That bloody Dutchman’s wife is unbearably, criminally hot,” he spoke in a penetrating whisper that drove a chill over Rico’s spine. “Man, Brother Rico, what wouldn’t I give to get my hands on that filly’s champion boobs even for just one second! And I swear she never wears a bra. Those pink, those ever erect nipples, perfectly formed, the epitome of “suckable,” straining against the fabric of her tight semi-opaque blouse, ... O my God.” Miths was frothing at the mouth now. Presently his eyes glazed over, turned in their sockets until only white showed, and T.’s Chief-of-Staff passed out. Cold. Like Safari “unexpectedly” quitting on reaching a porn site, Rico thought involuntarily. If you MUST surf porn, use Camino, folks.

Rico left the room on tiptoe, with the dossier, and lit a blessed cigarette. He decided to go home and take the rest of the day off. It was a good thing, he reflected, that Miths had never lain eyes on Mrs. HiHopes. Talk about hot!


Chapter 2

BOOBS GALORE

Aquanistan border

Brother Be En -- 009 -- had a thing about boobs. He just loved the damn things. Big, small, hanging, upright -- Be worshipped them all. He drew the line, however, at fake ones. At silicon monstrosities. Those he found despicable. They made him sick. He considered them a slap in the face of God the Creator.

Imagine his horror, then, at discovering that that scumbag Philippe le Cayun, agent of NEXTRE, smuggled semi-liquid quartz (which is the most addictive form of quartz) out of Aquanistan INSIDE THE FAKE BOOBS of his lapdance girls. And without the poor girls even knowing it.

[to be continued]

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Be left the Shalomplace, and as he walked along the docks toward his hotel, he reviewed in his mind what he had found out about Philippe le Cayun. Little did Be know that he would never reach his hotel.

Meanwhile in Londonistan

Rico left BrotherHood HQ in a good mood. He was a man of action and the prospect of going away on a dangerous mission made his heart sing. No more hanging around at the office! It was the best Christmas present Rico could have hoped for.

The blizzard raged and snow was falling in buckets. Already the snow lay half a metre thick. Rico made for his car. What with the daily barrage of dire warnings in the media about Global Warming, Rico in the winter months never left home without an assortment of snow chains in the boot of his vehicle. So he was prepared -- one of few.

Rico loved his car, a baby-blue Jaguar X2. Most of his salary went into its upkeep. He put the snow chains on the Unisex racing tires, specially made for him by Boeing, strapped himself in his custom-made aluminot seat, and started pedalling.

It was hard work, at first, and slow going. Last year, when, overruling Parliament, the House of Imams passed legislation that put the price of gasoline for infidels at 99 euros and 99 cents a litre, many of Rico’s countrymen had converted to Islam, but many also had sold their cars (for a pittance) and now used public transport, or they walked, or rode a bike. But Rico was damned if he was going to sell his beloved Jaguar. So, he had ripped out the engine, put in pedals and chains and stuff, and thus had converted his car into a sort of bike. Though Rico would rather die than admit it, the converted Jaguar X2 was markedly more stable now, and not much slower than before (Rico had strong thighs).

Rico lived on Imam Abu el Asshool Square (formerly Sir Isaac Newton Square), in a comfortable appartment, together with his Scottish housekeeper, June.

[to be continued]

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"Aquanisitan"

I almost laughed up my gall bladder.

There was ample parking. Yeah, give the mullahs their due, parking was not the nightmare it once was. Rico entered his apartment and switched the radio on, just in time for the news.

... Peace Be Upon Him. Today is Turdsday, December 5, 2012. Here follows the BBC news. Yesterday Secretary General Sheehan of the United Nations urged the American President to grant herself and Ayatollah Rataplan of France their just request, i.e. to deliver former US President George W. Bush and former US Defence Secretary Rumsfeld to the International Islamic Tribunal in El Hague to be tried for war crimes. In an emotional and deeply-moving speech, which lasted two hours, not counting the storm of applause afterwards, Mrs. Sheehan said she felt that the public beheading of these two “monsters” would definitely contribute toward setting the soul of her son at rest. Today, in a deplorable outburst of frankly unhelpful, utterly distasteful, and strictly speaking unlawful, UNophobia, US President-elect Felix MacLash answered, “BS.”

Rico grinned and turned the radio off. There was hope for the world still, he thought.

June brought him a wodka Martini, made just the way he liked it. Rico settled himself in his comfortable chair, lit a cigarette, and opened the top secret file. He started to read on page 3.

[to be continued]

Aquanistan

“Excuse me, kind sir.”

Where had the girl suddenly come from? Be had not been paying attention to the way ahead, for the docks were littered with thousands and thousands of rotting apples and he had had to watch his every step.

The girl was very beautiful. She was naked from the waist up.

“Kind sir, can you help me? I seem to have mislaid my bra, my shirt and my sweater. Have you seen them, perchance?”

A damsel in distress. Be had to help her. The light of the full moon fondled her boobs lovingly. But were they real? Always this doubt! Better make sure.

“That’s a seemingly lovely pair of knockers you got there, Miss,” Be said. “But I've been disappointed before. They’re not fake, by any chance? Are they real? -- If you don’t mind my asking,” he added, always the gentleman.

The girl laughed. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

Be went straight for the jugular: “Well, then, may I fondle them?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Commander En.” She thrust her lovely breasts into Be’s waiting hands. They were real alright. But wait, this girl knew his name! How was that possible? Be began to suspect a trap. Could she be a member of the Opposition? He lifted his gaze from her nipples and looked the girl straight in the eyes. They were baby-blue, with big lashes. The eyes of an angel. “How come you know my name?” he asked.

“Wow. Commander En, is that your name? Wow. I just took a wild guess. Fancy me getting it right the first time! But, stranger things have happened, and will happen. That’s life for you, 009 -- oops.” The girl laughed. Big mouth, lovely cherry-red lips. Now her tongue licked her lips very slowly and very deliberately. Be decided that her answer made sense. Life was indeed full of surprises. He resumed his fondling.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind him. By the sound of it, two big men; probably Germans, Be reckoned. Now what? Alarm bells went off in Be’s head. His training took over and he began to turn round. At that moment the girl seemed to stumble, and she fell in his arms, clutching him tightly. The footsteps were very close now. Be looked up at the lovely stars twinkling above the Wet Sea. Would he ever see them again?

The expected blow with a blunt instrument to the back of his head was delivered with German efficiency. For an instant Be saw a fierce white light, and then everything went black.

[to be continued]

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Chapter 3

"MY DEAR BOY'

Be groaned and opened his eyes. His head hurt terribly and he was very thirsty. But Be was a pro. He forced himself to cooly take stock of his situation.

He was strapped to a rusty chair which stood in the middle of a circle of light. Beyond was deep shadow. The walls of the room he could not see. He tried to move and found he couldn’t lift even a finger, and his head seemed to be caught in some kind of vice. Furthermore, he was stark naked. Never in his life had Be felt so helpless.

Philippe le Cayun sat in a comfy chair before him. The X-Man was licking a blue gumdrop. He made hideous sucking noises. Drool dripped into his ridiculous beard.

“Ah, welcome back to the land of the living, 009.” he said. “My dear boy, we are going to have a frank conversation, you and I. I’m so looking forward to it. And afterwards, I will kill what’s left of you with a pitchfork. Just so we’re clear. But where are my manners? May I offer you a gumdrop, dear boy?”

Be never touched the stuff but he guessed this was as good a time to start as any. He had to play for time. “Why not?” he said. “Offer accepted.” He decided then and there to tell the scumbag everything he wanted to know. All the secrets of the BrotherHood. Torture? Be simply couldn’t face it.

Philippe reached over and popped a gumdrop between Be’s lips. “Suck away, my dear boy,” he said.

Be took a careful lick. The thing was sickly sweet and utterly revolting. He spat the gumdrop out.

“Defiant, are we? I like that. It heightens the fun.” Philippe farted and then took his time to luxuriously pick his nose. Be closed his eyes.

“You will not be rescued at the last moment, like in the movies, 009. We are deep inside an Aquanistani mountain, in a secret cave, and the entrance is guarded by Schmitz und Klappz -- you made their acquaintance down at the waterfront, I believe. Pros, both of them. And last but not least there is the lovely Xirina. Xirina is a quartz addict, and my future bride. I provide her with all the quartz she needs. Xirina, step forward, please.”

The girl from the docks stepped into the circle of light. This time she wore a tiny and incredibly sexy azure bikini. She smiled at Be. Be tried not to look at her cleavage, but -- damn! -- his eyes zoomed in on her boobs nevertheless. The girl laughed. Bitch. She picked up the gumdrop Be had spat out and popped it in her mouth.

Philippe rubbed his hands in anticipation. He reached behind his chair and brought forward a nasty looking pair of pliers. “Now then, 009, shall we begin?” he said.

[to be continued]

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Londonistan

In spite of winning the National Spelling Competition three times in a row, Rico had never been much of a reader. But he loved being read to: it always made him deliciously drowsy. He rang for June, his trusted jewel of a Scottish housekeeper, who appeared promptly.

“June, I’m afraid I’ve been naughty again: I took a thick secret dossier home. Not allowed, of course. Security at BrotherHood HQ is a disgrace, it really is. Someone should do something about it. Still, there we are. Would you be an angel and read the dossier to me, just like last time?”

June nodded. Good girl. Like so many females these days, she was dressed like an Afghan woman, in a black so-called “female freedom bag” that covered her from head to toe. Her eyes were hidden behind a veil. Rico didn’t like it, but what could he do? Two months ago, June had converted to Islam. It made life in the Eurabian Union so much easier. And on the very same day that she had donned the freedom bag, June had had her vocal cords operated on, as she told Rico, which had resulted in a deep masculine voice. A baritone. An extraordinary thing to do, Rico had said to her at the time, whereupon June had explained that she had always hated her high soprano voice, really. Since her conversion to Islam she seemed to have grown a couple of inches as well. Rico figured she must have taken to wearing plateau shoes. A fashion thing, no doubt.

He invited June to sit down and then handed her the dossier marked TOP SECRET and FOR YOUR EYES ONLY, 0010.

Rico took a healthy swig from his Martini. Life was good. June started to read to him in her rich baritone voice. Two minutes later, Rico was fast asleep, snoring peacefully.

June left Rico’s study on tip-toe. With the dossier.

[to be continued]

June entered her room, picked up a scanner and switched her state-of-the-art iMam on (a present from Rico). I mean iMac. While OS XI Camel was loading she had plenty of time to light a cigar and to thoroughly scratch her balls. The cigar was a genuine Havana: only the best was good enough for an agent of NEXTRE. Alas, yes, dear reader, it is true, Rico’s faithful June was in fact ... a man! A man who, in a devilish plot, had taken the real June’s place. Poor real June, who was presently feeding the fishes on the bottom of Loch Ness. And it gets worse, much worse: for this false June was none other than that most deadly of NEXTRE agents: the elusive John Q., a.k.a. Thai Johnny, a.k.a. The Pitiless Pro, a.k.a. The Man In Black, whose life’s ambition was to destroy the BrotherHood.

Aquanistan

“Torture won’t be necessary,” Be said, his eyes on the pair of pliers in the X-Man’s hand. “I simply don’t believe in it. Never have, never will. So just ask away, and I will answer truthfully.”

Philippe leaned over, very close to Be’s face. As he looked Be in the eyes he slowly bared his yellow and black rotten teeth in a cruel grin. Like all X-Men, Philippe had bad breath. It comes from eating rotten apples. Be felt sick. “I’m glad to hear it, dear boy,” Philippe said. “Well now, answer me this then: who is your favorite painter?”

“Vincent van Gogh,” Be answered immediately and in a steady voice. It was God’s honest truth.

“I believe you, dear boy,” said Philippe. “Ah, yes, dear old Vincent. Mr. One-Ear.” He reached over with the pair of pliers and tore off Be’s left ear. He then dangled the bloody object in front of Be’s eyes. The girl shrieked with laughter. Be fainted.

[to be continued]

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Londonistan

John Q. scanned the top secret dossier into his iMac and then e-mailed it to NEXTRE HQ -- to Jobst Stevro Bloatfeld personally. This was standing operating procedure and had become routine during the time that he was in Rico’s employ.

We now wish to provide the reader with some salient excerpts out of the dossier, in order that that he may begin to comprehend what is going on:

OPERATION KITTY, KITTY.

To: Admiral Sir Brother Thalo Thunderball.
From: Head of Security, Lord Brother HH (0082).
Subject: Quartz Extreme: a clear and present danger.
Documentation: biography of Philippe le Cayun (alias ‘The Roman Xaint’) is attached at Appendix A. Also, Appendix B, a note on NEXTRE.

We have identified Philippe le Cayun as an agent of NEXTRE. For this diabolical organization, le Cayun, starting in the year 2001, has been smuggling quartz out of that most dysfunctional of dysfunctional states, Aquanistan. How? That we don’t know. [As the reader knows, Le Cayun stuffs the fake boobs of his lapdance girls full of quartz, then sends them out to the West].

Quartz in its unrefined form is harmless enough; in China it is commonly used for decorating public toilets. Refined into ‘Quartz Extreme’ however (a semi-liquid and semi-transparent blue paste, invented by Bloatfeld, that evil genius), quartz becomes a deadly menace to freeborn people.

Quartz Extreme is a highly addictive drug. It enduces a process of what neuro-biologists call ‘chimpification’ which in effect turns members of homo ’sapiens’ (that’s a laugh) into ‘chimps’ and ‘chimpettes’.

Full chimpification takes less than a year, and seems irreversible (but NB: U.S. President-elect Felix MacLash seems to think a cure might exist). Visit any ‘Apple Store’ to see the appalling result. Chimpified Quartz addicts are a bunch of nose-picking, genitals-scratching slackers, idiots and suckers; a effeminate herd of hedonistic sheep, bleating proudly whilst falling in line to be fleeced by their Masters (i.e. Bloatfeld and his Cupertinoan croonies); a crowd of mindless, giggling dupes who will follow Bloatfeld’s every order blindly. By God, they are a sorry sight.

We estimate that at present 10.4 percent of the U.S. population has been fully chimpified; we further estimate that this percentage will rise to 50 percent within 3 years if Bloatfeld is not stopped. Fifty percent: that would mean the beginning of a Dark Ages in the U.S., just like we see happening here and now in the Eurabian Union (where for some reason the chimpification of the populace has been much more rapid and thorough than in the U.S.A.).

As we predicted back in 2006, the chimpified peoples of old Europe have proven themselves unable to withstand Islam’s onslaught; on the contrary, they have been willing victims. Whilst stuffing their faces with Quartz and listening to their media bleating about the spectre of ‘Global Warming’ they were quite blind to the real and imminent danger. And now they are slaves. Slaves of Bloatfeld and the mullahs. For the future of humanity it is imperative that the U.S. people escape their European brothers’ fate. Therefore, Bloatfeld has to be stopped.

We propose the following ...

[to be continued]

Another excerpt:

Appendix A. Biography of NEXTRE agent Philippe le Cayun.

Philippe le Cayun was born in 1950 in Eyesore, Massawidgetts. Of his childhood nothing is known, except that young Phil wanted to become a Superhero. Good for him. But it didn’t work out that way. For years le Cayun scraped a living peddling prayer shawls and a potion he invented against baldness, called thalonite. The year 2001 saw him as head of the Quality Assurance department of a corset factory in Terminal, Alaska. He now earned a good salary but happy he was not. This was the fateful year that Bloatfeld took over Apple Computer and promptly converted the classic Macintosh (America’s pride) into a glorified mp-3 player targeted at chimps and loafers. Le Cayun took good notice. He decided to go into the i-tunes business.

His first single, Slow Motion Blues, was a top ten hit in Bullgaria. The sequel, Keep On Spinning, did better: it reached number 102 in the American charts. Please Fleece Me (2002) and Con Me Do (2003) flopped however. Now Le Cayun switched to gospels, combining the God and music biz. Success was immediate. The singles Sha-La-La-La-Lom and The Secret Of Life (2004) both reached number 10 in the Apple charts. His first album, The Secret ... Is Love (2005) sold millions of copies during the Christmas season. Now Le Cayun bought a banana plantation in Costo Rico, a shrewd business move. We believe that it was in Costo Rico that le Cayun met Bloatfeld, who then and there recruited him for NEXTRE.

What evil plans did they discuss? We do not know. We DO know, however, that in march 2006 Le Cayun moved to Aquanistan, where he bought a chain of lapdance bars. We also know that ever since, the free world has been flooded with Aquanistani quartz. Coincidence? We think not.


[to be continued]