More Elephants!

Who: Lester and Lester
Where: Outside the Grand Casino, New Tenerife
When: Thirty minutes after the last post, so near midnight
 
“This isn’t going to work,” Lester said through gritted teeth. “T-trust me,” he replied to himself and adjusted the dark blue towel wrapped around his head. “S-SNIDE? You ok?”
 
SNIDE chirped and ticked from his position, clinging to the front of the impromptu turban around the Lesters’ shared head, he was desperately holding it together. “We smell like a roast dinner,” Lester muttered. “I-it’s exotic,” he replied with false confidence and they strode back into the casino.
 
Half an hour before, Lester had snuck into the back of the poshest restaurant he could find. Like all the nicest places it had a specialist laundry service and once he’d located one, he’d donned a waiter’s dinner jacket and stolen a bath towel. Then he nipped into the kitchen dressed as a waiter – no one looks at staff -  and stole the gravy stock.
 
Now he was back here, with a nearly-convincing dark complexion, his dinner jacket and his towel-and-robot-Turban hiding his temple implants. A pair of leather gloves completed the disguise.
 
Lester stepped up to the cashier and presented $£5000 in cash to Helen who barely glanced at him.
 
“Thank you sir, welcome to the Grand, may all your dreams come true,” she intoned monotonously.
 
“You are wery nice for the grand welcome,” Lester said in a high-pitched, over-the-top accent of vaguely Asian origin. He then proceeded into the casino, passing the same dinner-jacketed floor manager who had ejected him before. He sat at the Blackjack table and asked for his chips to be changed into smaller denominations, then began to play.
 
Lester had to be careful. His implanted Situation Assessment Module displayed the currently laid out cards and the odds of producing required cards but he couldn’t be too sharp. Much to geek Lester’s horror, he proceeded to lose $£2000 in straight games, then he began to turn it around, win $£1000, lose $£200.
 
“Damn, I needed that Queen,” he muttered to himself under his breath as it was passed to another player.
 
“Lots of Queens,” he replied equally quietly.
 
“Really?”
 
“Uh-huh, lots and lots of them,” Lester considered this, then slapped another $£1000 bar on the table, “I need more elephants,” he told the dealer. A queen was dealt to him and his winnings handed over.
 
He bought drinks too, paying for them with the chips and buying for those around the table. Soon a crowd had gathered around this strange man who, under the influence of a couple of cocktails was starting to embellish his story a little.
 
“On Bangladesh V we have places like this, so quaint,” he said, raising the bet another $£750, “this is so small and pleasant, much like place I have in the basment of palace home.”
 
“You’re a king?” A lady with surgical enhancements of her own asked.
 
“No, no, no, no, no. Merely the cousin of a nephew of the King, just the smallish two-hundred acre grounds and thirteen bedroom palace for me. My cousin’s place on the equator is wery much better, more elephants,” he won again and smiled, “we play again? Oh good.”
 
As he arranged the pile of plastic money tokens in front of him, he muttered: “amazing, they won’t let someone whose life depends on implants in, but by law they have to support an appalling racial stereotype.”
 
“What was that, your highness?” asked silicone-woman.
 
“Nothing my little Jasmine flower, here,” he said holding up the $£500 chip, “blow on it for good luck?”
 
She did and in doing so, inhaled more of the “Indian Prince’s” rich Bisto-aroma. “Oh look, more for me this will be nice money to take back for little orphans! The oprhan-house, it is so plain: they are needing more elephants!”
 
* * *
Carleston was asleep, laid out on the expensive king-size bed with his boots on, snoring loudly. Brikhaus had ordered room service eight times, telling them to charge to “the Nipples guy’s room”. Every so often he picked up the ‘phone, demanding to know if “Nipples had turned up yet?” He slapped the ‘phone down again and decided to check his gun. He began to disassemble it onto the marble dressing table opposite the bed.
 
* * *
 
The night wore on: with more drinks, more shouts of “more elephants!” and eventually Lester and Lester decided they had won enough. He gathered his winnings, then asked for some help taking his winnings to the cashier.
 
“Would you like that in cash or credit, sir?” Helen intoned. She looked very tired and thoroughly bored.
 
“One thousand to split between the staff,” Lester said in his normal voice, “six thousand in cash, five-thousand on this card please,” he handed over the cloned Seymour card.
 
Helen frowned, took it, looked at the name, looked at Lester and her eyes widened. Then she put the card in the reader and began the process. Very quietly she said: “you smell like a carvery!”
 
“Well maybe I’ll need a decent bath, and some help?” He smiled, took the card, the money in its metal box and winked at Helen before heading for the door.
 
“Taxi!” He called, tugging off the turban. He leapt in, leaving his towel and gloves on the pavement.
 
* * *
 
The Hilton loomed over them as the Taxi bumped to a halt on the tarmac. Lester climbed out, still rubbing gravy off his face as he tossed a few notes at the driver. He loosened his bow tie, “w-we should r-really send some money to the restaurant for these clothes,” he told himself as he came to the reception desk. Despite that fact that it was the small hours of the morning, the receptionist was bright, alert and pretty. Lester strolled over and smiled, “Seymour Niples, spelt Nipples. My key please. Any messages?”
 
“No Mr. Nipples,” the receptionist giggled, “enjoy your stay.”
 
“I’d like a safety deposit box please,” he asked and the receptionist arranged, he placed most of the money in the box, keeping a hefty sum for his wallet and a nice tip for the receptionist.
 
“Thank you,” as Lester stepped into the lift, SNIDE in his dinner jacket pocket, the receptionist picked up the ‘phone and woke the manager who blearily rang the suite opposite Lester’s.
 
“Is it him?” Brikhaus demanded.
 
“Yes sir, coming up the lift now,” the manager said obsequiously.
 
“Good. If you hear gunshots, don’t bother calling the police,” Brikhaus threw the phone down and kicked Carleston awake. “Get up you idle sack of nothing! He’s coming.” Brikhaus took the safety off his gun and went to the door. Opening it a crack he could see down the corridor to the lift. That was when the lift doors opened and he saw the lankiest streak he’d ever seen, in an ill-fitting tuxedo, stride out of the lift cage and stroll down the corridor like he owned the place. This annoyed Brikhaus, in fact, lots of things annoyed him. He let the skinny weirdo with the metal hand get to his door, heard the keycard in the lock and pushed out of his room, gun held high.
 
“Hold it right there, punk!” He strode forward as Lester froze, arms raised. Then the guy started muttering to himself.
 
“W-we’ve been caught! Just leave it to me,” he was saying quietly. Then slightly higher again: “I can’t do prison! I don’t want to be some murderer’s plaything! Calm down, shush.”
 
“Turn around,” Brikhaus demanded and he pushed Lester further into his own hotel suite. “Carleston, this look like Ambassador Nipples to you?”
 
“It’s Niples, actually,” Lester said coolly.
 
“Just shut up,” Brikhaus snarled. “We are gonna carve you a new ass, identity thief! You’re gonna have a nice cell with a real cuddly bear of a guy, gonna make you nice and comfortable for the next ten years.”
 
“Can we talk about this,” Lester said, “I am Seymour Niples, what identity theft are you talking about?”
 
“This is Ambassador Nipples,” Carleston said thrusting forward a data image, Lester reached for it, grabbed the Customs Officer by the wrist and turned him so that he had the man in an arm lock in front of him. With his free hand, Lester relieved the Officer of his gun.
 
“This is unfortunate, but we can work it out. I have some winnings from the Casino. How about two thousand to let me enjoy the rest of my holiday?” Lester hadn’t yet actually pointed the gun at anyone. “Two thousand?” Lester squeaked, much to his annoyance, “you can’t…”
 
“You just earned yourself another five years for attempting to bribe an officer of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise! Drop the gun.”
 
Lester looked about to argue, then he glanced over Brikhaus’ shoulder. His eyes widened once, then he tossed the gun aside and let Carleston go.
 
“Jeez, you smell like my Mom’s cooking,” Carleston grabbed his gun.
 
“You don’t want to do this,” Lester said.
 
“Ah you don’t know what I want to do,” Brikhaus growled.
 
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lester said and then with a sigh Brikhaus collapsed, crumpling bonelessly to the ground.
 
“Brikhaus?” Carleston took his eyes off Lester who used the opportunity to punch the Officer across the face. As he fell, Lester grabbed the gun and kept running, heading towards the bedroom.
 
The black-clad assassin stepped calmly over the body of Brikhaus, wiping clean the sharp needle-like knife he had just killed him with. Behind him, an identical figure watched the corridor as the assassin produced a compact but powerful laser pistol and headed towards the bedroom.
 
Lester fired two shots, the first missed, the second fizzled out on a portable forcefield the assassin was wearing, but it was only a distraction as he leapt from his balcony, holding on to the power cable from the large floor-mounted uplighter by his bed. The chrome lamp pulled from its bolts in the floor and flung itself towards the french windows and the balcony. It caught briefly on the railings, long enough for Lester to get a grip on the balcony below. He pulled himself over and onto the balcony proper and leaned against the glass, panting. The uplighter fell past and Lester grabbed it.
 
“W-what do you want that for? W-why are they after us?” Lester asked himself as with a faint swish, the assassin came gliding down on a micro-filament wire. Lester swung the tall lamp like a baseball bat and caught his target in the chest, sending him falling into the night. As he watched, a faint glow surrounded the falling figure and he alighted on the rooftop of the restaurant opposite. The figure turned, Lester ducked and the glass of the french windows cracked as a penny-size hole was invisibly eaten into the very glass. Not waiting to see what happened next, Lester swung the lamp again, smacking it into the french windows which shattered noisily and he leapt through into the dark bedroom beyond.
 
“Morning,” he said to the two groggy figures as he passed their bed, “did you order a wake-up call?” Then he broke into a run.
 
“W-why are they after us?” Lester asked himself as he vaulted the emergency stairs three at a time. “I don’t know,” he panted back, “let’s go back and ask them.” He reached the ground floor, straightened his suit and walked out of the lobby, handing his key over to the receptionist with a smile.
 
“My deposit box,” he said.
 
“I’ll have to check with the manager,” the receptionist said, trying to hide her fear. She’d have had the call from the room Lester broke into by now.
 
“Nevermind, keep it, start a new life with it,” Lester said and walked away, out the doors, into the night. The Customs and Excise car was there: a brash flying thing with a blue and green light bar on top. He looked around.
 
“W-we can’t st-steal it,” he said. “Why not?” he countered and opening the door, he climbed in. “Start her up, quickly.” Lester obliged and soon they were airborne. It was with some regret that he spotted in the vehicle’s mirror, the cashier entering the front door of the hotel as they zoomed away.
 
“W-what now? The police?” Lester asked. He frowned: “no, not the police. We need to find Seymour Niples.” He looked over at the car’s computer, “see if you can find him.”
 
<To be continued>Win John Lewis vouchers with BigSnapSearch.com Search now