and Franco turned around, dazed and confused, a mixture of horror and wonder on his goatee-bearded face as, as, as... as he realised he was in a fucking television studio .
"Cut! I said stop the fucking cameras!" squealed a small, frizzy-haired man, as he came stomping towards Franco, and Franco simply gawped with a stupid look as he took in the dollies and cranes and jib-arms, the plethora of sound engineers and runners and a studio audience who were sat, mouths open in shock at the sight of their favourite, funny, brilliant TV star Opera with her head now twelve metres from her body.
"Franco, you stupid little bastard, you just went and killed Opera! She's the biggest TV star in the whole damn world! What were you thinking? What were you doing? Oh my Green Gods, we're gonna be so in the shit-oven over this fiasco, and I ask again, What were you even thinking of, you stupid little ginger twat? You were on fucking TV for all that's holy, you were on a live TV show!"
Franco considered this. "Actually," he said, looking around for the exit, fists still clenched, mind working fast, "if I was being pedantic, I'd say that a) I didn't know I was on TV, b) Opera technically cut off her own fat head, and c) what kind of insane TV show has you pretending to torture people in a torture dungeon? Eh? I said eh?"
The producer seemed to fill up with a crimson rage. "It's Torture, the numero uno most popular and well-loved reality TV show in the whole of fucking Quad-Gal, you chump! It's beamed through all Four Galaxies, is watched by fifteen billion Blobbers, and you just killed the bloody star! The Prime of Core Government will have your head on a silver platter for this atrocity! "
Franco looked around. He scratched his beard. He looked around again. "Er," he said. Then shrugged. "I'm. Er. Sorry?"
There was a commotion, and fifty heavily armed police officers stormed through a variety of doors and studio entrances. They carried state-of-the-art MPK sub-machine guns and D5 Shotguns used for riots and crowd control (and the controlling slaughter of rioting crowds). And... Franco blinked. Every single member of the Royal Ganger Police Force looked exactly the same. They were the same build, the same height, and had the same facial features - that of a thirty-year-old man in his prime, with neat dark hair and purple rings under the eyes from too many late nights drinking coffee and eating donuts.
"Throw down your weapons!" came a crackly voice through a loud-hailer.
"Put your hands in the air!"
"Lie on the floor!"
"Hands behind your back!"
"Don't move, sucker!"
"I'm not carrying a weapon," said Franco, helpfully.
"He can't put his hands in the air and lie on the floor, you idiot," crackled the loud-hailer.
"Er, just kneel down then, with your hands in the air. And throw down your weapons, mister!"
At that point, Franco's earlobe comm gave a tiny buzz. In his ear, Franco heard Pippa's voice. "At last, we've found the bugger. Franco? Franco, what are you - oh, no, tell me this is a joke, a bad dream, a slap in the face with a portable bloody nuke! You've killed Opera? Holy shit! She's a public phenomenon and you've just decapitated her on live TV! Oh, no... "
"I didn't kill her," said Franco through gritted teeth. "She sort of cut off her own head with a digital chainsaw during a fight. I was the completely innocent party, I was."
"Listen, just hang tight," snapped Pippa. "Do not fight these goons. I repeat, do not fight..."
The RGPF waded into Franco, and he slammed a right hook, a right straight, a left hook, another right straight, breaking jaws and cheekbones on that perfectly gangered face before the sheer weight of cloned police and batons clubbed him to the ground in a flurry of eagerness and Franco entered yet another blissful state of dreamless euphoria.
CHAPTER ONE
PUBLIC ENEMA NO. 1
She lay on a cold slab. It was uncomfortable, pressing against her shoulder blades, coccyx and ankles. She was naked. She
"Cut! I said stop the fucking cameras!" squealed a small, frizzy-haired man, as he came stomping towards Franco, and Franco simply gawped with a stupid look as he took in the dollies and cranes and jib-arms, the plethora of sound engineers and runners and a studio audience who were sat, mouths open in shock at the sight of their favourite, funny, brilliant TV star Opera with her head now twelve metres from her body.
"Franco, you stupid little bastard, you just went and killed Opera! She's the biggest TV star in the whole damn world! What were you thinking? What were you doing? Oh my Green Gods, we're gonna be so in the shit-oven over this fiasco, and I ask again, What were you even thinking of, you stupid little ginger twat? You were on fucking TV for all that's holy, you were on a live TV show!"
Franco considered this. "Actually," he said, looking around for the exit, fists still clenched, mind working fast, "if I was being pedantic, I'd say that a) I didn't know I was on TV, b) Opera technically cut off her own fat head, and c) what kind of insane TV show has you pretending to torture people in a torture dungeon? Eh? I said eh?"
The producer seemed to fill up with a crimson rage. "It's Torture, the numero uno most popular and well-loved reality TV show in the whole of fucking Quad-Gal, you chump! It's beamed through all Four Galaxies, is watched by fifteen billion Blobbers, and you just killed the bloody star! The Prime of Core Government will have your head on a silver platter for this atrocity! "
Franco looked around. He scratched his beard. He looked around again. "Er," he said. Then shrugged. "I'm. Er. Sorry?"
There was a commotion, and fifty heavily armed police officers stormed through a variety of doors and studio entrances. They carried state-of-the-art MPK sub-machine guns and D5 Shotguns used for riots and crowd control (and the controlling slaughter of rioting crowds). And... Franco blinked. Every single member of the Royal Ganger Police Force looked exactly the same. They were the same build, the same height, and had the same facial features - that of a thirty-year-old man in his prime, with neat dark hair and purple rings under the eyes from too many late nights drinking coffee and eating donuts.
"Throw down your weapons!" came a crackly voice through a loud-hailer.
"Put your hands in the air!"
"Lie on the floor!"
"Hands behind your back!"
"Don't move, sucker!"
"I'm not carrying a weapon," said Franco, helpfully.
"He can't put his hands in the air and lie on the floor, you idiot," crackled the loud-hailer.
"Er, just kneel down then, with your hands in the air. And throw down your weapons, mister!"
At that point, Franco's earlobe comm gave a tiny buzz. In his ear, Franco heard Pippa's voice. "At last, we've found the bugger. Franco? Franco, what are you - oh, no, tell me this is a joke, a bad dream, a slap in the face with a portable bloody nuke! You've killed Opera? Holy shit! She's a public phenomenon and you've just decapitated her on live TV! Oh, no... "
"I didn't kill her," said Franco through gritted teeth. "She sort of cut off her own head with a digital chainsaw during a fight. I was the completely innocent party, I was."
"Listen, just hang tight," snapped Pippa. "Do not fight these goons. I repeat, do not fight..."
The RGPF waded into Franco, and he slammed a right hook, a right straight, a left hook, another right straight, breaking jaws and cheekbones on that perfectly gangered face before the sheer weight of cloned police and batons clubbed him to the ground in a flurry of eagerness and Franco entered yet another blissful state of dreamless euphoria.
CHAPTER ONE
PUBLIC ENEMA NO. 1
She lay on a cold slab. It was uncomfortable, pressing against her shoulder blades, coccyx and ankles. She was naked. She
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