Hours later, back in my office, my exploits were being plastered across the news, generalised into the familiar phrases that make such experiences so separate from reality. "RICH BITCH FLAMBE" and "SMOKED PRINCESS" were just two of the highlights. The only problem for me was that the police had found my fedora at the scene of the incident; one of the only items not to have been turned to ash in the blaze. It wouldn?t be long before they'd be knocking on my door; that meant I had to get out and find the club before I was thrown in jail.
I grabbed my dragunov from the cupboard, as well as my spare fedora, and firmly set out into the early-morning with the sole intention of getting back my bear. My whole body ached, and I could feel the beginnings of the mother of all hangovers grabbing at the back of my mind. I groaned as the sunlight hit me, and titled the fedora to shadow my eyes.
The first port of call would be the old warehouse district, where I'd first discovered Ben Powerful's evil scheme. With any luck, the corpses of Tiddles and Oaksy would still be there, and they'd have some clues as to where I could find The Belgian Truffle. Maybe they'd even have a map. With this perhaps not overly optimistic scheme in mind, I lit up a cigarette and began the short journey there.