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| Venexia |
The Morris Dance group was being watched very closely
by the authorities, the authorities being the secret service and a handful of police
task forces plus a local makeshift amateur detective, Mr. Still, who was
determined to find out exactly what was going on.
Some believed it was a case of infidelity, others a
case of stolen identity, but the cunning detective was sure it was something far
more complicated than that.
Every time the group scheduled a trip out of town to
perform in a neighboring village, a convoy of countless cars, vans and a bike
would try to look inconspicuous and follow the Morris Dance crew. It was quite
an extraordinary sight. Electric companies, garages, gardening enterprises, all
took an unusual interest in what the dance party was up to. It would seem like they had money invested in
the group, the way they kept following them everywhere in their vans with
tinted windows.
The only one who looked like someone following someone
else was the amateur detective. On his bike, he struggled to keep up (he was a
bit of a clunk in what motorized vehicles were concerned and no way he was
getting behind a wheel, he had decided many moons ago).
As the Morris gang arrived to the nearby village
(thank God, it had had been a short trip, thought Mr. Still), the blatantly wannabe-anonymous
entourage scattered in all directions trying to find a spot to park their mobile
units.
There was a sense of celebration in the village. It
was decorated with little flags and bright colors. Somehow, this celebratory
mood visibly contrasted with all the men and women hiding behind columns and
talking into their sleeves.
Now, Mr. Still did nothing of the sort. He paraded
himself in front of the pub where the group was to perform and even approached
one of them, TomTom, to salute their enormous talent but the dancer waved and
walked away as quickly as possible, thinking that that chubby middle-aged man
looked like a groupie in the making and he absolutely dreaded those people.
So, Mr. Still decided to surreptitiously check the
group’s van. There was nothing of interest inside. Odd, he thought. There had
to be something. As the other services, police and secret alike, progressively closed
in on the group, Mr. Still heard someone yell at him in a thunderous voice “Still!
Stan Still!” The Morris Dance crew all raised their arms in unison thinking
they had been caught for stealing jewelry worth millions from millionaires who moved
to the country aiming to find peace in the later years of their lives; these
millions were in turn shipped overseas and used as the financial basis for a very
lucrative armament business. But it was only Justin Case who had spotted his
best friend and was calling out for him.
The authorities praised Case’s amazing contribution to
the capture of this group of dangerous criminals, TV networks lined up to
interview him and, within an hour, there was talk of a book. Stan Still was as
furious as he could possibly be. No one, not even Justin Case, should ever
steal his minute of fame. So, not abiding by his last name, he jumped from
behind the thick line of people and grabbed his friend by the neck. It was a
shock to everyone to witness such a short lived case of heroism as Case fell to
the ground and hit his head on the pavement.
What happened to Still, you may ask? He ended up in
the same jail as the Morris Dance group, where he has become quite the groupie type
annoying the hell out of TomTom.
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