The Jaguar of Justice

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A snippet inspired by Mr Robert Rankin's Leopard print suit and an homage to his style.

Submitted: August 05, 2017

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Submitted: August 05, 2017





“This way Master Spotticus!”

The Puma Print Pugilist squinted through the glare of the flash bulbs to discern the black clad figure of his driver and factotum, Buttles. The faithful retainer shouldered his way through the Press Pack, brushing aside the frenzied Paparazzi like so many ants from a Bank Holiday cream tea.

“If you and Lady Raygun would care to follow me sir,”

Buttles flexed his shoulders and his immaculate uniform creaked menacingly. He wore, as always, a perfect recreation of an early twentieth century Chauffeurs uniform in black leather, the only incongruous item being the stark flash of the ecclesiastical collar at his throat. Incongruous only to those who did not know that Buttles had spent much of his early career stalking the squared circle as the “Parson of Pain” and his continued mastery of those skills was immediately demonstrated as an overly enthusiastic Journo attempted to take an unflattering image of his mistress from an unladylike angle. Leaving the cheeky snapper writhing in unfeigned agony, the valiant valet ushered his master and mistress to their customary vehicle, the Jaguar of Justice.

With his charges safely ensconced in the luxurious rear compartment of the Union Flag emblazoned limousine, Buttles slid behind the wheel. He touched the intercom control.

“You’ll find the Royal Tea in the refrigerator Sir,”

He referred to the Fearless Feline’s preferred post appearance tipple.

“Very good Buttles.”

Spotticus retrieved the frosted shaker and  poured two stiff ones. Lady Raygun raised an immaculate eyebrow as she accepted her drink.

“Taking Tea,  with the Parson,  in the back of a Jaguar?”

She quipped, her midnight eyes flashing as she sipped her drink,

“At  this hour Spotticus?”

She trailed her carmine nails across his magnificently suited chest. The Crime Crushing Cool Cat put down his glass and regarded her with one raised eyebrow. The scarlet lips were licked and pouted, the magnificent peepers flashed, and the legs crossed and uncrossed with much rustling of the famous silk stockings. A decision was reached .

“Buttles, the privacy screens please, there’s a good chap.”

The sharp suited super sleuth slid smoothly across the back seat.

“And don’t disturb us until we reach the lair.”

Lady Raygun sighed,

“And, perhaps, not even then?”

She suggested, throatily.

“Indeed Madam,”

Buttles activated the control that lowered the screen,

“Should there be the slightest suggestion that the car is rocking I shall, as ever, tactfully refrain from knocking.”

“Good chap.”

Spotticus broke the connection leaving Buttles to his thoughts. Idly he adjusted his mirror and observed an intrepid but fool hardy photographer pursuing on the pillion of an overworked moped. His fingers briefly hovered over a bank of ominously unlabelled switches before settling, regretfully, for a nudge upon the accelerator pedal. The snarl of the supercharged V12 restored his jovial mode and he turned up the music to cover the faint sounds that emanated from the rear compartment. Gripping the wheel he turned the powerful motor South and East towards the Sussex coast and the palatial estate his Master called “The Lair”. As the powerful car sped smoothly along the sun warmed tarmac, Buttles hummed along with the soothing sounds of the antique CD in the dashboard.

“Pom, pom, pom ti pom...We are the Road Crew, that’s right!” 

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