London – Day 2


I knocked on their door at ten sharp. The Generalissima let me in. She’d changed into what I like to think of as her lounge wear: jeans and a frilly white blouse with a plunging neckline not usually seen outside of bad porn. The Generalissimo was on the bed, asleep, in his jeans and jacket, topped off with his eponymous jacket and the helmet. And of course, the mustache.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked.

“What! When! Where!” The Generalissimo leapt out of bed, head jerking side to side as he searched for danger.

“It’s just me, sir. You can relax.”



“Indeed! Come! Let us continue the adventure! Elsewhere!”

And with that, he was gone. I caught up to both of them at the elevators. They stood, facing the windows.

“That building over there, my pet,” the Generalissimo said, “that is where those ne’er-do-wells of the British Secret Intelligence Service spend their days, coming up with daring adventures for their top agent—a Mr. Bond—to go into the field to deal with. You remember him, do you not my love?”

I really hoped he was talking to his counterpart.

“Indeed!” she said. I looked out the window. Sure enough, we had a nice view of MI-6 headquarters across the Thames. Reminded me of’s headquarters in Seattle.

We got into the elevator.

“Doors…opening,” the elevator voice said. Very British. Very female.

“Glad she cleared that up,” I mumbled.

“Doors…closing—doors opening.”

A beefy paw stuck through the doors. They began to open, and the Capitáns got in.

“Oh, goody,” I said.

“Greetings, my comrades in the good fight!” el Capitán said. He had on his summer uniform, which looked a lot like the Generalissimo’s, only tan. Come to think of it, there was a bit of a family resemblance between the two. A little creepy if you ask me.

“Doors…closing.” And this time they actually did.



It’d been fourteen years since I was last in London. Oh, what a trip that was. Twenty college kids spending spring break on another continent with a lower drinking age and a burning desire to see the world. Well, except for me. I missed a lot, as I was so busy avoiding my then girlfriend that I only saw the few things I wanted to see, like a soccer game at Wembley and the McLaren dealership on Park Lane (the only one they ever had, as they only made a hundred or so F1s in total).

This time would be different. While I wouldn’t mind losing my four nutjob companions, chances were better than even they’d know some good places to see. The Generalissimo spent many months here with the SAS back when he was young and not insane, and the Generalissima was originally French, and so she spent her free time in London every time her homeland got invaded by German tourists.

We decided to start off with a pleasant double-decker bus tour of the town. We sat up top, with the sun beating down on us like we’d said something about its sister. We saw the big sights, including Tower Bridge, the London Eye, and even the new Ferrari store on Regent Street. Which was all well and good, until we heard the sirens.

“Evil is coming!” el Capitán yelled.

The Generalissimo stood. “It is time, my good friends! Come! We must assist these brave officers in their time of need!”

The bus swerved as three red BMWs outfitted with London Metro’s Specialist Firearms Command colors (aka CO19) blasted by, sirens at full wail. I looked up. The Generalissimos and the Capitáns were gone. Just like that. I heard someone scream below. I looked over the railing. The sunglassed avengers (all four of them) were commandeering a taxi and giving chase.

I shook my head. A part of me hoped they’d forget where they parked the hotel. Maybe let me sleep in the next day.


I was at the pub for all of five minutes before they popped in. I’d had a Super-chilled Guinness (I was told they took an inferior version of Guinness and brought it down to 1or 2 degrees Celsius so no one would notice) and was well on my way toward polishing off a second when I felt someone sitting next to me.

“Did you miss us?!” the Generalissimo said. He grabbed my glass and finished it off for me. How sweet.

“Um, no?” I said.

“I am feeling a mite peckish!” la Capitán screamed. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to get her a menu, so I stood to get one. Then they all stood.

“I think I can handle this,” I said.

“We are the Three Musketeers!” el Capitán yelled.

“But there’s five of us,” I pointed out.

He scratched his head. I think I may have broken him.

“Twenty-five steps!” the Generalissimo cried. He liked to tell me how many steps ahead of him I was at any given moment. Apparently I was regressing.

“We have reservations!” the Generalissima said. She’d changed, again, this time into a polka dot mini skirt and a t-shirt that claimed she was “With stupid.” I couldn’t have agreed more.



Tas is a small chain of restaurants specializing in Turkish fare. The closest one was on The Cut near the Southwark Tube stop. The room was packed when we arrived, filled with a hundred noisy guests out for a night on the town. El Capitán went to the desk.

“How many, sir?” the woman asked.


The hostess looked us over. They’d decided on formal attire for the evening, which meant for once I was underdressed. I’d put on pants, of course, and a nice button down shirt that went with my eyes. They’d gone with full dress uniforms and all their medals. They clanked as they marched in unison own the street. Even the local skinheads avoided us.

The hostess looked around the restaurant. I saw a table near the back, which is where I thought she was taking us until she reached the stairs and led us to the basement. The white walls and matching tables seemed somewhat sterile. She took us to the corner and had us sit.

“I will order for all of us!” the Generalissima said before the hostess could leave.

“Um,” she said. “I’ll send the sever over—”

“We will have the three course meal! This one!” She pointed to the Aslan menu option that included humus (it was humus), enginar (an artichoke dish that I couldn’t stop eating), dolma (stuffed grape leaves, which were to die for), cacik (cucumber yogurt, which was about what you’d expect), zeytin yagli patlican (eggplant in oil, which I thought was good but that the Generalissima refused to touch), felafel (which were magnificent), and a main course of grilled lamb, chicken, and kofte (minced lamb with spices).

The four of them drank like fish and rehashed old battles. Pretty sure a few of the wars they were going on about happened in the late seventeenth century. And Prussia hadn’t existed in almost a century. Yeah, yeah, I know that it wasn’t officially gone until 1947, but let’s be honest; World War I was when it stopped being relevant. Can I please continue? Thanks.

Full of good wine and equally excessive food, my four companions stopped talking, leaned back, and started snoring. The server brought the check to me. I grumbled, paid the bill, then magically the four of them woke up. We went back to the hotel, and I crawled into bed, vowing to get the hell away from them at my earliest opportunity.

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