Featured post

What Did Anglo-Force Look Like?

I've been playing around with one of those AI art generator things, generating images for some of the old Anglo-Force characters in a ...

Sunday 19 February 1995

Corporation - Chapter Two

    As predicted by Simon Kennedy forty-eight hours later a plane arrived at Heathrow Airport from New York. It carried the usual visitors and business people from across the pond, but it also carried one man who hoped to be staying in merry old England for some time. After checking through customs Giovanni DiMambro was greeted by Peter Oswald, also known to the Police as Gunner, the weapons expert.
    “Good afternoon Mister DiMambro. I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
    “The plaice was undercooked and the coffee tasted like battery acid.”
    Oswald hoped his new boss wasn’t like this all the time.
    “If you’d like to come this way we have a car waiting for you.”
    Oswald escorted DiMambro out of the airport and into a waiting stretch limousine. Once inside he poured DiMambro a stiff whisky.
    “I’ve book a suite for you at the Hilton.” said Oswald. “Only the best for you of course.”
    DiMambro stared coldly at Oswald.
    “Stop fawning over me like me mother!” he snapped. “Now, Oswald, isn’t it? I have a job for you. I want you to gather all of the other bosses at my suite tomorrow night for an important meeting. Tell them to be there or pay the price for non-attendance.”
    “Certainly Mister DiMambro.”
    DiMambro then motioned for Oswald to move closer to him.
    “And one other thing.”
    “Yes sir?” Oswald smiled.
    “Do not disturb me until tomorrow afternoon. It’s been a long journey from New York and I am very tired. If you do disturb me, for any reason, and you’ll be looking for a new job…as well as an artificial limb!”
    Oswald gulped and sat back in his seat. Perhaps it would be good idea to look for another job after all he though.

    The next night at the Hilton the meeting of the most powerful crime bosses in the land took place. They were seated around a long table. In one corner of the room stood Oswald. He had never been in company like this before.
    “Hey, you!” said Oxymyx, the boss from the south coast. “What’s this DiMambro want with all of us?”
    “You’ll find out soon enough.” said Oswald.
    “I know you.” said Krako, from the north. “You’re that Oswald fella, the Gunner. Since when have you become a hired hand? You used to be one of the major players!”
    Oswald knew he was right, but he also knew he was in too deep now, he couldn’t back out.
    Then the noise stopped when DiMambro entered the room and seated himself at the head of the table. It was as if he was looking down on all of the other bosses, as if he thought they were beneath him.
    “Good evening gentlemen. As you know I am Giovanni DiMambro. I arrived here from New York yesterday, and I arrived with a plan.”
    “Come on!” said Krako. “Get on with it!”
    “Very well Mister Krako.” said DiMambro. “I shall. Since Mister Orsine warred with the Black Squadron the credibility of our organisation as reached rock bottom. It has never been so low. To fight with someone over one substance was foolish. Orsine should have been looking at the wider picture.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “My dear Mister Oxymyx, you are as stupid as you sound. We must try to gain credibility for the Foundation. We must branch out into other ventures. The public and the government do not trust us. I intend to reverse that.”
    “Just how do you intend to do that?” asked Krako.
    “By giving the Foundation a more corporate image Mister Krako. We will answer all of the outstanding charges, pay any fines, and try to get rid of any bad apples we have. We will then begin searching for other things to venture into such as transport, or the media, as well as oil companies!”
    “You mean you want us to become legit?” said Oxymyx.
    “I want the public to think we are ‘legit’ as you put it. We will become more friendly with the public, and at the same time we will continue with some of our ‘underhanded’ operations. So, as of today, the Orsine Foundation will be known as the DiMambro Foundation. Within a year I hope to pull this company into profit, and soon afterwards I hope that we will be able to offer shares on the stock market.”
    “But how can you change our image?” asked Krako. “As you said, it’s dirt!”
    “There may be one way.” said DiMambro. “We can start by offering our hand in friendship to James Watt and Anglo-Force.”
    This did not please the bosses.
    “Are you mad? Become friends with those geeks? You’re out of your stinking mind!”
    “I didn’t say we would become friends, we would appear to be friends. If we offer the public a friendly image Anglo-Force may want to jump on our bandwagon so to speak. After all, their image is hardly a good one at the moment! So, gentlemen, the decision is final. I will call a press conference tomorrow morning, and I will make the announcement then!”

    It had been a long time since Paul Solo had walked through the hallowed halls of Scotland Yard, but in all of his time away the place had not changed that much. He saw some familiar faces and exchanged greetings with some old friends. It felt good to be back in a place he knew so well.
    Soon he was walking down a corridor he didn’t think he’d been down before. It was the area of the Yard that had been assigned to the new Special Crimes Unit, and to the untrained eye it looked like a dump. Indeed, to Solo’s eye it also looked like a dump.
    He soon found the doorway. The sign telling people that the S.C.U. was inside had not yet been pained onto the door. Opening the door Solo found an almost deserted room. There was the usual office furniture and equipment through the room, and a separate office at the end, obviously the office of the man in command of this special task force. In another corner of the room stood a black man wearing a yellow vest, punching a boxer’s training bag. He didn’t seem to notice Solo enter the office. In another area was a blond man practising various karate moves, and at one of the desks sat a young woman with long black hair. She was dressed in a red leather jacket and she was filing her finger nails. Neither of these two seemed to pay any attention to Solo. They only did so when he let out a loud cough. Suddenly the blond man looked at Solo.
    “Are you meant to be here?” he said.
    “I was looking for the operations room of the Special Crimes Unit.” said Solo.
    “Well, looks like you found it.” said the woman. “But I’m afraid we can’t help you now. You see, we aren’t up and running at the moment, and we’re waiting for his bloke to come and see us. They say he’s going to be our new Chief Inspector.”
    “And who might you be?” asked Solo.
    The woman looked up from her nail file.
    “Sergeant Blaze Fielding. This is Sergeant Axel Stone. The boxer over there is Sergeant Adam Hunter. So who are you?”
    “Your new Chief Inspector, Paul Solo!”
    The three sergeants suddenly stopped what they were doing. Fielding quickly got to her feet as Stone and Hunter soon joined her.
    “I’m sorry Inspector.” said Fielding. “We didn’t realise.”
    “So you are supposed to be London’s finest are you?” said Solo. “Tell me, if I had been someone who had come here to report a crime would you have treated me in the same manner? Would you have treated the victim of a crime in the same way? I can see that I’m going to have to work on you three if you are going to be a fighting unit.”
    “Then you’re going to accept the job?” asked Stone.
    “It would seem so Mister Stone. It would seem so!”




No comments:

Post a Comment