Pete Cullen <Melmoth@hpsound.demon.co.uk>

Here's a story about Kenichi Sonoda's Bean Bandit, enjoy!

Bean's Bad Day

  The Bean Bandit was a driver of considerable repute, the undisputed 
master of four wheeled transport in Chicago.  Known to his friends as 
Bean, he was the man to call if you needed a courier or getaway driver, 
day or night.  He'd get a package where it was going or a fleeing felon 
safely away from the cops with maximum speed and minimum fuss.
   Putting him, quite literally, streets ahead of his few competitors was 
his incredible car, the Roadbuster, a scarlet supercar with an enhanced 
engine, thousand dollar tyres and a revolutionary new type of suspension 
that enabled Bean to outrun and outperform anything else on the road.  
With Bean at the wheel they made the best transport combination money 
could buy.     Skill and hardware of this calibre never comes cheap, of 
course, and Bean charged a minimum of forty thousand dollars a trip for 
getaways and ten thousand for cargo.
  Naturally, anyone who makes a living as a taxi service for criminals is 
bound to earn the enmity of the police almost as fast as cash, and Bean 
had earned it all right.  His relationship with the police was roughly 
akin to that which a owl shares with field voles, always fluttering just 
out of reach before swooping down to snatch at their soft defenceless 
flesh, rending, tearing, and laughing like a drain while driving off, 
tyres screaming, into the night.  
  This particular Friday afternoon saw Bean lying on his back on a sofa, 
his booted feet perched up on the arm and his own arms folded behind his 
head.  He was a big man, pushing two metres tall and wide enough to block 
doorways, with muscles like a sack of anacondas.  A large scar, shaped 
like an 'X', which crossed at the bridge of his nose and framed his deep 
brown eyes, marred his handsome features and stood out like the badge of a 
hardened combat veteran, daring any onlooker to speculate as to the nature 
of the injury that could leave such a blemish.  All round, Bean was the 
very model of the handsome action man.
  He was also very, very bored.  'Hey Rally,' he called out in a deep, 
commanding baritone, 'What have we got on this week?'
  'You already know the answer, Bean,' a lilting female voice replied from 
the next room, 'And that's the third time you've asked me today.  Ask me 
again and I'll just have to shoot you.'
  'I was hoping I'd heard wrong the last two times, you know how I hate 
having nothing to do.'
  'Work on the car.'
  'I've been working on the car all week, if I spent any more time on it 
I'd be able to make it fly.'
  'That would be an advantage,' the voice countered, followed by a barely 
stifled giggle.
  'Hilarious.'  Bean started flicking uninterestedly through a munitions 
catalogue, humming the theme from Bullitt.
  The owner of the other voice wandered through to the living room.  Rally 
was Bean's partner and best friend, contributing to the partnership her 
ace marksmanship and keen mind, often acting as the foil to his dry humour 
and balm for his red hot temper.  Currently she had a slice of bread in 
her mouth, both hands occupied in tying her long blonde hair into a 
ponytail.  She was wearing a smart blue suit, white blouse and black tie, 
an outfit which enclosed a trim figure every bit as well put together as 
Bean's, although he never seemed to notice (she often noted to herself).  
She walked to the sofa and stood over Bean, nudging him with her knee a 
couple of times but failing to elicit any semblance of an intelligent 
reaction.  'Hmph!' was all she had to say to that, as she chewed and 
swallowed the last morsel of bread.  'Ummm...' she hesitated before 
striking a sexy pose against the wall and continuing in her most seductive 
voice, 'Wanna get naked and mess around?'
  'Oh dear,' Bean replied, 'Have you been forgetting to take your 
medication again?'
  Rally frowned and flashed Bean her kicked puppy face, sticking out her 
tongue.  'You don't know what you're missing, you ape,' she mumbled as she 
stepped into her shoes, (a fetchingly incongruous pair of white sneakers - 
this was a woman who liked to be smart but knew what footwear would give 
her the best chance of escaping in a crisis situation).  Casting a final 
glance at her recumbent friend, she headed for the door.  'See you later, 
Bean.  In the event that we actually get a job this afternoon you'll have 
to go play without me.'
  'Mmmmm,' Bean managed, and waved vaguely as Rally shut the door, perhaps 
a little harder then necessary.
  Roughly five minutes later the phone rang.  Bean dragged his body into 
an upright position and lifted the receiver to his stubbly jaw, uttering a 
non-committal grunt to confirm his prescence.
  'Ah, Mr Bean Bandit,' came the voice at the other end, 'We wish to hire 
the Roadbuster for a little, ah, delivery job.'
  'You hire the car, you get me with it,' said Bean. a little testily, 
even though this was the first job he'd been offered in weeks.
  'Ah.  Ah, yes of course, I meant, well...'
  'What exactly is this job?'
  'It's for, ah, Victor Waters.'
  Bean froze.

  Vic Waters, was one of a very small number of people who Bean was wary, 
if not to say afraid of.  Controlling, as he did, a criminal empire far 
larger than any of Chicago's legitimate businesses, it was said that he 
had a finger in every pie and a gunman on every corner.  This was not a 
man you wanted to piss off.  Not if you wanted to wake up with all the 
parts you went to bed with.
  Rumour had it that when Washington gangland boss Benny Marscone had 
publicly defamed him, Benny's capacity for producing little Bennys had 
been effectively terminated less than an hour after he finished speaking.  
It was this kind of instant, ruthless and bloody painful justice that kept 
Waters' many underlings in line and made those who didn't work for him 
very, very reluctant to cross him.
  Now Bean, he knew he was tough, and a bulletproof leather jacket and 
kevlar headband were usually enough to protect against your average 
Chicago gun-toting thug.  Waters... Waters was another matter. Get into 
his bad books and a hundred highly trained homicidal maniacs would be 
after his blood (and his balls) before he could say 'Oh shit I'm gonna 
die!'
  Bean had been made, in every sense of the phrase, an offer he couldn't 
refuse.

  It was a gloriously hot day in Chicago and the sun shone unfiltered 
through a cloudless sky, melting the blacktop into sticky charcoal 
marzipan and reflecting in crimson sparkles off the angles in the 
Roadbuster's bodywork.  Bean leaned against his car and munched on a 
walnut as he watched the black limo pull up a little further along the 
courtyard.  Anxiety had placed something bitter in his mouth, the taste of 
which even his favourite snack couldn't quash.  An ice cold beer would 
have gone down beautifully.
  The disused industrial site, grim and oil stained and inhabited by all 
manner of detritus both animate and not, was of an odd place for an 
ostensibly law-abiding businessman to conduct his affairs.  Waters, 
despite his vast personal militia and involvement in every illegal 
activity you could think of, had managed to distance himself from any 
actual prosecutable behaviour and had in fact had crafted for himself a 
reputation as something of a philanthropist, pouring cash into socially 
redeeming projects like hospitals, orphanages and various judges' pension 
funds.
  Bean knew the truth, of course, and knew it just wouldn't do for Waters 
to be seen hiring the services out an outlaw like the Bean Bandit, who was 
the best at what he did at least partly because he didn't much care who 
was paying the bills.
  A figure climbed out of the limo and looked around.  It wasn't Waters, 
rather one of his bodyguards, dressed in a sharp grey suit and sporting a 
three hundred dollar haircut.  Waters' permanent retinue consisted of 
twenty or so lethal assassins, expert in a dozen martial arts and all 
world class marksmen.  They were also trained to impersonate ordinary 
executives, enabling them to accompany their boss to any number of 
business meetings and mingle invisibly at any number of functions.  This 
was just another way in which Waters maintained his reputation as a man 
not to be trifled with.  Most organised crime bosses at his level liked 
their escorts to be as conspicuous as possible, but Waters knew that the 
most fearsome enemy was the one you couldn't see.  One false word to the 
wrong 'exec' after a few too many martinis could result in the speaker 
waking up the following morning with a serious hearing problem.
  Two other bodyguards followed, one carrying a brown paper parcel under 
his arm, and then Waters himself, exuding coolness and calm as he strode 
toward Bean.  He looked straight ahead, gaze never deviating left or 
right.  His guards were his eyes and he knew they had all angles covered.
  Bean stood up straight, his interest piqued by Waters' personal 
appearance, and swallowed the last few fragments of nut-meat as his 
prospective employer arrived at the Roadbuster, stopping a few feet from 
Bean and smiling, grey suited companions casually looking in all 
directions.
  'Mr Bandit,' Waters began, 'You know who I am and I know who you are, so 
lets get on with business, shall we?'
  'Sure,' Bean replied, 'I...'
  'An old friend of mine is in town,' Waters interrupted, never a man to 
let something as mundane as conversation stall his stride, 'And I wish you 
to deliver something to him.  We both know you're the best courier in 
Chicago, if not the country.  I believe your record is,' Waters smile grew 
slightly,  'Almost perfect.'
  Bean winced.  The one thing he hated more than working for gangsters was 
being reminded of his one failed job, a glaring black mark on his 
otherwise unblemished reputation.
  Waters turned and nodded to the man with the package, who placed it 
carefully on the Roadbuster's bonnet.  Waters then gestured for his guards 
to return to the car, and pausing almost imperceptibly, they obeyed.
  'My friend and one time business associate Francois Pascal is visiting 
the US this week, and I would like you to deliver this...gift to him.  
There is so little excitement in the lives of us businessmen, and I can 
promise he'll get one hell of a surprise when he opens that.  Twenty 
thousand dollars will be delivered to you in twenty-four hours time after 
confirmation of delivery within...' Waters raised a finger and looked at 
his wristwatch, pausing for five seconds before continuing, 'Three hours.'
  Bean's eyebrow raised.
  'Its quite important that you do this, and I shall certainly hear of it 
if you don't.'  Waters smiled broadly, turned, and strode back to his car 
at a slightly faster pace than before.
  Bean watched the limo leave and, after it rounded a corner and moved out 
of sight, he turned and eyed the package.   Business tycoons and their 
ways of disposing of their vast fortunes would never cease to amaze him.  
Twenty thousand dollars to take a small present across town.  
Unbelievable.
  But it paid the bills.

  Half an hour later Bean was not moving.  The Friday afternoon rush hour 
in Chigago was a driver's nightmare even for the Bean Bandit, a virtually 
motionless crocodile of motor vehicles that stretched for miles around the 
heart of the city and drained both fuel tanks and spirits like some kind 
of roaring, smoking vampire.  It was in this tagliatelli car park that our 
protagonist now found himself, the ten finger-sized indentations in the 
Roadbuster's steering wheel indicative of his growing frustration.  He 
really hated traffic jams, hated them with all his heart, hated them with 
a white-hot burning passion that at this very moment was threatening to 
overtake him.
  The more he stared at the battered white Ford in front of him the more 
he felt inclined to get out, punch the window in, drag the driver forth 
and beat him into an interesting shape.  The smug looking moron in the 
hideous puce Oldsmobile in Bean's rear view mirror was dangerously close 
to similar flagellation.  Fortunately for both drivers, who would never 
know how close they came to free (if somewhat radical) cosmetic surgery, 
Rally had surreptitiously swapped Bean's last pot of coffee for 
decaffeinated, and he managed to maintain a tighter rein on his temper 
than usual.
  A bicycle pulled up beside the Roadbuster.  Bean glanced out of the 
corner of his eye and saw that the rider, a pretty young girl, had firmly 
planted her feet and was shaking back her long, coppery hair, face 
upturned to the sun.  Her eyes were closed and Bean took a moment to 
appreciate her physical charms, needing as he did a distraction from his 
growing animosity.  She was wearing a light green T-shirt and daringly 
brief denim cutoffs, white ankle socks and green and white sneakers, all 
of which serving to complement to great effect her sexy figure and 
attractive features.
  The girl opened her eyes (a striking emerald in colour) and, checking 
out the puffing, wheezing train of cars, her eyes lighted on the 
vermillion hotrod by her side, the only one not apparently coated with an 
inch and a half of grime.  She cast her view over the smooth curves of the 
bodywork, the delicate, perfect form of the wheel arches and the brightly 
sparkling chrome of the hubcaps.  That was a car and a half.  Picturing 
herself burning down some desert highway at two hundred miles per hour, 
she smiled to herself.
  After a few moments of this pseudo-mutual admiration her eyes met Bean's 
through the slightly tinted glass of the Roadbuster's side windows and two 
heads rotated rapidly, one blushing furiously and the other fixing on a 
certain Ford and contemplating violence.
  Bean had, in his mind, got as far as bouncing the other driver's head on 
the bonnet of his dilapidated jalopy when there came a tapping on the 
window by his ear.  Tap tap, tap tap, it went, and he tried very hard to 
ignore it, never keen to get talking to strangers when he was on a job.  
It continued unabated, however, and the traffic jam certainly wasn't 
moving, so Bean pressed the button that wound down the window and expected 
the worst.
  'Hiiiya!', a cute female voice sang into his right ear, 'Niiice car!.'
  'Thank you,' Bean unconvincingly gushed, turning to face the 
complementer, 'Is there...oop!', the last being an involuntary sound made 
as he found himself nose to nose with the bicycle girl, who had both hands 
on the top of the car and was leaning in through the window, her bike now 
abandoned to lie like a two wheeled steel wino on the sidewalk.  The girl 
scanned the inside of the car as if she were expecting an exam on sports 
car interiors later in the day, studying and absorbing every detail of the 
dashboard, controls and upholstery.
  'Cooooool,' she enthused, 'Wanna give me a ride, huh?'
  Bean's eyebrow raised.
  'I gotta flat tyre,' she explained, pointing at her injured conveyance 
by way of illustration, 'C'n you take me?'

  It becomes necessary at this juncture to explain that Bean was every bit 
a man.  From head to toe.  A testosterone fueled machine with all the 
drives and desires appropriate to his macho image.  He was also by no 
means chaste, although this would have come as a surprise to his flatmate 
(who had understandably come to think of him as something of a eunuch, to 
put it politely).  To satisfy the reader's inevitable curiosity in as 
tactful a way as possible, it should be said that Bean had no problem 
finding (short term) fulfilment for the aforementioned desires, looking 
the way he did and being so irrepressibly, exhuberently masculine.  Many 
an eventful one night stand littered his colourful past.  He had rules, 
though, and one of those rules concerned getting involved with teenagers, 
an activity which had proved troublesome in the past, and something he 
tried to avoid if at all possible.

  'Whaddya say,' the girl purred coyly into Bean's ear, reaching in to the 
car and brushing a stray strand of hair from his eye, 'Hmmm?'  She had 
leaned right in through the window almost to the waist, her face inches 
from Bean's and the soft bulge of her her cotton covered breast brushing 
against his arm.
  A tiny, red, metaphorical demon appeared on Bean's shoulder and begin 
whispering evil encouragement into his ear, the way those crimson fiends 
so often do.
  'Go on,' it egged in earthy tones, 'This job'll take another hour at 
most.  Take 'er along, make the delivery, then take 'er to a hotel and 
screw 'er 'til 'er eyes change colour.'
  Bean was beginning to ruminate on this when, in accordance with the very 
best of Bugs Bunny, a similarly tiny, similarly metaphorical but this time 
white homunculus with canary wings and a harp appeared on his opposite 
shoulder.  In a voice like nightingales singing the angel furnished Bean 
with its own opinion.
  'You can't seriously be thinking of taking sexual advantage of this 
dear, sweet, innocent child,' it carolled, 'How can you even contemplate 
abusing her soft young body, thrusting your...are you listening to me?'
  Bean was staring into space, a rather dreamy look in his eyes.
  'Goddamn pervert,' muttered the ivory clad one, and vanished in a puff 
of (metaphorical) smoke.  The devil, too, disappeared, cackling as it 
faded from metaphorical view.
  '...just like it.  So maybe we could...y'know?' the girl finished, 
having been speaking the whole time that Bean had been recieving counsel 
from metaphors.  'Helloooo?  Still with me, stud?', she asked, patting 
Bean's head playfully, 'We gonna do this, huh?'
  Before Bean could respond, the Ford which had been the cause of so much 
hostile thought roared into life and began to move forward.  The near 
deafening thunder of a hundred cars noticing the break in the gridlock and 
powering up their dirtmobiles filled Bean's ears, and he instinctively 
pressed his own foot down on the Roadbuster's throttle.
  'My name's Sammy, I...yow!'  Sammy leapt back, startled by the sudden 
noise from the car, tripped over her feet and landed with a thud on her 
denim-covered (and oh so shapely) behind.  'Oww!' she said, and stared at 
Bean with wide eyes.  She blinked twice.
  'Sorry kid,' said Bean with a shrug, 'Maybe some other time.'  He gunned 
the Roadbuster's powerful engine and took off with a squeal of vulcanised 
rubber on tarmac, catching up with the advancing line of cars like a 
school kid left behind by a group of friends and leaving behind a faint 
trail of exhaust which, if it was possible for fumes to display emotion, 
looked slightly relieved.
  Sammy clambered to her feet and rubbed her aching right buttock, 
directing an evil glare at the rapidly retreating back end of the car that 
had so caught her attention.  Picking up her damaged bike, she put her 
free hand firmly on her hip and looked ahead along the road she would now 
be walking.
  'Ohhh fuck!' she said.

  Now moving at a steady pace, if not actually a fast one, Bean breathed a 
sigh of relief to be once again whisked from the face of temptation by the 
Roadbuster's speedy wheels.  Checking the time - two hours to go - he 
relaxed, knowing he was well on the way to completing his job with plenty 
of time to spare, despite having come through the worst traffic jam in 
living memory.      At last there was a perceivable gap between the 
bumpers of the cars and Bean was comfortable that he was travelling with 
more than sufficient speed to get where he was going without encountering 
any more cycling sex kittens or motionless tailbacks.
  His mind unfettered by conversation or speedy corner negotiation, Bean 
started thinking about his current assignment.  Just why would a top 
gangster like Waters hire him to take a gift across town, and why would he 
set such a strict deadline?  Contraband?  Almost certainly.  Perishable 
foodstuffs, perhaps?  After all, there were very few gifts that would go 
off in less than three hours.
  Go off.
  Why did those words stick in his mind?
  He reached down to switch on the radio, and hearing the beginning of a 
news report, started to turn the dial, hoping to find something with a bit 
more rock 'n' roll to it.  Something stayed his hand, however, a familiar 
name spoken by the good humoured voice reading the news.
  'Francois Pascal, one of France's most esteemed businessmen, is in 
Chicago this week to personally supervise the opening of his new hotel in 
the city.  The Chicago 'Pascal' will be the two hundredth building to bear 
his name, and the opening party looks set to break records.  City 
officials have expressed surprise that Pascal should be visiting the home 
of fellow businessman Victor Waters so soon after defaming him on French 
television.  Pascal described Waters as 'a charlatan' and denounced his 
business methods as 'laughably naive and pitiably inefficient'.  A public 
clash between the two is anticipated.'
  Flipping the channel to something more musical, Bean pondered this 
bulletin.  Pascal offended Waters, and publicly, no less.  Usually, anyone 
who did that would end up dead or worse. They wouldn't, as a rule, receive 
a nice little present.  So why should Waters be sending a gift at all?  'I 
can promise he'll get a hell of a surprise when he opens that,' Waters had 
said. What could he have meant by...  Oh shit.
  At that moment Bean knew, with crystal clarity and without a shadow of a 
doubt that the parcel he was transporting across Chicago was a bomb, a 
bomb designed to detonate when opened or within three hours, whichever 
came first.  He became, unsurprisingly, very, very nervous.  What had been 
just another courier job, albeit for an unusual customer, had just turned 
into something far more deadly.  The race against time was now more than 
just a matter of convenience, it was a matter of life and death.  
Specifically, Bean's life and death, which made it quite imperative that 
he get the delivery made and to a safe distance well within the three hour 
time limit.
  But such thoughts were needlessly unsettling, as Bean was sure, 
absolutely sure, that he would have no problem at all meeting his 
deadline.  He settled down to drive, trying not to look at his cargo, 
which he felt was looking back at him, fixing him with a malevolent gaze.  
Bean knew he would be safe.
  Pascal, on the other hand, would just have to take his chances.

  After a time of slow but steady travel, Bean started to feel edgy again.  
Something was nagging at the back of his head.  His eyes drifted across 
the dashboard and back to the road ahead, then back to the dashboard.  
Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite make the connection.  Something 
in the display caught his attention.
  Gas.
  He was completely, utterly out of gas.
  In the heady confusion after Bean's deadly realisation, he had forgotten 
the draining effect that sitting in traffic jams had on a huge engine like 
the Roadbuster's.  Brought to the brink of his temper once more, Bean was 
just about to bash his head against the steering wheel when he noticed a 
gas station ahead.    'My lucky day,' he muttered.

  'Just fill 'er up with five star pal,' said Bean gruffly, leaning his 
elbow on the window frame. He noticed the cheerful smile of the gas 
station attendant and added, 'And spare me the enlightening pleasure of 
your conversation.'
  The young man's smile faltered briefly but he recovered in short order 
and continued grinning as he unhooked the pump to serve the ultra-
expensive high grade fuel.  He was used to surly customers and it was a 
sunny day, after all.  He pulled the trigger and cool, volatile fluid 
poured noisily into the tank of the souped-up supercar which, even with 
the engine off, seemed to be purring.
  Bean looked at his watch - one hour - and searched his pockets for a 
handkerchief with which to wipe a trickle of nervous sweat from his brow, 
which was perspiring far more than it ought to have been, even on a 
glorious day such as this one.  Andy, for that was the attendant's name, 
noticed Bean's tension (how could he not?) and leaned in close, causing 
Bean to pull his head back sharply and lift his elbow from the frame, 
making room for Andy to cross his arms in the opening and lean in with 
uncomfortable familiarity.  Grinning a winning grin and winking, the young 
man eyed Bean with mock suspicion and whispered 'Hey, guy, you look kinda 
shook up.  Wassup?'
  'Nothing.  Forget it,' muttered Bean, fingers itching to press the 
button that would send the window shooting up, hopefully to catch the 
precocious lad's own digits and provide some small measure of revenge for 
this invasion of his privacy.
  'Aw, c'mon buddy, a problem shared is a problem ha...'
  'Do you do this to everyone who comes in here?' asked Bean.
  'Nah, I just like the look of you.'  Andy noticed the package sitting on 
the passenger seat and Bean realised there was no shutting him up now.  'I 
bet that's what's got you sweatin'.  Whatcha got there, a bomb?'
  BOMB!
  The word echoed around Bean's head like a gunshot in a canyon before he 
was brought suddenly back to Earth and stared at his watch as if it were a 
dancing goblin suddenly materialised on his wrist.  'I have to go!' he 
yelled, starting the engine,  'And get the fuck outta my car!' he spat 
into the face of Andy, who knew an implied threat of physical violence 
when he heard one and took two generous steps back.
  An angry man, but still an honest one (in his own way), Bean tossed the 
shaken boy a hundred and yelled 'Keep the change!' as he sped off, wheels 
screeching and leaving nasty black trails on the gas station's recently 
resurfaced forecourt.
  Andy watched the red sports car disappear and tipped his head to look at 
the glistening streaks of rubber as they melted into the white concrete.  
He sighed and scratched his head.
  'Geez, I dunno,' he said to no one in particular, 'You try to be 
friendly once in a while and what do you get?'  He smiled to himself, 
enjoying a private joke, and whistled an indeterminate tune as he strolled 
off to get a wire brush and some strong detergent.

  Bean slammed his head against the steering wheel, adding another mark to 
the finger dents already marring its surface.  He was static again.  He 
withdrew all thoughts that the last jam had been the worst he'd seen, and 
directed his renewed enmity at the inanimate train of automobiles he was 
now parked in.
  Ten minutes of absolute non-motion drove Bean to climb out and take a 
look ahead, little believing that normal traffic could be quite so 
immobile.  His suspicions were confirmed when he saw that the station 
wagon in front was empty and the car in ahead of that had run off the road 
and into a fire hydrant, putting a bit of a dimple in the front end.  A 
dimple about the depth and breadth of a medium sized cow.  Although he 
could taste the bile rising in his throat, Bean took great satisfaction in 
the realisation that this was the same beat-up white Ford that he had 
shortly before harbored such rancour against.
  This knowledge provided a little comfort but no solution to Bean's 
situation.  The woman who had been driving the station wagon had got out 
to help the driver of the Ford, who was nursing a minor head injury and 
throwing a major tantrum.  His apoplectic tyrade consisted mainly of 
colourful language describing whoever placed the hydrant in its current 
location, as if they should somehow have accounted for his neligible 
driving skills in the design of municipal accessories.  The poor woman was 
trying to calm him down and Bean headed back to his own vehicle before he 
could get involved.
  Perched on the Roadbuster's bonnet was a strange figure indeed.  Dressed 
in black dungarees, the young man wore nothing else but tiny round gold 
rimmed glasses and mucky army surplus boots.  His hair was something truly 
spectacular, a dirty blond explosion of fronds that stuck out in all 
directions and framed his face like the halo of a fallen angel.  He looked 
like nothing so much as a cartoon version of John Lennon that had run into 
a brick wall.
  He had a bucket in one hand and in the other, a dripping sponge, which 
he was using to 'wash' the Roadbuster's windshield, an exercise which was, 
without a doubt, doing more harm than good.  Dirty brown circles were 
rapidly painted onto the bulletproof glass by the animated ragdoll of a 
man who was grinning as if he were putting the finishing touches to the 
new Mona Lisa.
  Bean hesitated, scarcely believing his own eyes, before screaming, 'What 
the HELL are you doing on my car!?'
  The youth turned and flashed Bean a gaptoothed grin before returning to 
his enthusiastic defacing.  Bean stood, mouth agape, while the fellow 
finished his self-appointed task, turned and sat smirking on the 
Roadbuster's hood.  Reaching out a grubby hand he said, in a bizarre and 
unplacable accent, 'Windshield done.  Gotta be worth a dollar, your 
honour.'
  Bean, without a word, took out his wallet and withdrew a five dollar 
bill, which he handed to the man, who slipped it into his least filthy 
pocket and beamed brightly.  He didn't get off the car.  This, with 
hindsight, was probably a serious mistake.
  The owner of the sullied auto had reached the end of his already 
streched tether, and, still speechless, he covered the few steps to the 
car with solid, measured strides.  The crazy haired individual's smile 
faltered, and his face took on the look of someone who had climbed into a 
lion enclosure, forgetting too late that he was wearing a commendably 
realistic gazelle costume.
  Bean picked up the bonnet sitter, whose name, incidentally, was 
Sebastian, and hoisted him effortlessly over his head.  Carrying the 
struggling youth bodily up the sidewalk, he began to feel his mood lighten 
slightly, though by no means was he finished with this one.  He dumped his 
wriggling victim into a trash filled dumpster and, still silent, brushed 
his hands together and headed back to the car.
  Sebastian hung over the edge of the dumpster and peeled off a rotting 
banana skin that was stuck to his face.  He patted the pocket with the 
money and, having made more money in five minutes that he usually earned 
in a day, settled down for a nap.

  Bean got back into the Roadbuster and looked at his watch.  He was glad 
of his talent for bladder control when he saw that he had less than 
fifteen minutes to deliver his destructive payload.  The lane to his left 
was packed solid with cars, and the crashed Ford was completely blocking 
his own lane.  There was no choice, he'd have to do it the hard way.
  Slamming his foot down on the gas and wrenching the steering wheel, he 
drove up onto the sidewalk and accelerated, sending pedestrians scattering 
and bashing litter bins out of the way, causing clouds of crisp packets 
and empty cans to fly in all directions.  As he thundered past the two 
cars that had been obstructing him, two more moved in to fill the gap that 
he had been aiming for himself.  No problem, just another few yards and 
he'd be in.  At least he would have been if the previously empty lane 
hadn't suddenly, inexplicably, but somehow predictably become full.
  Bean was now stuck, hurtling down the sidewalk, passers-by panicking and 
throwing themselves into doorways to avoid his smoking wheels.  He spotted 
a small worksite ahead, where a couple of half-naked labourers were 
working on a power line.  A pair of helpfully placed planks gave Bean an 
idea and he twisted the wheel again, aiming his speeding vehicle at the 
two angled strips of wood.  The wheels of the Roadbuster hit the planks 
and the car started to rise, cast into the air by it's momentum.  For a 
moment it hung there, glinting in the sunlight like some giant baby's 
mobile, before landing with a metallic thud on the roof of one of the cars 
in the queue.  Bean caught a flash of puce beneath him as he applied 
maximum force to the pedal and send his car shooting forward from the roof 
of the Oldsmobile to the next car, and thence to the next, and the next.  
He was jumping from roof to roof in a bizarre, high-powered automobile 
ballet which was at least carrying him forward at some rate.  Behind him, 
drivers were getting out of their dented vehicles and hurling abuse in his 
direction, but he was moving away too fast to hear them.
  After a few moments he reached a junction, and the road ahead was clear.  
Bean said a brief prayer and threw the Roadbuster across the gap, narrowly 
missing a speeding taxi and landing somewhat ungracefully on the road.  
Seeing his ultimate destination a little way ahead, he gave the engine 
every bit of juice he could and burned rubber.

  Bean slammed his foot down hard on the brakes and the Roadbuster ground 
to a halt in front of the Pascal Hotel's main entrance.  Snatching a quick 
glance at his watch - five minutes to go - Bean scooped up the package and 
ran into the lobby, eyes frantically scanning the room for someone he 
could foist his explosive burden onto.  Placing the parcel gingerly on the 
reception desk, he leaned over as far as he could and said to the young 
woman typing away obliviously at her computer, 'I've got a delivery for 
your boss, I'll just leave it here OK?'
  The woman jumped and stammered,'Ah...um...just let me check.'
  Bean tapped his fingers on the counter and sweated as she laboriously 
pressed the buttons on her internal phone.  It seemed like weeks elapsed 
before someone finally picked up at the other end.
  'Hello?' the obviously inexperienced receptionist mumbled into the 
receiver, 'Um...I have a delivery for...yes...um...big guy in 
leather....yeah...uhuh...uhuh...well he looks sorta 
*whisperwhisper*...uhuh...OK.'  Turning back to Bean, who had made four 
small dents in the polished wood surface of the desk, she enunciated, 'Mr 
Pascal will see you in his office, sir, if you would just like to wait 
here for a moment someone will arrive to show you through.'
  'Uh, is that absolutely necessary?  I could just leave it here and...'
  'Mr Pascal,' the woman, who was new in her job and obviously determined 
to do things by the book, repeated through clenched teeth, 'Will see you 
in his office, SIR.'
  'How long have you worked here, sweetie?' asked Bean, glancing in the 
direction of the two black suited, sunglass wearing heavies who were 
crossing the lobby toward him, exhibiting that distinctive swagger of 
trained thugs trying to look sophisticated and menacing at the same time.  
They looked like nothing so much as the Blues Brothers after six months in 
a well equipped gym and a course of steroids.
  'Um...two weeks sir.'
  'I suggest you hand in your notice in the next...uh...three minutes.  
This place isn't safe.'
  Nikki the new desk clerk saw something in the courier's eyes that made 
her believe without question that it would be in her best interest to be 
out of the building as quickly as possible.   Before she could answer, 
though, something behind Bean caught her eye and it was all she could do 
to point just past his right ear and gibber,'Um...um...'
  A hand like a cleverly carved side of beef slapped down on Bean's 
shoulder and a voice as deep as a quarry and more full of gravel said, 
'Pick up the package and come with us.'
  For a very brief moment, Bean considered making a run for it, but he had 
a very good idea who would win a race between a man and a bullet, and 
besides, another black clad figure had moved to guard the main doors.  He 
was cracking his knuckles and looked fully prepared to bestow considerable 
damage on anyone or anything that tried to pass him.
  Stealing a furtive look at the time - two and a half minutes - Bean 
scooped up the malevolent bundle and followed the two giants toward the 
ornate double doors on the far side of the fantastically plush entrance 
hall.

  Nikki watched the bulky trio stride away and made her decision, stuffing 
a couple of personal items into her handbag and, without further ado, 
walking at her fastest pace in the direction of the street.  As she passed 
the beshaded doorman, she paused and, having to bend her neck up at quite 
an angle, said to him, 'Bye bye Keith.'
  'Bye Nikki, you quittin'?'
  'Yeah.'
  'OK.'

  Bean turned back as he arrived at the doors to see Nikki scuttle out 
through the main doors and down the sidewalk, the thug on guard turning to 
watch her leave.  'Nothing much I can do for these other folk,' he 
thought, 'The best I can do is to get myself out of this mess intact.'
  The impressively carved double doors were pushed inwards by the two 
heavies, each holding a door with one hand and one of Bean's shoulders 
with the other.  Bean was firmly pushed through, his momentum carrying him 
across the office, brown paper parcel held out at arms length.
  To say the office was large would be to do a great disservice to the 
architects and interior designers who had been paid embarrassing 
quantities of money to make the room look as much like a cathedral for the 
god of art deco as possible.  Statues, paintings and bookcases filled most 
of the considerable space, the only furniture being a oversized red 
leather sofa, two equally leathery chairs and a desk that could have 
accommodated a small dance contest.
  Sitting across the mahogany expanse was the diminutive but weighty 
figure of Francois Pascal, businessman, entrepreneur, multi millionaire.  
Having made a lucky investment in a Paris based company that had invented 
a revolutionary new kind of car suspension, he'd gone on to own one of the 
largest hotel chains in the world, spanning thirty countries and more 
staff than you could shake a paycheck at.  Minus one, of course.
  'Ahhhhhh,' he said, in a oily continental tycoon kind of way, 'Monsieur 
Haricot! Ha ha ha!'  Obviously enjoying his own little joke enormously, 
Pascal shuddered with laughter for a moment before falling silent, his 
face taking on a more serious aspect.  'I understand you have a delivery 
for me..?'
  'Yeah,' Bean replied, placing his cargo on the desk as close to Pascal 
and as far from himself as possible, 'There it is.  I'll be off then.'
  'Wait a moment, yes?  I may wish to sent a reply.  It would be 
terribly...rude of me not to thank my benefactor for his gift, yes?'
  'Heyyyy...then why not think about it and give me a call, huh?'  With 
less than a minute to get to a safe distance, Bean tried to edge toward 
the door but felt his back come into contact with what felt like a steel 
girder with knuckles.
  'You look nervous, Haricot, do my...men...bother you, yes?  Do wait 
outside boys, our delivery boy is obviously intimidated by men larger than 
himself, and there can't be many of them, yes?  Ha ha ha ha!'  Pascal's 
sides rocked with mirth once more as he reached out to pull to him the 
package, which he started unwrapping with the deliberate care of a man who 
never wastes wrapping paper by tearing it.  Removing the brown paper from 
the white cardboard box, he folded it neatly and placed it on the table 
top, savouring the moment before opening the delivery.
  Bean wiped enough sweat from his forehead to thoroughly soak his sleeve 
and eyed the large window in the far wall.  He could certainly make the 
distance, and certainly throw himself through with nothing more than a 
couple of bruises, but whether he could get far enough to evade an 
explosion or, for that matter, the small arms fire of the hordes of 
Pascal's agents who would be after him with a vengeance if they thought he 
was responsible for turning their boss into pat flavoured wallpaper, was 
another matter.  He'd just have to stay put and hope it wasn't too big a 
bomb.
  Pascal removed a piece of tape that was holding down the lid of the box 
and, glancing up at Bean with one eyebrow raised, he pressed a button on 
his desk intercom, 'Bonnie, could you bring in a glass of water, my guest 
looks a little ill, yes?.'  Looking at Bean again, he toughened his tone a 
little.  'For goodness' sake sit down man, before you pass out, yes?'
  Bean slid uncomfortably into the red leather armchair in front of him, 
placing himself a metre or so nearer to Pascal and hence almost on top of 
any blast from the desk area.
  Pascal's secretary entered, put a small glass of water on the desk and 
exited.
  Pascal popped the two small flaps at the top of the box...
  Bean threw his arms over his head and dropped to his knees, letting out 
a cry - small, but still highly embarrassing were he to be reminded of it 
at a later date...
  Pascal opened the box...
  ...and withdrew from it a small, ridiculously fluffy white rabbit doll.  
He pulled a short string that extended from its back and in a voice like 
Bugs Bunny on amphetamines it sang: 'Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday 
to you, Happy Birthday dear Paskie, Happy Birthday to you.'  Pascal 
laughed uproariously and placed the bunny on his desk, patting its head 
while he turned to Bean and smiled so broadly that Bean thought the top of 
his head was about to fall off.  In fact, with the mood he was in, and if 
it wasn't for the threat of retribution from a thousand thugs, he might 
have tried see if it was possible.
  Pascal caught sight of Bean crouching on the floor, bulletproof jacket 
pulled over head, and his eyes widened.  'Sacre merde!  What on Earth are 
you doing man, vous tes absolument fou!  Why are you so afraid of 
a...ahhhh, je sais, je sais, you thought this was...Aha ha ha ha ha ha!'  
At this, Pascal laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.  'How 
deliciously ironic, yes?'
  Bean picked himself up and sat, fuming, in the chair, making every 
effort to regain his composure so as not to rip important parts off M. 
Pascal when next he spoke.
  'M. Haricot,' oiled 'Paskie', 'My dear old friend clearly has not lost 
his sense of humour since last we spoke, although his attempts to win back 
my favour are to no avail, yes?  However, we do share a birthday, and your 
presence here is...fortuitous.'  Utilising the intercom once again, Pascal 
said only three words into the machine, 'Bring it in.'
  One of the suited thugs re-entered the room carrying a parcel very 
similar to the one Bean had just delivered, only this one was wrapped in 
bright, gaudy gift wrapping paper and was slightly larger.  Placing it on 
the desk in front of Bean he withdrew and Pascal tapped the rabbit with a 
pen.  'Ten thousand dollars on confirmation of delivery, M. Bean Bandit.  
Take this...gift to my old friend Mr Waters, with my compliments.'
  It had been one hell of a bad day, and all Bean wanted to do was go 
home, shout at Rally for a bit, and sleep for eighteen hours.  But...ten 
thousand bucks is a lot of money and besides, he had a reputation to 
protect.  'Sure,' he said, 'Consider it done.'

  Bean placed the new package on the passenger seat and strapped himself 
in.  He thought briefly about Nikki, but decided she was better off not 
working for that creep anyway.  As he pulled away into traffic, however, 
he couldn't get a certain line of Pascal's out of his head - 'How 
deliciously ironic, yes?', the annoying Frenchman had said.  What could he 
have meant by...
  Oh dear.
  Bean felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck and he looked 
at the parcel on the seat beside him.  He was sure it was ticking.

THE END


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