Therin Thunderfoot
Part Native American, part continental Indian, a massive cricket fan and lover of all things aquatic. (Can you see where I'm going with this? No? Then I'll continue ...)
Press interest in Mr Thunderfoot's life and works was attracted by his rescue and rehabilitation of a little black moor that had been swallowed whole by a great white (fresh-water) shark, which in turn had been snagged in nets off Hong Kong by a fishing boat which had been accidentally sunk by an American gunboat out practicing and whose wreckage washed ashore on the secret island for trained assassins where Nemesis O Brien often hung out between assassinations.
Indeed it was Mr O Brien who actually rescued the little fish from the gullet of the great white which, snagged and trapped by the nets, had been unable to escape back to its natural habitat.
Therin, on a quest for the ideal practice nets for his cricketing chums, had heard of the wrecking of the fishing boat and programmed data into his GPS to locate it. But since when did a GPS ever get anything right? Well, at least once, if this story is ever going to end. For, 'tis a known truth, that Therin found the secret island and discovered the complete uselessness of a fishing net as a practice net. He did, however, offer some advice to Nemesis as to what he should do with his rescued black moor, but Nemesis declined.
"You must say you rescued it, Terin," Nemesis insisted. "The fame and fortune are useless to me."
So it was that on the cover of that week's Fish Weekly, the picture of Roger (the black Moor, you see) appeared.
Several days now pass and Nemesis is beginning to miss his fishy pal. "I rescued him from oblivion," he thinks to himself, "how can I abandon him to be feted around the world and showered with praise for surviving the intestinal mechanics of a (freshwater) Great White? I must," he decides, "bring him home again."
It is around now that (wheew, I'm getting there, I promise) It is around now that Nemesis received a call from a nervous little man named Harbringer.
"My wife," he said, "my dispicable, murderous wife ... I must have your services to help me dispose of her."
Dr Harbringer had overheard his wife, loquatious when drunk, bragging of her Slaughter of the Innocent Carp, with members of her sewing circle. On hearing this, the doctor began to fear for the survival of his own goldfish, Bubbles Rossiter. (You must see where this is going by now!)
"Okay," said Nemesis, "let me just pick up my black moor first."
Nemesis, Dr Harbinger and Roger, the black moor (lovin' that joke) flew back together, two holding thoughts of murder in their minds, the third holding the last five seconds "Ohh, nice. I wonder what's over here. Ohh, nice. I wonder what's over here ..."
Okay, I can have the plane crash now and the story will be over OR Nemesis can do away with Dr Harbringer's horrid wife and, seeing how Bubbles is pining for a bowl mate, donates Roger saying, "My life is no life for a black moor" and shedding a tear or two.
Bubbles is over the moon and wraps her flippers around Roger's neck thanking all the fish Gods for rewarding her faithfulness, and Roger kisses her saying, "Ohh, nice. I wonder what's over here ..."
Men!
Mandy Flymo