Shadow Vault Website

Jim Pond & The Agents Of F.A.R.T. by David Whyld

I was just indulging in a little probing of the delectable Russian agent sent to kill me when the call came through. That it came through the Pondphone (which glows bright green and emits a sound when ringing not unlike a swan farting) somewhat ruined the mood of the proceedings and Anoushka - after cursing me for a "feelthy Britisher scum!" - promptly got dressed and departed my flat.
...press a key...

Dejected, I answered the Pondphone.
The call, unsurprisingly, was from P.
"Report to the office at once, Pond," he ordered, his fleshy jowls bouncing around his face like he had a couple of alsatians vying for dominance in there. "I have a little… job for you."
Knowing there was no point in arguing - P pays my wages after all and would send his rottweilers after me if I didn't do what he said - I dressed and was at the office three hours later, pausing only once on the way to drive my car through a market stall on screeching wheels (pays to keep my hand in).
...press a key...

P's office is the sort of large, hideously extravagant thing that I've always felt should be shot, strangled and buried at the bottom of the sea in a steel coffin with extra bolts driven into the lid for good measure. That my bedroom was partially modeled on it is just pure coincidence.
P was awaiting me behind his desk. To this day I have never seen him leave that desk or even stand. I suspect he might well have been born growing out of the desk and that, were I to suddenly push the desk to one side, P would be thrown aside as well. It's certainly something to bear in mind.
"I got here as fast as I could, P," I said. "What's the problem?"
"The problem, Pond," said P, "is that our best agent has been killed and we're in a bit of a crisis."
"I thought I was your best agent," I said a little tetchily.
P shrugged. "Whatever. The point is, 00000000001 has been killed and we need to find out why. He was investigating a ruthless gang of bank robbers who we believe have ties to the terrorist organisation known as F.A.R.T."
I gasped. "The Federation of American Redneck Terrorists!"
...press a key...
P nodded. "None other. What we don't know is what 00000000001 had discovered before he was found face down in the local sewer with a bazooka hole in his head and 132 bullet holes in his back. So I propose sending you in to infiltrate the bank robbers and see what you can find."
I frowned. "But won't the robbers be suspicious of another new member infiltrating the group right after they murdered poor 00000000001?"
"Perhaps. But it's a risk we're prepared to take."
"Hang on!" I protested. "It's not a risk I'm prepared-"
"Meeting ended, 00000000365."
Before I could do anything, P pressed a button on his desk and a hole in the floor opened beneath me, plunging me down what seemed like half a mile to the underground parking lot of the spy organisation.
...press a key...
I'm standing by my car in a parking lot which is both murky and far too large. As there are only three people who park here - myself, P and P's secretary, Mrs Assywassy - a parking lot the size of a football stadium is just a bit of overkill.
I find the following exits available to me: in (to my car) and north (to a more interesting bit of the parking lot).

> i
I am wearing a badge, and I am carrying some loose change, my gun (unloaded) and the mission folder.

> read mission folder
Ah! It seems Mrs Assywassy has helpfully divided it into three main sections for each of use:

Mission Overview

General Advice

Things To Try

I'd be better off reading the sections by themselves instead of trying to tackle the entire thing in one go.

> read mission overview
"Infiltrate the vicious gang of bank robbers. We believe they operate from a warehouse down by the docks but that a Mr Orinoko - strongly believed to be a member of the gang - has an office in Picador Lane. Once you have the robbers' trust, proceed at once to gain as much evidence as possible about F.A.R.T. then report to headquarters with your findings."

> n
I move north.
This bit of the parking lot isn't really any more interesting than the other bit but there is a vending machine here which dispenses cans of coke so it's not a complete loss. There's also a door here but as might be expected in a game like this it's annoyingly locked and unless I'm very much mistaken the key to it won't be anywhere near to where I am.
I find the following exits available to me: south (back to my car).

> x vending machine
It's one of those ancient, antiquated models which looks a bit like Doctor Who's Tardis. They're pretty much guaranteed to take away whatever coins you insert into them without giving you anything back for your trouble. A sign on the side informs me that the machine only dispenses cans of coke and only accepts 17p coins. A small slot in the side is obviously where the coins are inserted.

> insert 17p coin
I do and the coin disappears from view. I wait, half expecting to receive nothing at all for my trouble but, surprisingly enough, a can of coke shoots from the vending machine and halfway across the parking lot before eventually smashing into my car with enough force to fell an ox.
Well, at least I got my drink.

> s
I move south.
I'm standing by my car in a parking lot which is both murky and far too large. As there are only three people who park here - myself, P and P's secretary, Mrs Assywassy - a parking lot the size of a football stadium is just a bit of overkill.
I find the following exits available to me: in (to my car) and north (to a more interesting bit of the parking lot). Also here is a can of coke.

> get can of coke
I take the can of coke.

> in
I enter my car.

The interior of my car differs from the exterior only that it's inside as opposed to outside. It's pretty gloomy in here as none of the lights work properly and it was also felt that a spy driving around in a well lit car might be too conspicuous.
The dash is a hideously complicated array of dials, buttons, knobs, switches and panels - I'm not really sure what it is any of them do but when I get a few spare hours I'm tempted to have a bash at figuring them out. The only things that interest me right now are the steering wheel and the ignition slot next to it.
I find the following exits available to me: out.

> push knobs
I push one of the knobs experimentally - and out of a secret compartment pops my key!

> get key
I take my key.

> drive car
I slam the key into the ignition and go tearing off out of the parking lot. There's a barrier blocking the way out but I don't let that bother me - a simple accelerator-to-the-floor manoeuvre and I'm through. Ignoring the frustrated cries of the barrier attendant, I drive up out of the parking lot to…

Where exactly am I driving off to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane

> 2
Tearing off across town, I execute several short cuts I know and, twenty minutes later, come to a screeching halt in Picador Lane. After allowing the window cleaner to climb down off my bonnet, I study my surroundings and wonder what to do next.

> out
I exit my car.

This is the heart of the city's financial district and almost everyone I can see for miles around looks to be wearing a smart business suit and shades. Clad in my Bahamas beach-ware I'm a little out of place.
I look around for the entrance to the building where Mr Orinoko works and catch sight of it to the west. Nothing else of interest springs to mind although the strip den on the corner is at least… appealing.
I find the following exits available to me: west (to the building), northeast (to the strip den) and in (to my car).

> w
I move west.

The lobby looks like a bomb went off in here although why anyone would choose to bomb such a dump I can't imagine. There are several doors on the north wall but only one of them looks like it's still in use. A sign attached to it draws my attention.
I find the following exits available to me: north (through the door) and east (to Picador Lane).

As I step into the building, I hear the sounds of fighting coming from the north.

> n
I move north.

From the overturned chairs and desks and smashed filing cabinets, I'd guess there has been a pretty big fight in here recently. A telephone buried under a pile of files is ringing to itself. The western part of the office is occupied by a large table on top of which is a detailed map of a bank vault. Behind this table, taking up most of the west wall, is a window with a rather large hole in the centre.
I find the following exits available to me: south (to the lobby). Orinoko is here. Bulgaria is here, a knife clutched in his hand.

I see a couple of men here, both oriental in appearance, struggling by the far wall.
The moment I step into the room, the two battling men pull apart. One of them glances at me and cries, "help!" while the other grabs a knife from his pocket and presses it against the head of the first.
"Don't make any sudden moves!" the man with the knife snarls.
"Don't do this, Bulgaria!" the man with the knife pressed against his neck cries. "You don't want to-"
"Quiet, Orinoko!" says Bulgaria. "You do what I say and you won't get hurt." He considers this and amends it to, "well, you will get hurt 'cos I was sent here to kill you but if you cause me trouble things'll go a lot worse for you."
"A lot worse than death?" I ask, quite caught up by their wordplay.
Bulgaria glances at me. "Back off, buster, if you don't want your friend here to have another hole in his head. You step back into the lobby and wait."
"No-oooooooo!" cries Orinoko. "Don't leave me! He'll kill me the mom-"
Bulgaria shakes him a little till he shuts up. "Do it, buster. Go into the lobby or-" He smiles and waves the knife in front of Orinoko's face "-or he gets it."

> throw can at bulgaria
Knowing that even a hired killer like Bulgaria won't expect a can being thrown at him in a situation like this, I pitch the can of coke at him. Sure enough, it takes him by surprise and clonks him a solid blow right in the middle of his head. He staggers back, crashes against the broken window and then falls through. I rush over in time to see him land on the ground, spring to his feet as if unharmed and go rushing off. I consider chasing him but reason that he already has a massive lead over me and I'd never catch him. Instead I turn back to Orinoko.
"Thank-ee for saving me, kind sir secret agent," he cries, throwing his arms around me in a manner that, if I were in any way homophobic and not the paragon of kindness and consideration that I am, would find really distasteful. As it is I endure his thanks with gritted teeth and a fervent desire for a damn good shower at the first opportunity.
"I need some questions answering, Orinoko," I say.
"Ask your questions, kind sir secret agent," says Orinoko, alternatively kissing my fingers and bowing to me. "You saved my life and now I am your servant forever!"

1: "Why was that man trying to kill you?"
2: "What do you know about a ruthless gang of bank robbers?"
3: "Tell me everything you know about F.A.R.T."
4: "Are you really my servant for life? Hmmm. That's an interesting idea…"

> 3
Orinoko shudders. "Oh, they are evil are the people from F.A.R.T. They have no morals of any kind and would kill a poor old Chinese man given half the chance. Robbing banks for profit is one thing but F.A.R.T…." He shakes his head. "They are evil and twisted through and through."

1: "I need to gather information to stop F.A.R.T. Can you help me, Orinoko?"

> 1
Orinoko shudders again. "It will mean certain death for me if I help you out and no doubt my reward will be nothing at all but…" He straightens. "I shall help you, kind sir secret agent. You saved my life, it is the least I can do. Lead the way and I shall do all that I can to assist you."
I seem to have gained an ally.

> look under desk
I peer under and find - a single bullet!
Knowing this will undoubtedly come in handy the next time I plan on shooting someone, I slip it into my gun.

> x table
Atop this table is a detailed map of what appears to be a bank vault. A-ha! Pretty damning evidence of Orinoko's involvement with the bank robbers - if I needed evidence.

> x map
It looks to be the bank on Percy Street. This must be where the bank robbers are planning to strike next.

> s
I move south.
The lobby looks like a bomb went off in here although why anyone would choose to bomb such a dump I can't imagine. There are several doors on the north wall but only one of them looks like it's still in use. A sign attached to it draws my attention.
I find the following exits available to me: north (through the door) and east (to Picador Lane). Orinoko enters from the north.

> e
I move east.
This is the heart of the city's financial district and almost everyone I can see for miles around looks to be wearing a smart business suit and shades. Clad in my Bahamas beach-ware I'm a little out of place.
I look around for the entrance to the building where Mr Orinoko works and catch sight of it to the west. Nothing else of interest springs to mind although the strip den on the corner is at least… appealing.
I find the following exits available to me: west (to the building), northeast (to the strip den) and in (to my car). Orinoko enters from the west.

> drive car
Where to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane
3) Percy Street

> 1
As we pull up at the docks, Orinoko glances out of the car window and sighs. "Ah, seldom have I seen such filth and decadence in one place. Why have you brought me here?"
I tell him.
"No idea, you're just clutching at straws?" He muses on this. "Is a good plan. Let us proceed."

> out
I exit my car.

I've been to the docks before and as with every sleazy dump I've acquainted they never change. The same lowlifes hang around outside every bar, the same hookers infest every street corner, the same cut-throats lurk in dark alleys waiting for an unwary victim to come along.
The docks themselves are far too big for me to search the entirety of to find the bank robbers so I narrow it down to a couple of possible start locations: the Alonzo Bar and a boat called The Corpse which is anchored nearby.
I find the following exits available to me: northwest (to the Alonzo Bar), southwest (to The Corpse) and in (to my car). Also here is a newspaper. Orinoko enters.

> nw
I move northwest.
Crummy dives are all the same and the Alonzo Bar is no exception. Rough fellows who'd just as soon slit your throat as look at you crowd the bar, fighting with each for the privilege of being served a pint of swill first. The bartender is a scarred brute with only one eye who seems to be imbibing as much of the swill as serving it. Elsewhere in the place are several hookers plying their trade, an elderly man seated at a table looking a bit lost and a seriously shady looking character who keeps glancing at his watch as if expecting someone.
I find the following exits available to me: southeast (to the docks). Orinoko enters from the south-east.

> talk to bartender
"What the 'ell do you want, secret agent?" he grunts, spraying me with saliva as he does so.

1: "Er, I'm not a secret agent actually. I'm just a, er, fisherman looking for, er, information."
2: "I need information on a gang of ruthless bank robbers and as bartenders often know more than they should I figured I was best starting with you."
3: "Tell me about F.A.R.T."

> 2
"Dunno nothin' 'bout that at all," says the bartender.
"Lies!" cries Orinoko suddenly. "I remember delivering messages to you about the planned robberies! You were a messenger boy for our leader!"
The bartender glances at him and blanches. "You? Well, well, so they didn't kill you after all?"
"How would you know about that if you didn't know about the bank robbers?" I ask, my efficient spy mind quickly latching onto this apparent slip.
The bartender looks at me and hesitates. "Ah, crap," he mutters. "Well, you got me. Fine. I know about the robbers. I used to deliver messages for them till they got themselves someone better." He punches the bar. "Huh! Just 'cos I got drunk one time and told a local cop everything I knew about one of their robberies, they turned their back on me! What kinda loyalty's that supposed to be? Makes me shudder thinking of the way I was used and discarded by that bunch o' scum."
"How'd you like to get your own back on them?"
He frowns, then smiles. "Yeah, that'd be sweet. Tell you what, you head over to this sleazy strip den on Picador Lane I used to deliver messages to. Speak to Liza, she's one of the dancers but also a member of the robbers. She'll be able to lead you right to where they're staying."
I file this information away for future use knowing it will doubtless prove invaluable when I find Liza.

> se
I move southeast.
I've been to the docks before and as with every sleazy dump I've acquainted they never change. The same lowlifes hang around outside every bar, the same hookers infest every street corner, the same cut-throats lurk in dark alleys waiting for an unwary victim to come along.
The docks themselves are far too big for me to search the entirety of to find the bank robbers so I narrow it down to a couple of possible start locations: the Alonzo Bar and a boat called The Corpse which is anchored nearby.
I find the following exits available to me: northwest (to the Alonzo Bar), southwest (to The Corpse) and in (to my car). Also here is a newspaper. Orinoko enters from the north-west.

> drive car
Where to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane
3) Percy Street

> 2
As we arrive at Picador Lane, Orinoko glances out of the car window and asks, "why we return here? I have office here."
I tell him.
"Ah, is good plan."

> talk to liza
"Oh, hel-lo," she says, practically purring the word. "And what I can do for you, big boy?"

1: "You can knock off the fake sexiness. It's about as convincing as a slap in the face with a rubber fish."
2: "I'm looking for a good time."
3: "What do you know about a gang of brutal bank robbers."
4: "I'm seeking information about F.A.R.T. and understood you were the girl to speak to."

> 3
She flinches then looks coy. "Er, nothing. Nothing at all. Nope, never even heard of any… 'bink wibbers' was it you said?"
She seems pretty dim although I don't imagine it's the size of the girl's brain they check for when they apply for a job here.

1: "How's the robbing banks business going?"
2: "I'm seeking information about F.A.R.T. and understood you were the girl to speak to."

> 1
Her eyes widen. "But… but…"
Someone in the den suddenly pipes up with the classic line "don't talk about it, love, show it!" which earns him a painful looking slap around the face from Liza. She turns back to me, her face hard. "Damn you! Who blabbed? Who told you about me? Who betrayed me?"
"I'd tell you it was the bartender at The Alonzo but I never divulge my sources."
Her eyes narrow. "The bartender, eh? Make that bartender-who-is-soon-to-be-a-corpse."
Damn! I might have been better off not saying anything there. Still, I was above worrying about the wellbeing of lowlife bartenders and if everything went according to plan today, the whole gang of bank robbers would be locked up before they could get around to whacking the owner of The Alonzo.
"Tell me what you know about the robbers and I'll make sure it goes better for you at trial," I say.
Liza glares hatred at me a few times but instead of trying to claw my eyes out - a very real possibility and a definite threat considering the length and sharpness of her nails - she says, "fine. If it means I get away with a smack on the wrist instead of a lifetime in prison. The gang are planning to hit a bank today, not sure where, but I know this is going to be the big one. They need money for induction into F.A.R.T. That's the Fed-"
"I've heard of them."
"Anyway, if they get this money they're to meet a F.A.R.T. representative at the Balmoral Hotel and give him the money and then he inducts them formally into the F.A.R.T. brotherhood. That's all I know."
"And why weren't you along?" I ask.
She sneers. "They thought it was too dangerous for a woman. Huh! Typical male chauvinist pig attitude there. And another thing-"
And then she is gone. Before I can make a grab for her, she is through the door and fleeing as fast as her sequinned-sandals can carry her. The last I see of her is a pair of scantily-clad buttocks disappearing around a corner.
I got what I came for though and that's the main thing.

> sw
I move southwest.
This is the heart of the city's financial district and almost everyone I can see for miles around looks to be wearing a smart business suit and shades. Clad in my Bahamas beach-ware I'm a little out of place.
I look around for the entrance to the building where Mr Orinoko works and catch sight of it to the west. Nothing else of interest springs to mind although the strip den on the corner is at least… appealing.
I find the following exits available to me: west (to the building), northeast (to the strip den) and in (to my car). Orinoko enters from the north-east.

> drive car
Where to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane
3) Percy Street
4) The Balmoral Hotel

> 3
As we arrive in Percy Street, Orinoko clutches my shoulder worriedly.
"I not like this at all!" he gasps. "The robbers will be here. They will see me! Death and mayhem will follow!" He hesitates then adds hopefully, "that strip den was nice. Maybe we should go back there."

> drive car
Where to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane
3) Percy Street
4) The Balmoral Hotel

> 2
As we arrive at Picador Lane, Orinoko glances out of the car window and asks, "why we return here? I have office here."
I tell him.
"Ah, is good plan."

> ne
I move northeast.

As a secret agent, quite a sizeable amount of my time has been spent in sleazy joints such as this. You might think the two aren't mutually exclusive but they are.
The atmosphere in here is smoky to the extent where seeing your hand in front of your face is quite a feat. Peering through the smoke I can make out a number of, er, "dancers" on a stage in the centre of the room. They don't appear to be doing a lot in the way of dancing and nor does it seem that clothes are a big issue here. A bar selling overpriced drinks is situated against the north wall.
I find the following exits available to me: southwest (to Picador Lane).

"Ah, this must nicer than that horrible bank!" cries Orinoko. "Let's sit here all day and watch the lovely ladies!"
"I've got a ruthless gang of bank robbers to stop," I say, "I haven't got time for ogling semi-naked wome- wow, did you see..."I shake my head. "No time, Orinoko. Let's go."
But surprisingly he just shakes his head. "Not this time, kind sir secret agent. Orinoko fears that if he returns to the bank he will die. Orinoko much prefer to stay here."
And with those few despicable cowardly words, he trots off and starts chatting up one of the dancers.

> drive car
Where to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane
3) Percy Street
4) The Balmoral Hotel

> 3
Knowing the robbers are planning to hit the bank sometime today, I drive across the town without my usual care for road safety. I get there in one piece but the less said about the state of my front bumper the better.

> out
I exit my car.

Percy Street lies in the heart of the city. (Not a very well heart mind, but more one diseased and decaying and about to give up living as a waste of time and die quietly.) Several streets lead away from to other parts of the heart of the city but it's the bank not five feet away from my parked car that draws my attention. A broad flight of steps lead inside the bank.
I find the following exits available to me: north (into the bank), east and west (along Percy Street) and in (to my car).

> n
I move north.

The interior of the bank is controlled chaos: customers jostling each other in desperate attempts to get served, tellers arguing vehemently with customers, security guards yelling incessantly to make themselves heard. Overlooking all this mayhem are several security cameras. I keep an eye on them and decide I'd be best keeping my face turned away from them during my time in the bank - as a secret agent I don't want to get caught on film.
I find the following exits available to me: south (to Percy Street).

The moment I step into the bank, I catch sight of the several dodgy fellows lurking in the corner. Acting like I haven't noticed them, I sidle over to one queue of customers and do my best to mingle. If they're not the bank robbers I'll eat my hat.

> wait
I wait, pretending to be engrossed in a small potted plant in one corner. Actually it is quite an interesting plant and if not for the fact that I was on a mission of utmost importance I might well be tempted to give up everything right there and then to become a florist.
A casual glance out of the corner of my eye indicates that the robbers look to be about to make their move.

> wait
I study the plant some more. Above the hubbub of the bank - fighting customers, yellow security guards, tellers getting more and more frustrated - I notice the robbers starting to make their move.

> wait
There is a sudden commotion as the robbers draw guns.
"Down onna floor!" yells one and everyone in the bank, myself included, throws themselves onto the floor.
"Give us yer cash," orders a second, thrusting a bag to a terrified cashier. "Fill it up sharpish if you don't want shooting!"
"Can I shoot a few of them, boss?" asks the third robber.
"Not unless they misbehave," answers the second robber.
"Oh, just a little shot, boss. Just-"
"Only if they misbehave."
"Awww..." The third robber stomps off into the corner and has a bit of a sulk. "...never get to have any fun... always getting picked on... never get chance to shoot anyone... no fair..."
The other robbers finish the robbery and flee the bank, the third one only pausing long enough to wave his gun around in a not very threatening display of menace, then they are gone. Silence descends over the bank.
"My god, they robbed us!" cries someone with a remarkable flare for stating the obvious. "They actually came into the goddamn bank and goddamn robbed us!"
"Why didn't a brave hero come along and rescue us, that's what I'd like to know," huffs a matronly woman who has a definite Mother-in-law look to her. "Huh! We never get any decent heroes these days. Bunch of yellow-bellied cowards they are who fear getting shot. Hah!"
I wisely keep quiet and wonder what my next move will be.

> l
The interior of the bank is controlled chaos: customers jostling each other in desperate attempts to get served, tellers arguing vehemently with customers, security guards yelling incessantly to make themselves heard. Overlooking all this mayhem are several security cameras. I keep an eye on them and decide I'd be best keeping my face turned away from them during my time in the bank - as a secret agent I don't want to get caught on film.
I find the following exits available to me: south (to Percy Street). Also here is a wallet.

> get wallet
I take the wallet.

> x wallet
An information panel inside the wallet gives the owner as one Bungo. He must be one of the robbers and the wallet fell out of his pocket during the robbery.

> s
I move south.
Percy Street lies in the heart of the city. (Not a very well heart mind, but more one diseased and decaying and about to give up living as a waste of time and die quietly.) Several streets lead away from to other parts of the heart of the city but it's the bank not five feet away from my parked car that draws my attention. A broad flight of steps lead inside the bank.
I find the following exits available to me: north (into the bank), east and west (along Percy Street) and in (to my car).

> drive car
Where to?

1) The docks
2) Picador Lane
3) Percy Street
4) The Balmoral Hotel

> 4
Knowing that time is of the essence - or maybe just suspecting it is - I make good time across town and soon arrive outside the Balmoral Hotel.

> out
I exit my car.

Without the doubt the Balmoral Hotel is the largest building I have ever seen… for at least a week anyway. It's an ancient, impressively-built structure roughly the size of a football stadium only with considerably less football hooligans inside. The reception area is visible from where I'm standing and it's fair to say it looks quite a bit better than my dining room back home.
I find the following exits available to me: west (into the Balmoral Hotel) and in (to my car).

> w
I move west.

Standing in the cool interior of the Balmoral Hotel reception, I find my attention drawn - for reasons I can't quite understand - to a painting of a naked woman adorning the wall behind the reception counter. This bears absolutely no relation to the case I'm working on but I felt like mentioning it anyway.
Off to one side are a flight of stairs leading to the first floor of the hotel and off to the other side is the hotel bar, a welcome sight in any circumstances.
I find the following exits available to me: up (to the first floor), north (to the bar) and east (to outside the hotel).

As I step into the reception area of the hotel, I catch sight of a very suspicious individual indeed heading north into the bar. A quick scan through my memory reveals him to be none other than Bungo, a known member of F.A.R.T.
I'd best be careful here. He's also known to be a deadly killer.

> n
I move north.

The bar isn't your usual drinking establishment: it's got class. The clientele here are strictly upper class and no beer at all is served: instead it's martinis all round served in glasses so small that a stray beam of sunlight is enough to evaporate their contents. The prices look a little steep for someone on my secret agent budget and the woman serving behind the bar doesn't look the sort to be giving out freebies.
I find the following exits available to me: south (to the reception area). Bungo is here.

I catch Bungo watching me as I enter the bar and suspect I might well have problems leaving.

> give watch to bungo
I can't see the watch.

> give wallet to bungo
"Ah, my wallet is returned," says Bungo with obvious delight. "I was wondering where that had got to. No doubt one of thieving swine bank robbers had made off with it. Well, I shall certainly be having words with them when they return."

> talk to bungo
"Ah, the fellow who returned my wallet," says Bungo, shaking my hand with his own which resembles a battering ram. "Ah, let us sit and discuss matters, shall we not."

1: "What was that you mentioned about some bank robbers a moment ago?"
2: "I'm a reporter doing an article on a terrorist organisation called F.A.R.T. - what do you know about it?"
3: "I'm looking for some guys to pull off a bank robbery. Any ideas where I should look?"
4: "You're under arrest!"

> 1
"Oh them..." Bungo hesitates, perhaps wishing he hadn't said anything. "Just some, er, friends of mine who sometimes indulge in, er, illegal activities. Despicable people really. I wish to have nothing more to do with them."

1: "But aren't you waiting for them now?"
2: "I'm here to meet some bank robbers myself. Isn't that a coincidence?"
3: "I'm a reporter doing an article on a terrorist organisation called F.A.R.T. - what do you know about it?"
4: "I'm looking for some guys to pull off a bank robbery. Any ideas where I should look?"
5: "You're under arrest!"

> 1
"Er... only so I can wish them goodbye. As I said, they're... despicable and I wish nothing to do with them."
A lame story if ever I've heard one. Bungo might be a dab hand at stabbing people and burying their bodies in unmarked graves, but he's clearly out of his depth where lying is concerned.

1: "I'm here to meet some bank robbers myself. Isn't that a coincidence?"
2: "I'm a reporter doing an article on a terrorist organisation called F.A.R.T. - what do you know about it?"
3: "I'm looking for some guys to pull off a bank robbery. Any ideas where I should look?"
4: "You're under arrest!"

> 2
Bungo gives an uncomfortable laugh. "F.A.R.T.? Why, whoever heard of such a crazy name for a terrorist organisation? I mean, you'd have to be... er, a redneck to come up with... Oh, crap..."
Bungo trails off and pretends to be fascinated in a piece of wall near his head.

1: "Are you waiting here for some bank robbers?"
2: "I'm looking for some guys to pull off a bank robbery. Any ideas where I should look?"
3: "You're under arrest!"

> 2
"Er... in which case I cannot help you because I know nothing about bank robbers."

1: "Are you waiting here for some bank robbers?"
2: "I'm a reporter doing an article on a terrorist organisation called F.A.R.T. - what do you know about it?"
3: "You're under arrest!"

> 2
"You mention that crazy word again. I tell you, I know nothing of it. Nothing at all."
He seems to have clammed up on the subject.

1: "Are you waiting here for some bank robbers?"
2: "I'm looking for some guys to pull off a bank robbery. Any ideas where I should look?"
3: "You're under arrest!"

> 2
"Ah, you are persistent. I like that. Very well, maybe I can tell you a few details."
He proceeds to tell me a few very interesting tidbits of information which I file away for future reference.

1: "Are you waiting here for some bank robbers?"
2: "I'm a reporter doing an article on a terrorist organisation called F.A.R.T. - what do you know about it?"
3: "You're under arrest!"

> 3
"Under... arrest?" he murmurs. "Then you must be..." He surges suddenly to his feet. "A FILTHY STINKING SECRET AGENT! A SPY!"

As Bungo readies himself to attack, I quickly muster my strength and:

1) Headbutt Bungo.
2) Execute a dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

> 2
I throw myself forward in a dazzling display of gymnastics not seen since Torvill & Dean last took to the ice, and snap a kick into Bungo's groin. He doubles in pain and backs away, not defeated but clearly hurt.

1) Headbutt Bungo.
2) Execute another dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

> 3
"Your mother was a cleaner and your dad worked as a rent boy!" I start off with.
Bungo glares at me horribly then comes charging at me in a desperate attempt to make me stop. I duck nimbly to one side and get him with a good one - "and your sister has a face like an arse!" - and before long I can tell that my insults are having the desired effect.

1) Headbutt Bungo.
2) Execute a dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage again.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

> 1
Knowing that redneck terrorists are notoriously poor at defending themselves from headbutts, I launch a devastasting headbutt against Bungo.
Alas, there's always the odd exception to every rule and rather than connecting with Bungo's head, my attack connects with his fist!
"Plenty more where that came from!" he grunts with a smile.

1) Headbutt him again.
2) Execute a dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

> 1
Knowing that Bungo will not expect me to use the same attack method twice, I launch a headbutt at him - and find myself face-to-fist with his fist.
Needless to say, it hurts.
"Will you never learn?" he asks with a satisfied smile.

1) Headbutt him a third time.
2) Execute a dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

> 1
Clearly unable to understand just why I'm trying to headbutt him a third time when the previous two attempts were such dismal failures, Bungo is completely unprepared for my attack - it smashes into his face, shatters his nose, and sends him crashing back against the bar.
Even with the high resistance to pain that agents of F.A.R.T. are said to possess, that's still gotta hurt!

1) Headbutt him again.
2) Execute a dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

> 2
Before Bungo can fully recover from our last bout of combat, I execute another dazzling flying kick into his groin. I really would have thought he'd be prepared for it this time but obviously not as the attack sends him crashing into the nearby wall and completely ruins any hopes he might once have had of fathering children.

1) Headbutt Bungo.
2) Execute yet another dazzling flying kick to his groin.
3) Insult his heritage.
4) Make sarcastic comments about his dress sense.
5) Politely suggest he surrender himself or face a damn good kicking.

A sudden glazed look goes over Bungo's face as my last blow proved to be the telling one. He staggers back, sags against a wall then collapses to his knees. A moment later the inevitable plummet facedown onto the floor occurs.
There is silence in the bar for a few seconds then all at once everyone is talking: "...cor, worra fight!..." "...did yer see that flying kick ter the groin..." "shouldn't someone call an ambulance?..."
Before anyone can stop me, I go through Bungo's pockets and come across a small diary which I shove into my own pocket before making a discreet exit from the bar.

P's office is the sort of large, hideously extravagant thing that I've always felt should be shot, strangled and buried at the bottom of the sea in a steel coffin with extra bolts driven into the lid for good measure. That my bedroom was partially modeled on it is just pure coincidence.
P was awaiting me behind his desk. To this day I have never seen him leave that desk or even stand. I suspect he might well have been born growing out of the desk and that, were I to suddenly push the desk to one side, P would be thrown aside as well. It's certainly something to bear in mind.

"Good of you to make it back so fast, 00000000365," says P, perusing a thick file before him. "Now, let's have a look at how you did, shall we?"

"It seems you did very well on the information gathering front," says P. "Hmmm. Very impressive indeed. You questioned that despicable agent of F.A.R.T. and extracted every bit of information we needed. Well done."

"On top of that," adds P, "you found a diary detailing a wide range of F.A.R.T. informants. No doubt information that will prove invaluable to rounding up those thugs."

"And I also hear you managed to keep our undercover operative, Mr Orinoko, alive," says P.
"I never knew Orinoko was an undercover operative," I say.
"Well," says P, "if you knew that he wouldn't be much of an operative, would be?"

"All in all," says P in summing up, "you did exceptional. Why, I'm almost tempted to recommend that you be upgraded to 00000000364 for this sterling effort."
"That would be a true honour, sir," I say.
"I said almost. But the fact of the matter, Pond, is that we need decent agents like you in the field. We'll be moving against F.A.R.T. in force soon and I'll be wanting you to lead the attack."
"Attack, sir?" I ask. "Er... you mean, bullets and bombs and people getting killed? That sort of attack?"
"Precisely! I can see by the glint in your eye that you're looking forward to it. I suggest you give yourself a few moments to cool off in the outer office and then I'll send you to Z for your mission briefing. Well done 00000000365!"
I weakly shake his hand and then stagger from the room, wondering as I do just how I manage to get myself messed up with these things.

I don't think I've even been in such a drab and dismal little room. There is nothing here aside from a small sign affixed to the wall.

It reads: "End of the game, Pond. If you got a score less than 130 you might consider typing 'restart' and having another go."