Monks, Drunks and Holy Grails

When soft gun Leo Fox is told to steal priceless relics from museums across the country he thinks it's a bit odd but nothing more. When he becomes involved with the search for the Holy Grail and the lost descendants of Christ he knows he is in big trouble. What he does not know though is that the fate world could be resting on his shoulders...


2. "A Man's Gotta Eat."


I sat in Greasy Joe’s burger bar and thought. Well, I say burger bar but the owner, one Rubin Edward Mervine, known to his friends as Greasy Joe preferred to call it a Café. After visiting Paris last year, Rubin decided that what would really make his burger bar stand out was making it more French. Sadly, most of the people in this part of Chicago were not that big on French cuisine. In fact, they preferred people fried rather than on pate.


I thought about the piece of paper that the guy was reading. How come some of the words were in English? It didn’t add up. I bit into my Pan Chocolate and sipped my decaffeinated coffee with not my normal enthusiasm. Who were these people? What did they want? And why did my coffee have a hair in it? So many questions, so few time to answer them. I got up, paid for the meal and went outside. It had begun to rain. Chicago rain is not like normal rain. It’s thicker, almost like white soup. I opened my umbrella and ran across the road. I had a date to make with my brother, Gregory Mycroft Fox who is to the Chicago police what syphilis is to wealthy bankers. A slowly degrading disease which once you have picked it up you can’t shake it off.


I knocked on the door of Greg’s office.

“Enter.” I knew it was him from the dullest tone of the voice. I pushed open the door. Inside was my brother. He wore an old brown suit which had coffee stains down the front. I knew the suit well; it was the suit he wore when he caught the South Dakota Ripper. Of course then he wasn’t calling himself Gregory Mycroft Fox, then he was Sebastian Mantford. Of course Sebastian Mantford was his original name. You see our father, General Jeremiah Fox of the British Army was, let’s say, prone to affairs. I was his only “legitimate” child from his marriage to my mother. I have five none brothers but most likely there are more. I have heard rumours that at least two Presidents are suspected brothers.

“So, brother.” Greg sat in his chair smoking what looked like a pipe.

“Hey, Greg long time, no see.” I sat down in the chair next to his.

“So brother, what have you been up to?”

“Nothing much,” I replied. “I need your help. I think I may have got in some pretty deep stuff. I got hired to steal a document from a museum. Easy job, but the odd thing was that it pretty weird writing. I know almost every ancient dialect out there, and that was something I didn’t recognise.”

“That’s because nobody has translated it. It’s very old, impossibly old. I really think you should go now, the cops already suspect you. If you come into a flipping police building, talking to me then they will suspect you even more. All I can tell you is, don’t talk to those people again. Or you will be dead.” Greg was biting his lip. Whoever the goons I was working for were, they had sure made an impact on my brother.

“Thanks for the advice.” I went to the door and opened it.  Suddenly cuffs were on my hands and I heard the words any honest criminal never wants to hear; “You’re under arrest, Mr Fox.”

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