Previously:

Harmanda Barriere has recruited a group of supervillains to infiltrate the French Consulate-General in Parodopolis and thwart L'Opération Grande Boum. While Professor Manyarms and the Florist kidnap a sinister super-Frenchman, Expired Warranty and Razor Ballerina have unearthed his mysterious cargo...



UNMENTIONABLES #3
Un, Deux, Trouble



There was a snap, followed by a soft hiss of escaping gases. The lid of the crate cracked open an inch. Expired Warranty hesitated, fingers twitching, then lifted it a little further. His undead eyes bulged. Behind him, Razor Ballerina shrieked, coughed and clutched at her tightening throat.

“Yagh,” she spluttered. “Is revolt. What is what?”

Expired Warranty lifted the lid all the way. With trembling hands he withdrew a cool cloth-wrapped package about the size of a human head. Nervously he teased back one corner of the coarse fabric. The contents were encased in a thick bloom of blue-grey mould. He stuck in one undead finger. Creamy pulp oozed out. “I think it's cheese,” he said.

“Revolt,” she repeated, “so disgust. Bleh!”

The festering tech-Jonah licked some from his mouldy fingertip. “Rather good, actually.” He took a bigger lick, let it play across shrivelling gums and long-rotten palate. “And very ripe. But what do we do with it?”

“We stick to the plan,” barked Professor Manyarms, from the doorway, the bound and hooded Yves-Claude still slung across several of his shoulders. “Nice to see you've been busy.” Manyarms and the Florist surveyed the shreds, ruins and smithereens which had recently been the French Consulate's archive, art store and wine cellar. Brandy still trickled from a dozen punctured casks. Razor Ballerina showed them an innocent smile.

Expired Warranty tried and failed to close the lid of his crate. With a cheesy finger he indicated the Professor's captive. “That's our guy, is it?”

“Yes it is,” said Manyarms before the Florist could even draw breath. “This is absolutely the person we were asked to collect.”

Right on cue, Yves-Claude managed to wriggle his gag loose. “Yew wurn't get away wis zees!”

“Yeah, my colleagues beg to differ. Particularly the one with the short fuse and the sharp knives. Stop wriggling before she turns you into steak tartare.”

“Ah surrendair,” cried the Frenchman again and his body went limp.

Professor Manyarms looked down the tunnel by which they had entered the building's sub-basement. “Six storeys and four surrenders. I swear this idiot is getting heavier by the minute. Are we ready to go?”

“Yah, findy big box,” said Razor Ballerina airily. “Is got. Bored so. Pft.”

“We found it,” agreed Expired Warranty. “But it's cheese. It's just cheese. Stinky, but I'd hardly say it was weapons-grade.”

“Eet ees purelay for gastronomique purposes,” protested Yves-Claude from under his hood.

“Heard that line before,” snorted Manyarms. “Take it,” he ordered, “take it all.”

“Nevair!” shouted Yves-Claude, suddenly struggling and straining against the Florist's binding vines. Professor Manyarms, thrown off-balance, fell to his knees; he braced himself with arms three to six. The bundle of writhing Frenchman tumbled from his shoulders and rolled clear.

Yves-Claude's body seemed infused with energy. “You may take mah liberté,” he cried, “but you will nevair take... mah fromage!” He exploded from his bonds, leapt to his feet and threw his hood aside. The fearsome Frenchman's stripy jersey bulged with a hundred pounds of new muscle. His curly moustache rippled and sparked with untold power. His croissant-shaped birthmark glowed scarlet.

“The hell - ” breathed Professor Manyarms as he picked himself up. “Look sharp, people. Combat positions.” He circled the Frenchman, mechanical arms bobbing and weaving. Razor Ballerina sprang into life, pirouetting furiously as she bristled with glinting blades. Expired Warranty and the Florist looked at one another.

“We have combat positions?” asked the Florist. “The Minions never had combat positions. Was that part of the briefing?”

“Beats me,” said the zombie. “Must be a Purveyors of Peril thing.” He watched the others crash together and picked at a gungy growth on his neck. “Tell the truth, I'm more a lover than a fighter.”

By now, Yves-Claude had snatched up a flag and found time to tie it round his neck for a cape. He brandished a baguette in each hand and spat venomous little haw-hee-haws. Razor Ballerina made a lightning-fast lunge which the Frenchman easily parried.

“When we're done here,” called Manyarms over his shoulders, “we're going to have a talk about teamwork.”

“You're doing great, guys,” called Expired Warranty. “Go team.” Manyarms reeled from a well-aimed crepe suzette to the solar plexus.

“Aha,” said the Florist above the snarling and the smashing of antique furniture. “I think I've got this now.”

Expired Warranty sidestepped a ricocheting brioche. “Got what?”

“Jean-Pierre,” said the Florist, “my fellow Minion. He was another Super-Stereotype. An early model.” They ducked as Razor Ballerina was hurled through the air. Her blades lodged in the concrete wall and she dangled there, unconscious, twitching. “He had the powers of the French nation, but also all the weaknesses.”

“Fascinating.” Expired Warranty grabbed the Florist's sleeve and edged toward the tunnel mouth. By now Yves-Claude had bunched together the Professor's left arms and was pivoting like a hammer-thrower. The multi-limbed malefactor left a nasty dent in the vault's steel door. “You want to concentrate on the weaknesses?”

“I'm thinking,” wailed the Florist as Yves-Claude moved to cut off their escape. “With Jean-Pierre they took each aspect of the stereotype to its extreme... the beret, the pastries, the accent. But there was one trait they couldn't weaponise. Until now.”

The energy-imbued Frenchman stood right in their path, leaning on a bicycle. The air shook with cruel Gallic laughter. “Ah surpose you'd laik me to surrendair?”

Expired Warranty ignored the Florist's frantic stammer. “Well, uh, clearly there's two of us and one of you, so if - ”

“So be it! Ah surrendair. Ah surrendair! AH SURRENDAIR!” With each roar of capitulation, the Frenchman grew in size and strength. Veins like hosepipes and sinews like steel cables stood out on his mighty neck. His beret scraped the ceiling.

“Ah.” Expired Warranty sighed. “Got it.”

“You Americains are unbelievabeul,” said Yves-Claude. “You would dare to steal zis exquisite fromage, which yewr barbarous palates weuld nevair appreciate.” The fearsome Frenchman bore down on them, twirling his moustache, singing La Marseillaise and occasionally pretending to be trapped in a glass box.

Expired Warranty and the Florist backed against the wall. In desperation, the botanical baddie dug into his satchel and germinated seed after seed to no effect; thorny vines couldn't slow the Frenchman's advance, a walnut tree was useless, garlic bulbs made Yves-Claude giggle.

“That's vampires,” snapped Expired Warranty.

“I'm flustered!” shouted the Florist. “And I hate to ask, but what's that rumbling?”

“Probably me,” said Expired Warranty, the scent of Yves-Claude's onion garland in his nostrils. “That cheese was pretty rich after years of prison diet.”

The rumble became a roar. And suddenly, with the fury of an onrushing steam train, Boring Machine burst from the tunnel mouth. He slammed into Yves-Claude, scooping him up and crushing him into the opposite wall. For a moment the Frenchman resisted, fingers gouging grooves in the concrete as he rotated on the robot's grinding plate, then with one last SACRE BLEU he dissolved into so much supervillain paté.

Expired Warranty caught a thick lash of the Frenchman's pulped entrails. He licked cautiously at his cracked lips. “Hmm. Garlicky.”

Nearby, Razor Ballerina struggled to free herself from the cellar wall. “Stabby chop chop,” she muttered. Expired Warranty and the Florist made no move to help.

“All right, scum,” said a groggy Professor from the corner. His fifth arm hung limp at the shoulder. “This job is done. Let's get out the way we got in. Boring Machine, nice work, appreciate the save.” The robot gave a clank of acknowledgement.

Expired Warranty grinned. “Impressive. You've got a surprising turn of speed for such a big guy.”

Manyarms paled. “Stop right there.”

“But he was great! Did you see it? The way he - ”

Manyarms crossed the room in two bounds and lifted Expired Warranty by the throat. “Do not. Admire. The robot.”

From behind came a rattle, then a fizzing of sparks as Boring Machine malfunctioned. His gears skipped, pistons popped and caterpillar tracks jerked back and forth. Grinding plates whirled out of control.

Razor Ballerina cackled and clapped her hands as sparks ignited the spreading pool of brandy. “Is burn! Ha! Fizz and whoosh!” The mining robot shuddered as washers and bolts began to ping in every direction.

Manyarms raised his voice above the jets of scalding steam from Boring Machine's ruptured pipes. “Listen up, people. Tactical withdrawal. Move out and regroup while...” He waved his team down the tunnel as flames spread to the papers and shattered furniture. The heat, the glow and the sounds of catastrophic mechanical failure followed them.

After a few hundred yards he let go of Expired Warranty's throat.




Epilogue
Unfinished Business



Harmanda's face was set in its usual scowl. Even so, her deputy could tell it was bad news; she held the phone in what he privately called the weasel-strangling grip. Whoever was calling, whatever the instruction, Harmanda accepted it through gritted teeth. She replaced the handset as though plunging a detonator.

Caldwell waited. “Madam Director?”

She thought for a while before replying. “Results, Caldwell. This department needs to show some.”

Her deputy nodded. Harmanda let the silence run. Finally she spoke. “Send them in.”

Caldwell opened the door; four villains filed into the briefing room and sat down. Harmanda glowered across the table. “Let's make this quick. Your first objective: apprehend the suspect.”

Professor Manyarms took the lead. “We did apprehend the suspect. Even if it wasn't the suspect we were led to expect. In a rapidly-developing situation, we had no option but to liquefy him. I mean liquidate. And, if you'll pardon my saying, the failures in intelligence are hardly the fault of Taskforce Llama.”

Harmanda nodded sourly. “You got that right.” On her pad, she noted Neutralised potential terrorist threat to security. “Second: the mystery payload.”

“The cheese? We believe it destroyed,” said the Florist. “At the very least, put beyond use.”

“And it really was very stinky,” added Expired Warranty.

Harmanda wrote Neutralised a potentially harmful biological agent. “Third objective, leave nothing that would let them connect this with the United States Government.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Professor Manyarms flexed the fingers of his repaired fifth arm. “That one's a bit more complicated.”

Harmanda clicked her fingernails against the tabletop. “This morning I was called to attend a hush-hush meeting with the French Consul. It appears their building was infiltrated overnight by a member of the robot terrorist group known as Machine Shop. The building was badly damaged in the attack, which was repulsed at great cost by one of their diplomatic staff.”

She treated the room to the faint hint of a smile. “They've appealed to us for information. Naturally we've promised our full co-operation.” She made a final note. “All said and done, gentlemen –Miss – I'm marking this operation down as a qualified success. You will be returned to your cells, whereupon my people will remove the coercion collars. You will be contacted again in due course.”

She turned to Expired Warranty. “Except you, Sinclair. You're being transferred to the Pentagon. Seems they want you to look at some foreign nuclear enrichment programmes. Reckon you'll find them very... impressive. Dismissed.”

Taskforce Llama filed out. Caldwell closed the door. “It wasn't bad,” he said. “For a first deployment.”

Harmanda snorted. “This was kid's stuff and you know it. Should've been a piece of cake. I can just about get away with spinning it as a worthwhile training exercise.”

“Madam Director, in the grand scheme of things - ”

She ignored him. “We need a success. A big one. And soon.”

Caldwell steepled his fingers. “Is this about what happened in Cilat?” He paused. “Because I'm sure I don't have to remind you - ”

“You're right,” she snarled, “you don't.”

He tip-toed out and left Harmanda alone to her plotting.