“Good to see you, Mr. Davies, good to see you!” He put his other hand on top of mine, sandwiching it in an expression of deep friendship and solidarity. I might break a couple of his fingers later. Maybe the entire offending hand.
“It seems like we have a problem, and here I thought this project was well underway with no complications.”
“Well,” he harrumphed, “one cannot account for the vagaries of these easily excitable environmental groups.”
The protestors were clinging to their chained positions on my earthmover and bulldozer, and to my dislike, a few of them had latched on to one of the pilings hiding the burial ground of my Sicilian mafia troublemakers. They were all wearing the brightly colored “Save the Tits!” t-shirts I’d had delivered earlier and a huge banner was stretched behind them that read, “Protect The Wet Tits!”
“There he is! Right there!” A couple looking like brother and sister were aiming their bullhorns at me. They were both too expensively dressed and not haggard enough to truly be environmental activists, so this was likely strictly performative for them.
Which was why they were happy to eat and drink the food and dozens of bottles of beer I’d sent over earlier.
“There’s the evil bastard!” The sister shouted in a thick Scottish accent, “He wants to murder our tits!”
“Oh, my god,” sighed Crouse, mopping his forehead.
The press and workmen burst into laughter. The performative environmentalist reared back, offended.
The crowd of onlookers parted and I spotted her; a darkly attractive woman with hair cut into a severe black bob. She wasn’t holding a camera, she wasn’t even filming this spectacle on her phone. Her arms were folded and her lips pursed. She didn’t look happy. Her gaze moved from the protestors to me, eyes narrowed. I was dick deep in picturing the two of us together in bed before the crowd closed around her again.
“You rich fuckers think you control everything!” The other leader tried to shout over his chanting fellow protestors. “The Willow Tits have rights, too!”
More laughter from the crowd as a helpful volunteer passed out more bottles of a remarkably strong lager to the protestors.
It was very hot today, after all.
“Aye,” shouted my head foreman, “all the Tits have rights! Rights for the Tits! Save the Tits!”
A blonde reporter dropped her mic in the mud, laughing too hard to keep up her bright, plastic smile. My construction crew and well-meaning local bystanders took up the chant. “Save the Tits!Tits have rights!”
The protestors realized they were chanting the same thing as the opposition and went silent, looking at each other with confusion.
This was the most entertained I’ve been in months.
I turned toward the media. “Perhaps this well-meaning group is confused over what exactly they are trying to protect, but I am not.” I flashed a sincere smile that felt physically painful to hold. “The state of decline in thePoecile montanusspecies is a serious concern in the delicate balance of nature versus development in this part of Lancashire.
“This is why Davies International and Lee Ville Industries are donatingfiftythousand pounds to the Wildlife Protection Agency that Mayor Caldwell has created.” I handed the new check to the Mayor, who hastily pinned on a big politician’s grin.
“Thank you, Mr. Davies, the Tits thank you.” Realizing what he’d said, the color drained from the Mayor’s face and he nearly shouted, “The declining Willow Tits thank you! And on behalf of the citizens of Lancashire, we thank you for bringing this computer server compound and over a hundred new jobs to our city.”
“Of course.” I smiled for the cameras as everyone behind me chanted:
“Save the Tits!”
“The Tits have rights!”
“Save the Tits!”
The environmentalists were trying to free themselves from my construction equipment, finding that they were shin-deep in mud. One man yelped, hauled one foot out of the wet, sticky ground, and lost his balance, toppling into the girl next to him. She screamed and landed on the back of the protestor closest to her, knocking him face-first into the black mud.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen pictures of what Woodstock looked like,” murmured Charles, enjoying the environmentalists churning in the mud, “but this is a close match, minus the LSD and the Grateful Dead.”
“I think we’re done here.” I straightened my suit jacket. “Where’s the closest pub?”
Chapter Two
In which Fee plans ahead.
Fee…
