Ferris Wheel

It was carnival night and most of the crowd were masked.   There were twenty Captain Jack Sparrows, three Marie Antoinettes with shepherdess' crooks, carrying their lambs, Captain Ahab stumping along on narwhale tusk peg leg and Ginsbergbear hurrying through the press of revellers.   And then... there was a figure standing at the foot of the big wheel, in shadow but for a slash of pulsing neon light cast across his lower face and breast.   He was wearing a red and black striped polo neck jumper beneath his drape jacket, a Lone Ranger mask and, of course, the grey homburg.   There were wide wooden steps up to a ticket office and then a turnstile, the ferris wheel looked considerably more impressive close too - in fact it was massive.   Slasher McGoogs paid for the two of them at the kiosk and ushered Ginsbergbear into one of the cars.   They  had the space to themselves.
The wheel began to turn slowly, but when their car reached its zenith it stopped abruptly.   The flimsy car swayed and Slasher McGoogs, his legs spread and a psycotic glint in his eyes, slid open the door.   The lonely, haunting, plunking tones of a distant zither drifted in.
"You should come over here and look down.   It's very spectacular."
Ginsbergbear was in the far corner, as far from the open door as possible, white knuckles gripping the rail.   He could see the lights of Park Lane and Oxford Street from where he was and had no intention of moving.
"What's going on?   Why have we stopped?"
"I bribed the operator.   I feel that an atmosphere of uncertainty and intimidation will enhance the conversation that we are about to have.
"Now... your friends.   Their activities are getting in my way and attracting undue attention.
"I want you to tell them to stop looking.   I need a little space... and time."
Ginsbergbear gabbled, "What the...?   Why me?   What ARE you up to?   Why aren't you dead?   What on earth gives you the idea they will listen to me?" 
"Make them!"
"...No, you make them.   Tell them yourself.   If we're causing you so much inconvenience then you're going to have to trust us with some answers.   No-one is fooled by this accident story.   Meet us somewhere safe-ish and explain yourself."
Slasher did not appear enthusiastic.   Eventually, "Limehousesailortown is an Establishment no go area.   The Den, tomorrow morning."
The wheel started to turn again, on a waved signal from McGoogs, and the instant their cab reached the ground Slasher sprang from the car, vaulted the barrier and disappeared into the crowd. Ginsbergbear spent a few minutes with his head between his knees and then pulled a large meerschaum bowled calabash from a pocket in his baggy corduroy trousers, packed it with a charge of Black-Alamout Catnip Shag and sucked in several deep breaths, holding them until the world around him started to appear less unfriendly.   He pulled out his i-phone and called Boz.

"...Je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait
Ni le mal tout ça m'est bien égal
Non, Rien de rien
Non, Je ne regrette rien
Car ma vie, car mes joies Aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi~oi!!!"
Sam was practicing Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien with The Kittens of Chaos before the evening's performance and like Piaf they intended to announce their dedication of the song to the Hunky French Foreign Legion.   Following the final rasping, gargled stanza the Kittens were all coughing and retching uncontrollably.
Our quartet were having a breakfast of buttered croissants and kipper fish cakes in the front bar of the den, sat at a round marble topped table in the gentle morning light of the bay window.   
"Aunty Stella's been in touch," reported Ferdy, "There's still no sign of Googleberry, but he's not turned up in any of the local vets' so everyone is optimistic."   They all jumped and spun round at the sound of a distant bump, as if a Chris-Craft Cadet had just come alongside the ladder out at the back.   Two shade-like white cats clambered over the balcony and entered through the French windows.   They were wearing steam punk brass and leather goggles with deep purple lenses and identical broad lapelled black leather, ankle length coats.   They were followed by Slasher McGoogs.
At this most unfortunate of moments a figure chose to emerge from the gents dressed in a dark trilby and a stiff trench coat with an ominous bulge under the left armpit.   Les deux Chats Souterrains instantly legged it back over the balcony rail and into their boat.   Nearby sirens could be heard and the throaty gunning of the triple Packard 12M engines that would power the River Police Fast Pursuit craft waiting in the next-door boatyard creek.

Slasher launched himself forward, barging through the customers, toppling tables and rushed out through the street door cat-flap.

"Don't lose him!" Shouted Boz - and the four of them dashed out into the morning chill of Narrow Street, just in time to see Slasher lift the cover off a man-hole and drop into its depths.