If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
The wisest move right now, reckoned Alf, was to vanish before any ruckus over the stolen scooter started. No sense chancing fate too much either.

Working quickly, he donned the gloves and rubbed away any fingerprints he might have left on the scooter. A short dab on the start button brought the happy little machine to life again. Alf drove back to the main road, continued along it for two-hundred yards, and parked the scooter on the grass verge.

He rolled the ill-gotten wedding garments into a thick bundle, tucked it under his arm, and stepped lightly back towards the country lane, the carrier bag of snacks swinging in his other hand. Well into the lane, he dodged into a copse of dense trees, and sat on a fallen log.

Starving, he emptied the shopping bag's contents at his feet. Four cream cakes, a bottle of his favourite coke, and a king-size packet of spicy crisps—not his usual diet of high protein nourishment. Nevertheless, what a feast!

With everything consumed, he nestled on the grass with his hands behind his head and glanced up through the green canopy of trees to the blue sky above. The day was still young, all was right with the world, and he had plenty of time to do nothing but daydream.

As he savoured the moment, a deep, satisfying sigh eased from his chest. He didn't need to worry about weight training and sparing with Bert, or to pursue his dreary work as a security guard. Instead, either the promise of serenity, or the making of his fortune at The Hotel California's poker tables would govern his life, all depending on which way fate carried him. Ah, heavens above, what a wonderful few days stretched ahead of him.

With time to take life easy, he lolled there almost until evening. His belly was good and full, insects buzzed lazily, and the day's sunny warmth showed no sign of fading. He cast a hard smile to the world: a free and frank man like him enjoyed this way of living better than many would think.

Of his two choices, gambling at The Hotel California excited him most, especially now he had the means to enter. His special skill with his third eye would ensure he won every hand.

When the evening grew darker, he examined the stolen clothes. Apart from the suit itself, he found a sporty bowler-hat and shoes polished to a mirror shine. There was even an extendable silver-handled walking stick. An outfit intended for a wedding, but which would suit his purpose well.

Talk about luck. For once in his life, folk would take him as a gentleman, and not a day too early. Dressing like a lord had been a dream of his for years, but there'd never been the occasion.

Of course, his cockney accent would give him away, but then again, not all toffs spoke like the royal family. Posture and bearing were more important, and the confidence to pose as an eccentric millionaire. He'd need to concoct a believable background history too, but he had all night, and by the morning he'd be ready.

If he were to feign his way into The Hotel California, and have them accept him as an eccentric millionaire, then he would need luck on his side. In his experience, luck was with you, or against you, and the difference either made you or broke you. Some people relied on their horoscope to tell their future, others on signs like finding a four-leaf clover, but Alf preferred to go by the trend.

As a test of his luck, he sneaked back to the main road where he'd abandoned the stolen scooter on the grass verge. There was little traffic this late in the evening and it rushed past smoothly. Sure enough, the scooter had vanished, relieving him of the original theft.

With his tummy full, providence on his side, and somebody else to take the blame for stealing the scooter, Alf strutted back to his den. Now, if his good fortune held, he didn't doubt he'd soon make a killing at the hotel's poker tables, and his heart raced with anticipation.

But as the sun dipped below the treetops and darkness fell, he set off to wander again. Somewhere or another he needed to find a roof over his head for the night. If worse came to the worse, he'd break into a barn someplace and sleep in the hay: one final night of blissful serenity.

Part 19:
In this post: Alf shares his bed with rodents…

Soon, he came across a small cattle shed that suited his needs. It sagged crookedly, far from people, abandoned and neglected. The door stuck ajar on broken hinges, and as he dragged it wide enough to squeeze in, three mice scurried out. It smelled dank, and the roof loomed open to the stars; a safe and regal haven to spend the night without fear of discovery.

He hung his new set of clothes over a beam in the roof and settled on a mound of old but dry straw in one corner. He couldn't have wished for a more comfortable bed. He folded his hands over his chest and sighed blissfully. If he kept as much luck with his plans as he'd enjoyed today, he wouldn't regret taking time off from work.

A full moon smiled at him through the hole in the roof, and birds flitted across its face. Or were they bats? Alf couldn't tell. Either way, the effect was enchanting, spoiled only by his skin that had begun to itch.

This close to London, no township was far away, and the closest of them embraced the Hotel California. Tonight he would share his bed of rough straw with rodents and creeping bugs. Tomorrow night he would sleep in a king-size bed, and who knows what delights he might share it with.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…

The distant clank of a tractor made Alf look up. Wide-open countryside surrounded him with the occasional copse of trees spread here and there, and old rotting shacks and barns forgotten in fields.

A cloud of birds followed in the tractor's wake, feasting on worms turned up by its plough. The smell of cow manure assaulted his nose. "The farmer's wife," he muttered, recalling his and his friend's retort whenever the farmers spread muck.

The rumble of traffic on the distant main road invaded his awareness, triggering his sense of survival. Time to get rid of the stolen scooter. By now, the fake Hell's Angel would have reported the theft to the police and they'd be on the lookout. Nonchalantly, he opened the luggage box to see what it contained.

Beneath a helmet and warm gloves, an expensive dress-suit met his gaze: the fake Hell's Angel's set of wedding garments. With the ease of two mated jigsaw pieces locking together, an idea slid into Alf's mind. If he were to make entry to The Hotel California he wouldn't stand a chance in his scruffy T-shirt and frayed jeans.

Ah, but with such a fine wardrobe of clothes, he reflected, tipping his head back, eyes closed to face the sun's life-giving warmth, I might just get away with it.

The wisest move right now though, he reckoned, was to vanish before any ruckus over the stolen scooter started. No sense chancing fate too much either. Working quickly, he donned the gloves and rubbed away any fingerprints he might have left on the scooter. A short dab on the start button brought the happy little machine to life again. Alf drove back to the main road, continued along it for two-hundred yards, and parked the scooter on the grass verge.

He rolled the ill-gotten wedding garments into a thick bundle, tucked it under his arm, and stepped lightly back towards the country lane, the carrier bag of snacks swinging in his other hand. Well into the lane, he dodged into a copse of dense trees, and sat on a fallen log.

Starving, he emptied the shopping bag's contents at his feet. Four cream cakes, a bottle of his favourite coke, and a king-size packet of spicy crisps—not his usual diet of high protein nourishment. Nevertheless, what a feast!

With everything consumed, he nestled on the grass with his hands behind his head and glanced up through the green canopy of trees to the blue sky above. The day was still young, all was right with the world, and he had plenty of time to do nothing but daydream.

As he savoured the moment, a deep, satisfying sigh eased from his chest. He didn't need to worry about weight training and sparing with Bert, or to pursue his dreary work as a security guard. Instead, either the promise of serenity, or the making of his fortune at The Hotel California's poker tables would dominate his life, all depending on which way fate carried him. Ah, heavens above, what a wonderful few days stretched ahead of him.

With time to take life easy, he lolled there almost until evening. His belly was good and full, insects buzzed lazily, and the day's sunny warmth showed no sign of fading. A free and frank man like him enjoyed this way of living better than many would think.

Of his two choices, gambling at The Hotel California excited him most, especially now he had the means to enter. His special skill with his third eye would ensure he won every hand.

When the evening grew darker, he examined the clothes. Carefully packed with the garb, he found a sporty bowler-hat and shoes polished to a mirror shine. There was even an extendable silver-handled walking stick. An outfit intended for a wedding, but which would suit his purpose well.

Talk about luck. For once in his life, folk would take him as a gentleman, and not a day too early. Dressing like that had been a dream of his for years, but there'd never been the occasion.

Of course, his cockney accent would give him away, but then again, not all toffs spoke like the royal family. Posture and bearing were more important, and the confidence to pose as an eccentric millionaire. He'd need to invent a believable background history too, but he had all night, and by the morning he'd be ready.

Part 18:
In this post: Alf tests his luck…
​
If he were to feign his way into The Hotel California, and have them accept him as an eccentric millionaire, then he would need luck on side. In his experience, luck was with you, or against you, and the difference either made you or broke you. Some people relied on their horoscope to tell their future, others on signs like finding a four-leaf clover, but Alf preferred to go by the trend.

As a test of his luck, he hoped someone had stolen the moped, relieving him of the original theft. To satisfy his curiosity, he sneaked back to the main road where he'd abandoned it on the grass verge. There was little traffic this late in the evening, and sure enough, the moped had vanished.

With his tummy full, providence on his side, and somebody else to take the blame for stealing the scooter, Alf strutted back to his den. Now, if his good fortune held, he didn't doubt that he'd make a killing at the hotel's poker tables in the morning, and his heart raced with anticipation.

But as the sun set below the treetops and darkness fell, he set off to wander again. Somewhere or another he needed to find a roof over his head for the night. If worse came to the worse, he'd find a barn someplace and sleep in the hay: one final night of blissful serenity.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf swished past the attractive young woman, skidded to a halt, stopped the little moped, and bowed his head. "Hello there," he said, presenting his friendliest Pug smile. "My name is Alf. Can I give you a lift?"

"No thanks, I don't have far to go," said the young lady, looking at him with suspicion.

But Alf, enjoying himself, couldn't let her slip away so easily. "It's a beautiful day, my darling, and you are a beautiful woman. Hop on behind and I'll take you for a spin, just for the fun of it."

The young lady screamed, dropped her carry bag, and set off running as if the devil loomed on her heels. Alf laughed out loud, swallowed his disappointment, and considered his haggard features. Baldheaded, flat-nosed, cauliflower ears, a stubble of scruffy hair on his jaw, and enough scars to make anyone think he was a veteran battlefield casualty. Who wouldn't run off?

Before he'd started his career as a street fighter, he'd been an irresistibly handsome hunk. In those days, girls threw themselves at him, and if he still had those looks the young lady would have gladly climbed on behind him and hugged him tightly.

He clasped his hands together in his lap and stared at them; today, he couldn't think of anyone who found him attractive.

It dawned on him then that perhaps this was the reason he sought solitude: a desire to escape the lonely sadness, a need to be alone. Being in his late thirties, he was still a young man, plenty of time to find a warm companion willing to share his days. But where was she?

He leant forward, elbows resting on the moped's handlebars, and stared off at nothing; one more dream he'd save for later.

Not downcast by nature, Alf set his gloom aside, stepped off the moped, and picked up the girl's carrier bag. Just as he suspected, it was full of nosh: cakes, potato crisps, and coke. With a bitter smile, he told himself off for thinking negatively. Heaven smiled on him today, and he couldn't wait to see what it had in store.

The distant clank of a tractor made him look up. Wide-open countryside surrounded him with the occasional copse of trees spread here and there, and old rotting shacks and barns forgotten in fields.

A cloud of birds followed in the tractor's wake, feasting on worms turned up by its plough. The smell of cow manure assaulted his nose. "The farmer's wife," he muttered, recalling his and his friend's retort whenever the farmers spread muck.
The rumble of traffic on the distant main road invaded his awareness, triggering his sense of survival. Time to get rid of the stolen scooter. By now, the fake Hell's Angel would have reported the theft to the police and they'd be on the lookout. Nonchalantly, he opened the luggage box to see what it contained.

Beneath a helmet and warm gloves, an expensive dress-suit met his gaze: the fake Hell's Angel's set of wedding garments. With the ease of two mated jigsaw pieces locking together, an idea slid into Alf's mind. If he were to make entry to The Hotel California he wouldn't stand a chance in his scruffy T-shirt and frayed jeans.

Ah, but with such a fine wardrobe of clothes, he reflected, tipping his head back, eyes closed to face the sun's life-giving warmth, I might just get away with it.

The wisest move, he reckoned, was to vanish before any ruckus over the stolen scooter started. No sense chancing fate too much either. Working quickly, he donned the gloves and rubbed away any fingerprints he might have left on the scooter. A short dab on the start button brought the happy little machine to life again. Alf drove back to the main road, continued along it for two-hundred yards, and parked the scooter on the grass verge.

He rolled the ill-gotten wedding garments into a thick bundle, tucked it under his arm, and stepped lightly back towards the country lane, the carrier bag of snacks swinging in his other hand. Well into the lane, he dodged into a copse of dense trees, and sat on a fallen log.

Starving, he emptied the shopping bag's contents at his feet. Four cream cakes, a bottle of his favourite coke, and a king-size packet of spicy crisps-not his usual diet of high protein nourishment. Nevertheless, what a feast!

With everything consumed, he nestled on the grass with his hands behind his head and glanced up through the green canopy of trees to the blue sky above. The day was still young, all was right with the world, and he had plenty of time to do nothing but daydream.

As he savoured the moment, a deep, satisfying sigh eased from his chest. He didn't need to worry about weight training and sparing with Bert, or to pursue his dreary work as a security guard. Instead was either the promise of serenity for the next few days, or of making his fortune at The Hotel California's poker tables, all depending on which way fate carried him. Ah, heavens above, what a wonderful few days stretched ahead of him.

Part 17:
In this post: Alf plans his mutation into a wealthy gentleman…

​With time to take life easy, he lolled there almost until evening. His belly was good and full, insects buzzed lazily, and the day's sunny warmth showed no sign of fading. A free and frank man like him enjoyed this way of living better than many would think.

Of his two choices, gambling at The Hotel California excited him most, especially now he had the means to enter. His special skill with his third eye would ensure he made a fortune.

The evening grew darker, and he examined the clothes. Carefully packed with the garb, he found a sporty bowler-hat and shoes polished to a mirror shine. There was even an extendable silver-handled walking stick. An outfit intended for a wedding, but which would suit his purpose well.

Talk about luck. For once in his life, folk would take him as a gentleman, and not a day too early. Dressing like that had been a dream of his for years, but there'd never been the occasion.

Of course, his cockney accent would give him away, but then again, not all toffs spoke like the royal family. Posture and bearing were more important, and the confidence to pose as an eccentric millionaire. He'd need to invent a believable background history too, but he had all night, and by the morning he'd be ready.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
The scooter wielded even less power than Alf expected, and he kept the throttle opened at full. He'd ridden many a motorcycle, his own was a massive Harley, but none of them were as puny and light as this. But what did it matter? he consoled himself. You never know how life will turn when you have no expectations.

Potholes riddled the dirt-track road that led out of The Stables, forcing him to drive slalom. A cloud of dust followed, and a young couple holding hands almost fell into the ditch as he swerved past. "Yahoo!" shouted Alf, both legs and his free arm raised as high as he could lift them.

Driving along the highway proved much less fun. This time, it was he who almost fell into the ditch as lorries squeezed past to overtake. At the first opportunity he veered into a single-lane side road that wormed its way to a cluster of distant farmsteads.

As soon as he turned into the lane, throttle still wide open, he recognised the slim outline of a young lady ambling beside the curb, hips swaying like a pendulum. She carried a pink handbag over her slender shoulder and lugged a plastic carrier bag in one hand, swapping to the other as watched. If Alf guessed right, he reckoned a bus had dropped her off on the main road and she was walking home.

One minute later, he swished past her, skidded to a halt, stopped the little machine, and bowed his head. "Hello there," he said, presenting his friendliest Pug smile. "My name is Alf. Can I give you a lift?"

"No thanks, I don't have far to go," said the young lady, looking at him with suspicion.

But Alf, enjoying himself, couldn't let her slip away so easily. "It's a beautiful day, my darling, and you are a beautiful woman. Hop on behind and I'll take you for a spin, just for the fun of it."

The young lady screamed, dropped her carry bag, and set off running as if the devil loomed on her heels. Alf laughed out loud, swallowed his disappointment, and considered his haggard features. Baldheaded, flat-nosed, cauliflower ears, a stubble of scruffy hair on his jaw, and enough scars to make anyone think he was a veteran battlefield casualty. Who wouldn't run off?

Before he'd started his career as a street fighter, he'd been an irresistibly handsome hunk. In those days, girls threw themselves at him, and if he still had those looks the ypung lady would have gladly climbed on behind him and hugged him tightly. He clasped his hands together in his lap and stared at them; today, he couldn't think of anyone who found him attractive.

It dawned on him then that perhaps this was the reason he sought solitude: a desire to escape the lonely sadness, a need to be alone. Being in his late thirties, he was still a young man, plenty of time to find a warm companion willing to share his days. But where was she? He leant forward, elbows resting on the moped's handlebars, and stared off at nothing; one more dream he'd save for later.

Not downcast by nature, Alf set his gloom aside, stepped off the moped, and picked up the girl's carrier bag. Just as he suspected, it was full of nosh: cakes, potato crisps, and coke. With a bitter smile, he told himself off for thinking negatively. Heaven smiled on him today, and he couldn't wait to see what it had in store.

The distant clank of a tractor made him look up. Wide-open countryside surrounded him with the occasional copse of trees spread here and there, and old rotting shacks and barns forgotten in fields.

A cloud of birds followed in the tractor's wake, feasting on worms turned up by its plough. The smell of cow manure assaulted his nose. "The farmer's wife," he muttered, recalling his and his friend's retort whenever the farmers spread muck.

Another symbol of modern society invaded his awareness: the rumble of traffic on the distant main road. It triggered his sense of survival. Time to rid himself of the stolen scooter. By now, the fake Hell's Angel would have reported the theft to the police and they'd be on the lookout. Nonchalantly, he opened the luggage box to see what it contained.

Beneath a helmet and warm gloves, an expensive dress-suit met his gaze: the fake Hell's Angel's set of wedding garments. With the ease of two mated jigsaw pieces locking together, an idea slid into Alf's mind. If he were to make entry to The Hotel California he wouldn't stand a chance in his scruffy T-shirt and frayed jeans.

Ah, but with such a fine wardrobe of clothes, he reflected, tipping his head back, eyes closed to face the sun's life-giving warmth, I might just get away with it.

Part 16:
In this post: Alf makes a picnic of his stolen food…

​The wisest move, he reckoned, was to vanish before the ruckus started. No sense chancing fate too much either. Working quickly, he donned the gloves and rubbed away any fingerprints he might have left on the stolen scooter. A short dab on the start button brought the happy little machine to life again. Alf drove back to the main road, continued along it for two-hundred yards, and parked the scooter on the grass verge.

He rolled the ill-gotten wedding garments into a thick bundle, tucked it under his arm, and stepped lightly back towards the country lane, the carrier bag of snacks swinging in his other hand. Well into the lane, he dodged into a copse of dense trees, and sat on a fallen log.

Starving, he emptied the shopping bag's contents at his feet. Four cream cakes, a bottle of his favourite coke, and a king-size packet of spicy crisps-not his usual diet of high protein nourishment. Nevertheless, what a feast!

With everything consumed, he nestled on the grass with his hands behind his head and glanced up through the green canopy of trees to the blue sky above. The day was still young, all was right with the world, and he had plenty of time to dawdle and daydream.

As he savoured the moment, a deep, satisfying sigh eased from his chest. He didn't need to worry about weight training and sparing with Bert, or his dreary work as a security guard. Instead was the promise of serenity, or making his fortune at The Hotel California's poker tables, all depending on which way fate carried him. Ah, heavens above, what a wonderful few days stretched ahead of him.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Standing alone now on Ye Olde Inn's car park, Alf put the lawyer from his mind, glanced about, and noticed a small moped scooter parked next to a bicycle stand. It had small balloon tires, orange and silver trimmings, and a large luggage box in the same style behind the seat.

He strolled across to inspect it closer, swung a leg over the softly padded saddle, and noticed the keys remained in the ignition. He considered loaning it for a while and wriggled his hairless eyebrows. It was neither a sin nor a shame when the owner was most likely the fake Hell's Angel he'd met at the bar just now. A jab on the start button brought it to happily life, its exhaust making a sound like popcorn in a hot saucepan.

There were no gears, so Alf gave it full throttle and pushed off with his long legs. Not caring what others thought, he whooped, did a lap of the car park, and zipped off toward the main road and freedom.

The scooter wielded even less power than Alf expected, and he kept the throttle opened at full. He'd ridden many a motorcycle, his own was a massive Harley, but none of them were as puny and light as this. But what did it matter? he consoled himself. You never know how life will turn when you have no expectations.

Potholes riddled the dirt-track road that led out of The Stables, forcing him to drive slalom. A cloud of dust followed, and a young couple holding hands almost fell into the ditch as he swerved past. "Yahoo!" shouted Alf, both legs and his free arm raised as high as he could lift them.

Driving along the highway proved much less fun. This time, it was he who almost fell into the ditch as lorries squeezed past to overtake. At the first opportunity he veered into a single-lane side road that wormed its way to a cluster of distant farmsteads.

As soon as he turned into the lane, throttle still wide open, he recognised the slim outline of a young lady ambling beside the curb, hips swaying like a pendulum. She carried a pink handbag over her slender shoulder and lugged a plastic carrier bag in one hand, swapping as he watched to the other. If Alf guessed right, he reckoned a bus had dropped her off on the main road and she was walking home.

One minute later, he swished past her, skidded to a halt, stopped the little machine, and bowed his head. "Hello there," he said, presenting his friendliest Pug smile. "My name is Alf. Can I give you a lift?"

"No thanks, I don't have far to go," said the girl, looking at him with suspicion.

But Alf, enjoying himself, couldn't let her slip away so easily. "It's a beautiful day, my darling, and you are a beautiful woman. Hop on behind and I'll take you for a spin, just for the fun of it."

The girl screamed, dropped her carry bag, and set off running as if the devil loomed on her heels. Alf laughed out loud, swallowed his disappointment, and considered his haggard features. Baldheaded, flat-nosed, cauliflower ears, a stubble of scruffy hair on his jaw, and enough scars to make anyone think he was a veteran battlefield casualty. Who wouldn't run off?

Before he'd started his career as a street fighter, he'd been an irresistibly handsome hunk. In those days, girls threw themselves at him, and if he still had those looks the girl would have gladly climbed on behind him and hugged him tightly. He clasped his hands together in his lap and stared at them; today, he couldn't think of anyone who found him attractive.

It dawned on him then that perhaps this was the reason he sought solitude: a desire to escape the lonely sadness, a need to be alone. Being in his early forties, he was still a young man, plenty of time to find a warm companion willing to share his days. But where was she? He leant forward, elbows resting on the moped's handlebars, and stared off at nothing; one more dream he'd save for later.

Not downcast by nature, Alf set his gloom aside, stepped off the moped, and picked up the girl's carrier bag. Just as he suspected, it was full of nosh: cakes, potato crisps, and coke. With a bitter smile, he told himself off for thinking negatively. Heaven smiled on him today, and he couldn't wait to see what it had in store.

Part 15:
In this post: Alf finds a wedding suit…

Pebbles on the gravel road crunched under his boots, or was it the scatters of broken glass littering the wayside? There, among the tangled clumps of dandelions and foxtail, he fixed his gaze on cigarette butts, plastic food trays, and beer cans: a sad reminder of modern society.

The distant clank of a tractor made him look up. Wide-open countryside surrounded him with the occasional copse of trees spread here and there, and old rotting shacks and barns forgotten in fields.

A cloud of birds followed in the tractor's wake, feasting on worms turned up by its plough. The smell of cow manure assaulted his nose. "The farmer's wife," he muttered, recalling his and his friend's retort whenever the farmers spread muck.

Another symbol of modern society invaded his awareness: the rumble of traffic on the distant main road. It triggered his sense of survival. Time to rid himself of the stolen scooter. By now, the fake Hell's Angel would have reported the theft to the police and they'd be on the lookout. Nonchalantly, he opened the luggage box to see what it contained.

An expensive dress-suit met his gaze: the fake Hell's Angel's set of wedding garments. With the ease of two mated jigsaw pieces locking together, an idea slid into Alf's mind. If he were to make entry to The Hotel California he wouldn't stand a chance in his scruffy T-shirt and frayed jeans.

​Ah, but with such a fine wardrobe of clothes, he reflected, tipping his head back, eyes closed to face the sun's life-giving warmth, I might just get away with it.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf paused on Ye Olde Inn's doorstep and drew a deep breath of fresh air. Now that he'd taken the plunge to start his roaming, he felt much easier at heart and whistled along with the birds. It was a beautiful spring day, with summer right around the corner. What more could a poor soul wish? No responsibilities for a while; life was for living in the now.

He carried no food. There was no need to fret about such minor details; he'd find something along the way. He had no need of money either, or his smartphone, or a knapsack filled with useless junk. Leaving with nothing but the fluff in his pockets gave him a vast feeling of freedom—just like in his younger days.

Yet, he couldn't fool himself. He wasn't as free as he liked to think. His friends' world was under assault from an evil foe and on the verge of collapse. From this instant, he was on a quest: to find entrance into the darkest depths of the Hotel California in search of a golden nugget. On his journey, he'd do battle with fierce bouncers and vanquish Styles' wicked witch of a sister.

He chuckled to himself and eased the fantasy from his mind. Later, after the sun had set, he'd recline under the stars, dream his dreams, and let the world and time drift along without him.

The lawyer had followed him out. As he squeezed past, he patted Alf on his back, stared up into his eyes, and said, "These are good people. Don't cause them more problems than they already have."

Alf stared back but didn't commit himself. Whatever he did during the next few days was nobody's business but his own.

With a frail salute and a vague wink, the lawyer slumped into his car and drove off. From his open window he called, "See you in three days."

Standing alone now on Ye Olde Inn's car park, Alf put the lawyer from his mind, glanced about, and noticed a small moped scooter parked next to a bicycle stand. It had small balloon tires, orange and silver trimmings, and a large luggage box in the same style behind the seat.

He strolled across to inspect it closer, swung a leg over the softly padded saddle, and noticed the keys remained in the ignition. He considered loaning it for a while and wriggled his hairless eyebrows. It was neither a sin nor a shame when the owner was most likely the fake Hell's Angel he'd met at the bar just now. A jab on the start button brought it to happily life, its exhaust making a sound like popcorn in a hot saucepan.

There were no gears, so Alf gave it full throttle and helped it on its way by pushing off with his long legs that dangled on each side. Not caring what others thought, he whooped, did a lap of the car park, and zipped off toward the main road and freedom.

The scooter wielded even less power than Alf expected, and he kept the throttle opened at full. He'd ridden many a motorcycle, his own was a massive Harley, but none of them were as puny and light as this. But what did it matter? he consoled himself. You never know how life will turn when you have no expectations.

The dirt track road that led out of The Stables was riddled with potholes, forcing him to drive slalom. A cloud of dust followed, and a young couple holding hands almost fell into the ditch as he swerved past. "Yahoo!" shouted Alf, both legs and his free arm raised as high as he could get them.

Driving along the highway proved much less fun. This time, it was he who almost fell into the ditch as lorries squeezed past to overtake. At the first opportunity, he veered into a single-lane side road, which wormed its way to a cluster of distant farmsteads.

As soon as he turned into the lane, throttle still wide open, he recognised the slim outline of a young lady ambling beside the curb, hips swaying like a pendulum. She carried a handbag over her shoulder and a plastic carrier bag in one hand. If Alf guessed right, he reckoned a bus had dropped her off on the main road and she was walking home.

One minute later, he swished past her, skidded to a halt, stopped the little machine, and bowed his head. "Hello there," he said, presenting his friendliest Pug smile. "My name is Alf. Can I give you a lift?"

Part 14:
In this post: Alf shakes off an acute case of melancholy…

"No thanks, I don't have far to go," said the girl, looking at him with suspicion. But Alf, enjoying himself, couldn't let her slip away so easily. "It's a beautiful day and you're a beautiful woman. Hop on behind and I'll take you for a spin, just for the fun of it."

The girl screamed, dropped her carry bag, and set off running as if the devil loomed on her heels. Alf laughed out loud, swallowed his disappointment, and considered his haggard features. Baldheaded, flat-nosed, cauliflower ears, a stubble of scruffy hair on his jaw, and enough scars to make anyone think he was a veteran battlefield casualty. Who wouldn't run off?

Before he'd started his career as a street fighter, he'd been an irresistibly handsome hunk. In those days, girls threw themselves at him, and if he still had those looks the girl would have gladly climbed on behind him and hugged him tightly. Today, he couldn't think of anyone who found him attractive.

It dawned on him then that perhaps this was the reason he sought solitude: a desire to escape the lonely sadness, a need to be alone. Being in his early forties, he was still a young man, plenty of time to find a warm companion willing to share his days. But where was she? He leant forward, elbows resting on the moped's handlebars, and stared off at nothing; one more dream he'd save for later.

Not downcast by nature, Alf set his gloom aside, stepped off the moped, and picked up the girl's carrier bag. Just as he suspected, it was full of nosh: cakes, potato crisps, and coke. With a bitter smile, he told himself off for thinking negatively. Heaven smiled on him today, and he couldn't wait to see what it had in store.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf wriggled his fingers and flexed the muscles in his broad shoulders. The time had come to apply his gumption. The Hotel California called to him, and he didn't have the will to resist. "I'm taking a few days off work," he said.

"I forbid you to go to the Hotel California," said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

"Really," protested Vicar Bitter, cheeks sucked in. "England is a free country. How can you prevent him?"

"I can't," admitted Chief Inspector Dobbs. "It's just that…" He scratched at his neck as if to loosen a bunch of words that had stuck in his throat. "It's just that I wouldn't like to see him get in trouble."

Alf raised his eyebrows at him in disbelief. "You care about me?"

"I care about upholding the law." Chief Inspector Dobbs' voice was flat, and his smile was false.

A burst of dismissive laughter bubbled from Alf. "I need a holiday. That’s all." He swung to leave and then stopped. "I haven't let anyone else know, not even my bosses. Can one of you get a message to the Cloud Brothers and tell them I'll be away for a few days?"

The brothers wouldn't need him to guard thier estate at present. They were home on one of their rare visits, and with all their out-of-this-world equipment to safeguard the property, intrusion was impossible. And anyway, his good old mate Bert would cover for him. He set his jaw, and a sour expression crossed his face; if the young masters didn't approve of him taking a few days off, then he'd quit.

"Don't look at me," said Vicar Bitter. "The last time I went over there, an evil-looking woman brandishing a mace chased me off."

"That would have been Sibyl," said Styles, crossing himself. "She's a witch." He swallowed. "A real one." His eyes swiveled to meet Alf's, an apologetic expression on his face. "It's not easy for any of us to visit the Cloud Mansion. Can't you phone them?"

Alf didn't have his smartphone with him. And anyway, he couldn't be bothered. If he were told to stay on at work, he'd go barmy. All he wanted was to clear off without a fuss. "When you see Bert, tell him I'll be back in two or three days." And with that, he strolled out of the inn with nothing but the white T-shirt on his back, his threadbare blue denims, a pair of worn army boots, and a look of elation in his eyes.

Moments later, he paused on Ye Olde Inn's doorstep and drew a deep breath of fresh air. Now that he'd taken the plunge to start his roaming, he felt much easier at heart and whistled along with the birds. It was a beautiful spring day, with summer right around the corner. What more could a poor soul wish? No responsibilities for a while; life was for living in the now.

He carried no food. There was no need to fret about such minor details; he'd find something along the way. He had no need of money either, or his smartphone, or a knapsack filled with useless junk. Leaving with nothing but the fluff in his pockets gave him a vast feeling of freedom—just like in his younger days.

Yet, he couldn't fool himself. He wasn't as free as he liked to think. His friends' world was under assault from an evil foe and on the verge of collapse. From this instant, he was on a quest: to find entrance into the darkest depths of the Hotel California in search of a golden nugget. On his journey, he'd do battle with fierce bouncers and vanquish Styles' wicked witch of a sister.

He chuckled to himself and eased the fantasy from his mind. Later, after the sun had set, he'd recline under the stars, dream his dreams, and let the world and time drift along without him.

The lawyer had followed him out. As he squeezed past, he patted Alf on his back, stared up into his eyes, and said, "These are good people. Don't cause them more problems than they already have."

Alf stared back but didn't commit himself. Whatever he did during the next few was nobody's business but his own.

With a frail salute and a vague wink, the lawyer slumped into his car and drove off. From his open window he called, "See you in three days."

Standing alone now on Ye Olde Inn's car park, Alf put the lawyer from his mind, glanced about, and noticed a small moped scooter parked next to a bicycle satnd. It had small balloon tires, orange and silver trimmings, and a large luggage box in the same style behind the seat.

He strolled across to inspect it closer and considered loaning it for a while. It was neither a sin nor a shame when the owner was most likely the fake Hell's Angel he'd met at the bar just now.

Alf swung a leg over the softly padded saddle and noticed the keys remained in the ignition. A jab on the start button brought it to life and the exhaust popped like an idle chainsaw.

There were no gears, so Alf gave it full throttle and helped it on its way by pushing off with his long legs that dangled on each side. Not caring what others thought, he whooped, did a lap of the car park, and zipped off toward the main road and freedom.
 
Part 13:
In this post: Like a friendly Pug, Alf turns on the charm…

The scooter wielded even less power than Alf expected, and he kept the throttle opened at full. He'd ridden many a motorcycle, his own was a massive Harley, but none of them were as puny and light as this. But what did it matter? he consoled himself. You never know how life will turn when you have no expectations.

The dirt track road that led out of The Stables was riddled with potholes, forcing him to drive slalom. A cloud of dust followed, and a young couple holding hands almost fell into the ditch as he swerved past. "Yahoo!" shouted Alf, both legs and his free arm raised as high as he could get them.

Driving along the highway proved much less fun. This time, it was he who almost fell into the ditch as lorries squeezed past to overtake. At the first opportunity, he veered into a single-lane side road, which wormed its way to a cluster of distant farmsteads.

As soon as he turned into the lane, throttle still wide open, he recognised the slim outline of a young lady ambling beside the curb, hips swaying like a pendulum. She carried a handbag over her shoulder and a plastic carrier bag in one hand. If Alf guessed right, he reckoned a bus had dropped her off on the main road and she was walking home.

One minute later, he swished past her, skidded to a halt, stopped the little machine, and bowed his head. "Hello there," he said, presenting his friendliest Pug smile. "My name is Alf. Can I give you a lift?"

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
"Why should I want to help you lot?" asked Alf.

"Would you like to see this wonderful Inn turned into a desolate den of corruption?" asked Vicar Bitter.

"Yes," said Alf, a little too quickly, then tilted his head from side to side, weighing choices. "No, not really," he admitted. Like the Hotel California, The Stables was also a classy joint, visited by the rich-middle and upper classes, and Ye Olde Inn was the social hub of its province. Unlike his own common-as-muck background, both management and clientele were mostly from an excellent breed of people, decent and honest. Here, all accepted him as a friend and an equal, a pleasure he'd never encountered in his previous criminal life.

Apart from that, the young Cloud Masters had banned him from staging his bare-knuckle fights on their estate. He was England's champion, so he had to have somewhere to pitch battle, and Styles had allowed him to use one of his barns. Vicar Bitter and Chief Inspector Dobbs didn't approve, but they both turned blind eyes. In secret, he suspected the vicar had even won a few bob on the side.

"Have you asked the young Cloud Masters for a loan?" asked Alf. He had no way of knowing, but suspected his employers were the wealthiest people in Britain.

"Yes," said Styles, "but they aren't interested."

The news didn't surprise Alf. The Cloud brothers lived in a secluded and unearthly world on their estate. As long as nobody interfered with them, they didn't much mind what happened on the outside. No, legal means wouldn't solve Styles' problem.

Alf wriggled his fingers and flexed the muscles in his broad shoulders. The time had come to apply his gumption. The Hotel California called to him, and he didn't have the will to resist. "I'm taking a few days off work," he said.

"I forbid you to go to the Hotel California," said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

"Really," protested Vicar Bitter, cheeks sucked in. "England is a free country. How can you prevent him?"

"I can't," admitted Chief Inspector Dobbs. "It's just that…" He scratched at his neck as if a bunch of words had stuck in his throat. "It's just that I wouldn't like to see him get in trouble."

Alf raised his eyebrows at him in disbelief. "You care about me?"

"I care about upholding the law."

A burst of dismissive laughter bubbled from Alf. "I need a holiday. That’s all." He swung to leave and then stopped. "I haven't let anyone else know, not even my bosses. Can one of you get a message to the Cloud Brothers and tell them I'll be away for a few days?"

The brothers wouldn't need him at the present. They were home on one of their rare visits. With all their out-of-this-world equipment to guard the estate, intrusion was impossible. And anyway, his good old mate Bert would cover for him. He set his jaw and a sour expression crossed his face; if the young masters didn't approve of him taking a few days off, then he'd quit.

"Don't look at me," said Vicar Bitter. "The last time I went over there, an evil-looking woman brandishing a mace chased me off."

"It's not easy for any of us to visit them," said Styles. "Can't you phone them?"

Alf didn't have his smartphone with him. And anyway, he couldn't be bothered. If he were told to stay on at work, he'd go barmy. All he wanted was to clear off without a fuss. "When you see Bert, tell him I'll be back in two or three days." And with that, he strolled out of the inn with nothing but the white T-shirt on his back, a threadbare pair of blue denims, a pair of worn army boots, and a look of elation in his eyes.

Moments later, he paused on Ye Olde Inn's doorstep and drew a deep breath of fresh air. Now that he'd taken the plunge to start his roaming, he felt much easier at heart and whistled along with the birds. It was a beautiful spring day, with summer right around the corner. What more could a poor soul wish? No responsibilities for a while; life was for living in the now.

He carried no food. There was no need to fret about such minor details; he'd find something along the way. He had no need of money either, or his smartphone, or a knapsack filled with useless junk. Leaving with nothing but the fluff in his pockets gave him a vast feeling of freedom—just like in his younger days.

Yet, he couldn't fool himself. He wasn't as free as he liked to think. His friends' world was under assault from an evil foe and on the verge of collapse. From this instant, he was on a quest: to find entrance into the darkest depths of the Hotel California in search of a golden nugget. On his journey, he'd do battle with fierce bouncers and vanquish Styles' wicked witch of a sister.

He chuckled to himself and eased the fantasy from his mind. Later, he'd recline under the stars, dream his dreams, and let the world and time drift along without him.

Part 12

In this post: Alf borrows a moped…

​The lawyer had followed him out. As he squeezed past, he patted Alf on his back, stared up into his eyes, and said, "These are good people. Don't cause them more problems than they already have."

Alf stared back but didn't commit himself. Whatever he did now was nobody's business but his own.

With a frail salute and a vague wink, the lawyer slumped into his car and drove off.

Standing alone now on Ye Olde Inn's car park, Alf noticed a small moped scooter with orange and silver trimmings. It had small balloon tires and a large luggage box in the same style behind the seat. The moped was nothing like his own Harley monster, and he couldn't understand why anyone would want to drive such a feeble machine. A bike like that couldn't even keep up with the traffic along the highway.

He strolled across to inspect it closer and wondered if he could loan it for a while. It was neither a sin nor a shame when the owner was most likely the fake Hell's Angel he'd met at the bar just now.

Alf swung a leg over the softly padded saddle and noticed the keys remained in the ignition. A jab on the start button brought it to life and the exhaust popped like an idle chainsaw.

There were no gears, so Alf gave it full throttle and helped it on its way by pushing off with his long legs that dangled on each side. Not caring what others thought, he whooped, did a lap of the car park, and zipped off toward the main road and freedom.

To be continued…
 
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history inWhat on Earth.
-

Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf sensed his mood brighten. This was just the adventure he was looking for: to confront a corrupt woman who ran a mob of villains and who had defied the police and the courts. She employed bouncers, and they were always looking for a fight. What more could he ask for? Best of all, with the help of his enhanced third eye, he could make a fortune at their poker tables. Trying to conceal his excitement he asked, "Can you introduce me to your sister?"

Styles almost laughed. "It's a classy joint, not for ruffians like you. She has friends in high places, very high places, which is why she's gotten away with her corruption."

Vicar Bitter flapped his hand, silencing Styles and directing his attention to Alf. "What do you propose to do?"

"I can tell you that," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "He wants to go there to gamble, and I forbid it."

"Wait just a second," said the vicar. "Wouldn't it be handy with a man on the inside? A secret agent?"

"I can't allow it," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "It goes against all my principles."

"Yes, but maybe Alf can persuade her not to carry out her threat."

They all stared at him.

"How?" said Styles.

"I'm not sure, but Alf is a resourceful man. He has gumption, isn't that what his friend Bert is always telling us? Surely, among the four of us, we can formulate a cunning plan?"

"Stop right there," said the lawyer, carefully stuffing his papers back into his briefcase. "I agree with the Inspector…"

"Chief Inspector," interrupted Dobbs.

"Quite so. I agree with Chief Inspector Dobbs and do not wish to be party to this conversation. If you intend for this man, Alf, to engage in criminality, please wait until I have left the building before you continue with your scheming."

"Fair enough," said Styles. "That will leave three of us to vote on whether Alf should act as a spy or not."

Alf could tell which way an eventual vote would go: Styles would vote yes, Chief Inspector Dobbs would vote no, and the vicar, despite his incitement, would refuse to commit himself. In either case, Alf wasn't interested. They could plan themselves blue in their faces for all he cared. In his experience, plans always went wrong. Far better to go with the flow and tackle each opportunity as it arose. That was his intention, and he couldn't wait to start.
"Why should I want to help you lot?" he asked.

"Would you like to see this wonderful place turned into a desolate den of corruption?" asked Vicar Bitter.

"Yes," said Alf, a little too quickly, then tilted his head from side to side, weighing choices. "No, not really," he admitted. Like the Hotel California, The Stables was also a classy joint, visited by the rich middle and upper classes. Unlike his own common-as-muck background, both management and clientele were mostly from an excellent breed of people, decent and honest. Here, all accepted him as a friend and an equal, a pleasure he'd never encountered in his previous criminal life.

Apart from that, the young Cloud Masters had banned him from staging his bare-knuckle fights on their estate. He was England's champion, so he had to have somewhere to pitch battle, and Styles had allowed him to use one of his barns. Vicar Bitter and Chief Inspector Dobbs didn't approve, but they both turned blind eyes. In secret, he suspected the vicar had even won a few bob on the side.

"Have you asked the young Cloud Masters for a loan?" asked Alf. He had no way of knowing, but suspected they were the wealthiest people in Britain.

"Yes," said Styles, "but they aren't interested."

The news didn't surprise Alf. The Cloud brothers lived in a secluded world on their estate. As long as nobody interfered with them, they didn't much mind what happened on the outside. No, legal means wouldn't solve Styles' problem. Alf wriggled his fingers and flexed the muscles in his broad shoulders. The time had come to apply his gumption. The Hotel California called to him, and he didn't have the will to resist. "I'm taking a few days off work," he said.

"I forbid you to go to the Hotel California," said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

"Really," protested Vicar Bitter, cheeks sucked in. "England is a free country. How can you prevent him?"

"I can't," admitted Chief Inspector Dobbs. "It's just that…" He scratched at his neck as if a bunch of words had stuck in his throat. "It's just that I wouldn't like to see him get in trouble."

Alf raised his eyebrows at him in disbelief. "You care about me?"

"I care about upholding the law."

A burst of dismissive laughter bubbled from Alf. "I need a holiday. That’s all." He swung to leave and then stopped. "I haven't let anyone else know, not even my bosses. Can one of you get a message to them and tell them I'll be away for a few days?"

The Cloud brothers wouldn't need him at present. They were home on one of their rare visits. With all their out-of-this-world equipment to guard the estate, intrusion was impossible. And anyway, his good old mate Bert would cover for  him. If the young masters didn't approve of him taking a few days off, then he'd quit.

"Don't look at me," said Vicar Bitter. "The last time I went over there, an evil-looking woman brandishing a mace chased me off."

"It's not easy for any of us to visit them," said Styles. "Can't you phone them?"

Alf didn't have his smartphone with him. And anyway, he couldn't be bothered. If he were told to stay on at work, he'd go barmy. All he wanted was to clear off without a fuss. "When you see Bert, tell him I'll be back in two or three days." And with that, he strolled out of the inn with nothing but the white T-shirt on his back, a threadbare pair of blue denims, a pair of worn army boots, and a look of elation in his eyes.

Part 11
In this post: Alf sets off on a quest…

Moments later, he paused on Ye Olde Inn's doorstep and drew a deep breath of fresh air. Now that he'd taken the plunge to start his roaming, he felt much easier at heart and whistled along with the birds. It was a beautiful spring day, with summer right around the corner. What more could a poor soul wish? No responsibilities for a while, life was for living in the now.

He carried no food. There was no need to fret about such minor details; he'd find something along the way. He had no need of money either, or his smartphone, or a knapsack filled with useless junk. Leaving with nothing but the fluff in his pockets gave him a vast feeling of freedom—just like in his younger days.

Yet, he couldn't fool himself. He wasn't as free as he liked to think. His friends' world was under assault from an evil foe and on the verge of collapse. From this instant, he was on a quest: to find entrance into the darkest depths of the Hotel California in search of a golden nugget. On his journey, he'd do battle with fierce bouncers and vanquish Styles' wicked witch of a sister.

He chuckled to himself and eased the fantasy from his mind. Later, he'd recline under the stars, let the world and time drift along without him, and dream his dreams.

To be continued…
 
The real world:Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
​-

Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.

#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
In an uncertain tone, Alf asked, "Does it matter if your sister takes control?"

"Of course it does," said Chief Inspector Dobbs, answering for Sykes. "She'll turn this place into a brothel and gambling house. We can't have that."

"Heaven forbid," said Vicar Bitter, face as straight as a fence post.

"It's what she does in town," continued Chief Inspector Dobbs. "She owns and runs the Hotel California."

Alf had heard of it. "Isn't the Hotel California an old people's home for the wealthy?"

"It's a cover-up," snapped Chief Inspector Dobbs, tightening his grip around his mug of beer. "I tried to bust her once, but she's an evil mobster who covers her crimes well. Her bouncers protect her with their lives, and even you wouldn't want to mess with them. You can't imagine how much I hate their guts."

Alf noticed his heart rate speed up. The Hotel California intrigued him and he thought he might pay a visit.

"It'll be the death of The Stables as we know it," said Styles.

"Speaking as a man of God," said Vicar Bitter, "I find this appalling. After she turns this magnificent inn into a house of sin, who will allow their innocent young daughters to come to The Stables? The village's entire clientele will shift from God-fearing citizens to devil worshippers."

"Can't you just pay her off?" asked Alf, already knowing the answer.

The lawyer slid a piece of paper from his briefcase and flicked it with a finger. "Surveyors have valued Ye Olde inn at six-point-four million pounds."

Alf whistled.

"Yeah," agreed Sykes, "which means I have to find three-point-two millions, and I've got nothing like that much money. The bank won't lend me any either. It's futile. All is lost." From a corner of his eye, a tear rolled down his cheek and splattered on top of his collapsed house of cards.

Alf, on the other hand, sensed his mood brighten. This was just the adventure he was looking for: a corrupt woman who ran a mob of villains and who had defied the police and the courts. What more could he ask for? With the help of his enhanced third eye, he could make a fortune at their poker tables, and bouncers were always itching for a fight. Trying to conceal his excitement he asked, "Can you introduce me to your sister?"

Styles almost laughed. "It's a classy joint, not for ruffians like you. She has friends in high places, very high places, which is why she's gotten away with her corruption."

Vicar Bitter flapped his hand, silencing Styles and directing his attention to Alf. "What do you propose to do?"

"I can tell you that," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "He wants to go there to gamble, and I forbid it."

"Wait just a second," said the vicar. "Wouldn't it be handy with a man on the inside? A secret agent?"

"I can't allow it," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "It goes against all my principles."

"Yes, but maybe Alf can persuade her not to carry out her threat."

They all stared at him.

"How?" said Styles.

"I'm not sure, but Alf is a resourceful man. He has gumption, isn't that what his friend Bert is always telling us? Surely, among the four of us, we can formulate a cunning plan?"

"Stop right there," said the lawyer, carefully stuffing his papers back into his briefcase. "I agree with the Inspector…"

"Chief Inspector," interrupted Dobbs.

"Quite so. I agree with Chief Inspector Dobbs and do not wish to be party to this conversation. If you intend for this man, Alf, to engage in criminality, please wait until I have left the building before you continue with your scheming."

"Fair enough," said Styles. "That will leave three of us to vote on whether Alf should act as a spy or not."

Alf could tell which way the vote would go: Styles would vote yes, Chief Inspector Dobbs would vote no, and the vicar, despite his incitement, would refuse to commit himself. In either case, Alf wasn't interested. They could plan themselves blue in their faces for all he cared. In his experience, well-laid plans always went wrong. Far better to go with the flow and tackle each opportunity as it arose. That was his plan, and he couldn't wait to start.

"Why should I want to help you lot?" he asked.

"Would you like to see this wonderful place turned into a desolate den of corruption?" asked Vicar Bitter.

"Yes," said Alf, a little too quickly. "No, not really," he admitted. Like the Hotel California, The Stables was also a classy joint, visited by the rich middle and upper classes. Both management and clientele were mostly from an excellent breed of people, decent and honest. Here, all accepted him as a friend and an equal, a pleasure he'd never encountered in his previous criminal life.

Apart from that, the young Cloud Masters had banned him from staging his bare-knuckle fights on their estate. He was England's champion, so he had to have somewhere to pitch battle, and Styles had allowed him to use one of his barns. Vicar Bitter and Chief Inspector Dobbs didn't approve, but they both turned blind eyes. In secret, he suspected the vicar had even won a few bob on the side.

"Have you asked the young Cloud Masters for a loan?" asked Alf. As far as he could tell, they must be the wealthiest people in England.

"Yes," said Styles, "but they aren't interested."

The news didn't surprise Alf. The Cloud brothers lived in a secluded world on their estate. As long as nobody interfered with them, they didn't much mind what happened on the outside. No, legal means wouldn't solve Styles' problem. Alf wriggled his fingers and flexed the muscles in his broad shoulders. The time had come to apply his gumption.

Part 10:
In this post: Despite Chief Inspector Dobbs' protests, Alf takes a holiday…

The Hotel California called to Alf, and he didn't have the will to resist. "I'm taking a few days off work," he said.

"I forbid you to go to the Hotel California," said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

"Really," protested Vicar Bitter, cheeks sucked in. "England is a free country. How can you prevent him?"

"I can't," admitted Chief Inspector Dobbs. "It's just that…" He scratched at his neck as if a bunch of words had stuck in his throat. "It's just that I wouldn't like to see him get in trouble."

Alf raised his eyebrows at him in disbelief. "You care about me?"

"I care about upholding the law."

A burst of dismissive laughter bubbled from Alf. "I need a holiday. That’s all." He swung to leave and then stopped. "I haven't let anyone else know, not even me bosses. Can one of you get a message to them and tell them I'll be away for a few days?"

The Cloud brothers were home on one of their rare visits. With all their out-of-this-world gadgets to guard the estate they wouldn't need him. And anyway, his good old mate Bert would cover him. If the young masters didn't approve, then he'd quit.

"Don't look at me," said Vicar Bitter. "The last time I went over there, an evil-looking woman brandishing a mace chased me off."

"Can't you phone them?" said Styles.

Alf didn't have his smartphone with him. And anyway, he couldn't be bothered. If he didn't take a break, he'd go barmy. All he wanted was to clear off without a fuss. "When you see Bert, tell him I'll be back in two or three days." And with that, he strolled out of the inn with nothing but the white T-shirt on his back, a threadbare pair of blue denims on his lower half, a pair of worn army boots on his feet, and a look of elation in his eyes.

To be continued…
 

The real world:

Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
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