Brian Helsing Mission 11: Steamin’ Ahead, is landing soon!
A Satyr, a supernatural servant of Bacchus, the god of excess, is causing havoc at a Steam and Country Fair, revving the bearded exhibitors up into a late-night and disgusting frenzy of drink, drugs and sex that absolutely no-one wants to see.
And so Brian and Gertie don their leathers and ride classic motorcycles across the country, pretending to be exhibitors in order to put a stop to the orgiastic mayhem.
And Brian, as ever, isn’t keen on the idea.
“There is no way in hell I am riding that thing. It will end in death, namely mine. And I mean will. Not may, not might, not there exists the possibility. Something will fall off – either a wheel, or myself – and I will go under a lorry, or over a bridge, or into a tree. Motorcycles, and this one in particular, are bloody deathtraps and I will have no further part in this exercise.”
Brian finished his rant, staring suspiciously down at the pile of chrome, steel and leather in the Sanctum’s garage. Even as he watched, the contraption was slowly leaking a slick of black oil onto the tiles, like an old, incontinent dog gently peeing itself unawares.
Frank sniffed in irritation.
“Have some confidence, young Helsing,” he rumbled, slapping Brian on the shoulder of his thickly padded, brown Belstaff biker jacket. “This machine is one of the greatest workhorses of the British motorcycling industry. It was used by messengers during wartime to courier orders twixt commanders and the front line. The BSA M21 is a side-valved single-cylinder, renowned for its reliability.” The gigantic smith slowly wiped a greasy rag over the chrome and burgundy tear-drop fuel tank. “You should feel honoured to ride it – they are highly collectable, very few of these machines remain.”
“Yeah, and I can see why. They all got crashed. It doesn’t even have rear suspension, man! Just springs under the seat, like a bloody couch! Even my two-hundred quid mountain bike from Halfords has rear suspension. And I’m supposed to ride that from Cornwall to the East fucking Midlands?”
“You’ll be fine,” Gertie chuckled, eyes never leaving her own steed, a jet black Royal Enfield Bullet, her fingers lightly stroking the paintwork. “We’ll make plenty of stop-offs on the way. Besides, you’ll soon grow to love it, I’m sure. These old bikes have character.”
“Hannibal Lecter had character. Wouldn’t want to ride him for three hundred miles, either!”