Ace Ventura White Devil

Chapter 1 - A Royal hunt

Gaewick Forest, Perthshire, Scotland.

Three middle-aged men, dressed in green camouflage overalls and hiking boots, tread heavily through dense forest. The morning air is cool and fresh with a distinct pine aroma. The wood is a typical Scottish forest with a variety of different trees - oak trees, silver birch, majestic Scots pine, ash, sycamore, Douglas fir, the ancient yew tree, horse-chestnut trees and many more. The morning chorus, courtesy of singing Thrushes and Crested Tits, and the tapping from relentless Woodpeckers, and the peculiar beak clicking of lekking Capercaillies, creates an extraordinary ambience.

Two of the men carry on their shoulders a carved wooden pole, and tied to that pole, hanging from its feet and swinging lifelessly, is the dead body of a stag. The third man, leading the other two, carries two hunting rifles, one over each shoulder. They are in high spirits after a satisfying hunt, laughing and jeering.

'They can camp outside of the old hag's palace for all the good it will do them,' sneers the man in front, the eldest of the trio, a regal looking man whose pink and bloated demeanour reveals his obvious over-indulgence living the high life. His platinum-coloured side parting clings to the sweat on his brow. 'What they forget is it's the one percent that give them the freedom and the means to have their bloody protests.'

'Jesus, don't talk to me about protests,' laughs the man at the rear, his English has a slight low countries ring to it. He is balding but sports a full and furry mahogany-coloured beard to compensate. 'I'm now under investigation,' he calls, to the man up front, 'from, none other than, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.'

'Nothing to do with me, Povsen, I'm the Duke of Gloucester, not the President of the RSPB,' the Duke says. 'What's the charge?'

'Poisoning the predatory birds in the forest.'

'It's your bloody forest,' snarls the third man, another balding man, tall and chunky with an extraordinarily large head. He has the jowly, ruddy-face of a banker, with two blue penetrating, deadpan eyes that are oddly positioned too close to each other. He is out of breath. He is clearly not used to this level of sustained exercise.

'Exactly Stephen, I can't have falcons, and the like, killing all the valuable game birds, can I? I can get forty pounds per bird.'

'What, are the farming subsidies not enough for you?' the Duke teases.

'Alleged farming subsidies,' Povsen smiles.

'I thought First Minister Hameron was easing off on the hunting bans? I attended last year's Warwickshire hunt without incident.'

'Foxes, maybe?'

'Bloody hippy liberal left-wing busy-bodies,' says the Duke.

'Bloody internet, more precisely,' Stephen interjects. 'It used to be a lot easier to conceal one's affairs back in the day, but nowadays with alternative media sites and viral videos, any degenerate journalist, any...twelve year old with a laptop computer, can snoop into anyone's business, sign some online petition, pour over Wiki-leaks, and then there's the bloody hackers. No one seems to be really doing anything to stop it. It's simply bad for business.'

'I hear you were forced to waive another bonus?'

'It's hard being under so much public scrutiny, the preconceptions that come with being a civil servant, so I couldn't very well live up to their expectations, could I? At least not openly. And what do I get for my trouble? I lose a neat million.'

'Damned if you do, damned if you don't, huh?' Povsen adds.

'Well, it's but a thorn in our sides, but an unwelcome, unnecessary thorn none the less,' the Duke sighs. 'Let's just see what our friends in the RIIA, Downing Street and across the pond can do with these censorship bills. And a reliable source tells me tackling certain social media sites and hacking groups are definitely on the CFR, Trilateral Commission and the Bilderberg agenda this year. It's only a matter of time.'