Wonder Woman in London #2

Wonder Woman was created by Dr William Moulton Marston in 1941 and is the © copyright trademark of DC Comics. My Wonder Woman stories are only fan fiction and based, primarily, on the 1970s CBS TV show (albeit, updated to the present time of writing). However, any resources from adaptations and the comics may be utilised. All characters are entirely fictional. With the exception of Diana / Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor, the story and characters are my own creation, unless otherwise stated. In my stories there are no other superheroes in the world, except for Wonder Woman.    

For Part 1 Click Here  

2. Meet Diana Prince 

“Governor, she’s here,” informed Thomas ‘Shandy’ Reynolds in his usual dorsal tone.

The beady eyes of Inspector John Cummings lifted from his desk. “You mean Hillary Clinton is here, I take it?”

A mischievous grin formed on Shandy’s otherwise bland face. “Yeah, but she doesn’t look nothing like Hillary Clinton.” 

“What do you mean, Reynolds?”  Before he could explain, the Inspector was on his feet, peering through his office blind at the lady sitting in the reception area. “Crikey, O’Reilly, she’s a cracker! Give me a minute, son, will ya?”

Almost panic stricken, Cummings began wading through the jumble on his desk, before pulling out a handheld mirror from the second drawer. He sloppily brushed the curl of his hair over his bald patch, then, quickly practiced open and closed mouth smiling, while adjusting his tie. A gentle cough from the office doorway halted the grooming frenzy.

“Hello, Inspector Cummings, I’m Diana Prince from the IADC.” 

The Inspector found some composure. “Please, Diana, come into my humble abode and make yourself comfortable. Would you like tea, coffee, biscuits? I’m ordering a bacon and egg sarnie from the café, just now. On this occasion, I’m quite prepared to buy you one too, as a gesture of goodwill to our American cousins. ”

Slightly bemused, Diana sat down and folded her long legs. “No, thanks, I think I’ll just stick with the coffee,” she smiled. 

The Inspector ruffled some papers, meaninglessly, before proposing: “dinner tonight, then, to celebrate your first night in London?”

With a sigh, Diana elevated her eyes in a diagonal motion of disapproval. “Really, Inspector, I’m not in London on vacation. I’m used to working with professionals who have their minds on the business, in hand.”

After an icy pause, Cummings forced a grimacing closed mouth smile, which was a wise decision on his part, considering the state of his teeth. “Right, you are, then. Have it your way. No doubt, you’ve been fully debriefed?” he asked with only a modicum of bawdiness.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then the best thing for you to do is to accompany young Thomas, this afternoon, when you’ll witness how ‘professionally’ we pull a sting operation on a dealer. We plan to arrest Ochieng James in the act. One of our detectives is going to purchase the dope from him, herself.”

“Herself,” Diana said, thoughtfully. “If possible, Inspector, I would like to volunteer as the buyer.”

Cummings considered the request, sceptically. “Could be dangerous, Miss Prince. I don’t want an international incident on my hands. And you’ll have to act the part.”

However, Diana was enthusiastically insistent. “Oh, don’t worry, I can take care of myself, and you already have an international incident on your hands, Inspector. And you know what? I have just the dress for the part.”

Diana watched the subtle twitches on the Inspector’s face when she finished her last sentence and knew, then, she would be posing as the buyer.

The Jamaican Inn lay just off the bustling Camden High Street. At approximately three o’clock, a silver Peugeot 207 waited on the other side of the road from the pub.

“So why do they call you Shandy, Shandy?” Diana light-heartedly queried.

Drooped behind the steering wheel, Reynolds stared, motionlessly, through the windscreen. “I don’t drink much, do I?” he shrugged, nonchalantly. 

Shandy turned and fleetingly caught a glimpse of Diana’s athletically toned legs, “Boss seems keen on you,” he remarked.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” Diana responded, a little uncomfortably.

“Don’t know why?” Shandy pondered with such a deadpan timbre, one could start believing he was a secret comedy genius.

Thankfully, the draconian crackle of Inspector Cummings, on the radio, broke any perceived awkwardness. 

“Target turned left on Basin Street, heading towards The Jamaican Inn. He’s wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans. Prepare to deploy the sting.”          

              

Sure enough, the muscular frame of Ochieng James, confidently, passed by the vehicle and entered the pub. 

“You remember the sign?” asked Shandy.

“Affirmative,” answered Diana, as she left the car. In her clinging grey mini-dress with ample cleavage, Diana stepped across the road and into The Jamaican Inn.

Like most backstreet pubs of the Victorian age, the establishment looked like it hadn’t been refurnished since such a time. The place was practically empty except for a whisky snorting pensioner, in the corner, and Ochieng James sitting at the bar. Diana wasted no time in taking the stool next to him.

Noticing the bar was unattended, Diana took the opportunity to make contact. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she inquired in an accentuated Southern drool.

Only using his eyes to glance across at her, James asked Diana whether she’d like a drink. Readily, accepting, Diana began enthusiastically comparing the temperature between Texas and London summers.

“Tell me, what’s your name, darling?” Ochieng coolly interrupted, in his low tone.

“Diana Prince. And you are?”

He eyeballed her for the first time. “Pincho,” he said.

“Pincho who?” Diana asked, sweetly.  

               

Pincho ignored the question. “Tell me, Diana Prince, what’s a beautiful American, such as you, doing in the back streets of Camden? Is there a particular reason why you came here, or do you just have a thing for black guys?”

Diana paused for effect, and then said: “Well, it just so happens I do have a thing for a man in ‘tight blue jeans’.”

“In that case, you might be in luck.” 

Ochieng nodded, knowingly, to the bartender who had just arrived, “Let’s go out the back.”

They came out on to a small neglected courtyard. “Nice,” Diana commented, sarcastically.

Towering over Diana, as she lay back against the wall, Ochieng stretched his long brawny arms to where she stood, encompassing her in a kind of human prison. “Tell me, who told you the code was ‘tight blue jeans’.”

Diana smiled in the face of James’ intimidating expression. “Fadhila told me,” she replied.

 

The answer was meant to reassure the big man, but instead he erupted with such outrage, his ferocity appeared to make Diana jump. “You’re lying, bitch!”

James grabbed Diana’s right arm, aggressively, and twisted her around so she was facing the wall.

"Fadhila would never have told you the code, man,” he said, beginning a body search. 

As he placed both of his hands on Diana’s protruding rump, James must have felt her extraordinary dimensions, but he never let on. He glided his big hands up her sides, then over her chest, squeezing the tip of her black bra above the deep ‘v’ rim of the dress where her cleavage was mounted. Indignant with rage, it’s unlikely he even acknowledged the heavenly bulges emanating from beneath the satin, which so many had longed to touch.    

“Hey, is this why they call you Pincho?” Diana protested, turning around. “You’re molesting a United States officer,” she said in her natural accent.

Ochieng punched his hand in frustration. “Damn! Damn, I knew it,” he said, before bolting down the back alley.

Diana paused a little for thought, and then spoke directly into the broach on her dress.  “Sting abandoned. The target is escaping on to Basin Street.”

She quickly looked around the dilapidated courtyard for faces. When content she was alone, her arms spread eagled and she twirled herself around into a flash of light. 

For Part 3 Click Here