Captain Doobie returned to The Cloisters truimphant in his jogging gear. Goodtime Slim, recently awoken, looked up blearily from next-door's copy of the Sunday Mail.
"How'd you go?" Goodtime Slim yawned.
"Ha!" barked Captain Doobie, "My best time ever!"
"That wouldn't be hard, seeing as how you've never been in the City-to-Bay before."
"Yes I have! What about last year?"
Goodtime Slim regarded Captain Doobie archly. "I didn't think that counted."
"Pish posh. Whyever not?"
"Because you had only just stepped over the start line when you were kidnapped by rogue Venezuelan freedom-fighters who thought you were the cameraman in the 1967 assaination of Che Guevara."
"They let me go once they discovered their mistake."
"Three weeks later, after intervention by the Federal Government and an SAS airborne rescue operation."
"Granhted, but I still crossed the finish line and returned my scanny thing. You have to take these things seriously, you know."
"Fair enough. What was your time?"
"17 minutes."
"17 minutes? To run 12 kays? Impossible!"
"Not," replied Captain Doobie with a sly wink, "If you take a taxi."
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