The bright lights of McDonalds Helsinki Central burned into Erica's skull. After Flikka's shock kidnapping, she'd felt an urgent need to sit down somewhere and try and work out what the fuck was going on. McDonalds was not perhaps the most private place to do that, but there were advantages; the odds of anyone trying to kidnap her were slight, since Maccas wouldn't want the "family restaurant" image ruined by a bunch of errant Norse psychos.
Numerous questions were running through Erica's mind, including why she'd been so stupid as to order a Fillet Of Fish and if Renny Harlin would bone her given the chance. The core question remained, however: Was Flikka really Flikka?
His complete failure to recognise Harlin, the only real icon of Finnish cinema, tended to suggest rather strongly that he wasn't, but if so, what did that mean? Erica remembered once reading that the best way to sort your thoughts was to make lists. She'd started on a self-help book, Get Your Life In Order By Making Lists, and although she'd been put off by Chapter 3 because of the author's list-based writing style, the principle had stuck with her. She began making notes on the back of her traymat.
If Flikka-just-kidnapped is not Flikka, where is the real Flikka?
Who is the person posing as Flikka now?
"Fuck this list making for a joke, I'm more confused than ever," Erica said to herself, wiping low-grade mayonnaise from her chin. If she was going to think clearly, she needed a sugar hit, fast.
She returned to the counter to order a second chocolate shake. As she waited for service behind the hordes of other Finns, she glanced at the drone cooking burgers behind the rack of ready-to-go McFeasts. The face seemed kind of familiar. Surely, it couldn't be . . . and yet, surely it was . . . Trudee?