 
Introducing

the incredibly intuitive,

impossibly irresistible

and infuriatingly insatiable

Dr Cornelius Ramus

Logan Judge

LoganJudge.com

Copyright © 2014 by Logan Judge

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

# Polite Warning

**This book is for adults only and contains, among other things, the following:** lewd references, sexual innuendo, descriptions of a sexual nature, gross out & toilet humor, toilet humor that neglects the presence of actual toilets, sexual stereotypes (who are, at least, as bad as each other), fairly gruesome deaths, the occasional rude word, and Americanized spelling and punctuation from a British author.

If any of the above is likely to offend you, or is simply not to your taste, I wish you well and would kindly invite you to please exercise your right to not read any further, nor review a book you have not read from start to finish. For the rest of you, I hope you 'sickos' enjoy yourselves.

Logan Judge

# Legal stuff

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

# Chapter 1

At the back of the run down studio apartment—about mid-way along a wholly unadorned wall, directly opposite to a kitchenette and only set of windows into the room—two extremely tired and dejected looking individuals stood amid the peeling paint, grime, and who knows what else, involuntarily twitching their nostrils and contorting their faces in silent protest to the foul stench of the smoke as they grudgingly gazed down towards its source.

Biting her lip, Karen Smythe hesitated a moment before awkwardly turning her head just a little towards her companion. "Look, I know you're not keen, but why don't you just call him and ask?"

"He'll say no," said Sergeant Ross, allowing the back of his head to thump against the wall and screwing his eyes as he felt his silver hair stick to a patch of cooking fat. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Well, he might not. Not if you tell him you're getting nowhere and really need help. You said yourself, how much easier it used to be when you could just make one call and have all the investigative work done for you."

"Yeah, and I'm wishing I hadn't now. "

"Yes, but you did. And you've said it many times before."

"Look, he has been very useful in the past. I admit that. But, really, what is it with you women and that man?"

Tipping her head back—but confident her mousy brown bun was well away from the wall—Karen simply groaned in response.

"Apart, of course, from his celebrity status?"

"Yes, well, I can't say that doesn't help," said Karen, continuing to stare at the ceiling, "but he's also an extremely rich, good looking, intelligent, celebrity with a great body. And, he's so incredibly well spoken. Sounds like one of those English gentleman types that always plays the crazy bad guy in American movies. You know? Pronounces his words properly with no abbreviating and stuff. 'Do not' instead of don't, 'it is' instead of it's, 'does not' instead of doesn't."

"Err?"

"'Cannot' instead of can't."

"Ms Smythe, have you finished?"

"'What is' instead of what's."

"Ms Smythe," said the Sergeant, uncharacteristically raising his voice to her.

"Oh. Err... Yes," said Karen, her cheeks flushing as she snapped back to reality. "And, of course, he's very good at what he does. Which is the real reason I'd like to meet him."

"I won't be able to get him, and even if I could, I can't go spending the department's money nursing your schoolgirl crushes."

"It is not a schoolgirl crush," she said indignantly. "Any personal interest I may or may not have is purely professional and would only be to serve my career. And, actually, I'm only saying all this to help you. And, talking of nurses and schoolgirls, isn't that what the two women who turned up to your birthday bash were dressed as? I'm pretty sure they both came out of the department's budget."

"That's police business, which I'll remind you, you aren't. Besides, they were pretty cheap."

"Yes, they looked it, but I bet the treatment you needed later wasn't."

"Yeah, well, the department didn't pay for that," said Sergeant Ross staring awkwardly back towards the floor, hastily retracting his gaze as a result of the foul sight below, and cursing as—yet again—he thumped the back of his head into the sticky patch of cooking fat.

"There, you see? You're getting stressed. I've been told time and time again, by the others, you didn't used to get stressed like this. Not when you used to be able to bring in help."

"I'm getting stressed because you won't let up about it."

"You're getting stressed because we've been here for nearly two hours, and your team has turned up precisely nothing. Look, I tell you what. If you call and he says no, I'll let it go. Won't mention it again. Promise."

"I can't call him this time of morning."

"Ah, you see, you can. I've been reliably informed, he's been up all hours just lately, and apparently, he's easier to get around at the moment. Don't know what's up, but I'm sure you can play it to our... I mean, your advantage."

"Well, even if I could, I can't go asking. He's definitely not going to accept a request from me. I don't have a high enough rank. This is something the Captain should be doing, and even then, he'd still say no."

"Oh, yes you can ask. You've already let out that he owes you for something. And that you have his cell number."

"Look, I just can't. Please trust my judgment on this."

"You know, this is the third case in a row I've been on with you that's gone unsolved?"

"It's not unsolved yet, and nor are the other two. They're under investigation."

"'Another case filed under: haven't got a clue.' That's what my colleagues will say when I get back. You know, you have no idea how much they question me. Or the number of excuses I make for you."

"Maybe I should just stop bringing you then."

"Yeah, but if you did that now, they'd just smell a rat and really start poking their noses in. They have contacts in the police department too you know? If I wasn't here, you wouldn't have me protecting your reputation."

"When it comes to my reputation, I'm not sure I really care what your colleagues think."

"Well, you should. They're right bitches and bastards. The kind of people who go to the paper. And you know as well as anyone how much they love stories of police incompetence."

"Oh, for the love of God, you're not going to let up are you?"

Smiling delicately at him, Karen fluttered her eye lashes. "I'm only doing this for you."

"No you're not, but alright, I'll call him. Stand close by, so you can hear him saying no and me getting an earful for disturbing him. Hopefully, that'll be the end of it."

With his antiquated cell phone in the steely grip of his burly left hand, Sergeant Ross employed the middle finger of his right to irritably stab at its buttons before holding it up to his left ear.

Karen leaned in to listen but pulled back a little as she spotted the patch of cooking fat on the back of the Sergeant's head.

Staring into the highly polished floor to ceiling mirror, the single occupant of the lavishly decorated room sighed as he was greeted by his reflection: a fat, wallowing, shapeless, body propping up a balding head and podgy face, bearing all the tell-tale signs of being battered by years of self-inflicted bitterness, loathing, and the consumption of way too many lavish dinners.

Over the sides of his grotesquely ostentatious hand-carved marble toilet seat, billowed the pale flesh of his flabby ass—a whitish-grey color that, in conjunction with his similarly colored chubby legs, only served to enhance the brilliance of the garishly ornate white porcelain toilet bowl; a product that could only be hailed as a testament to Italian engineering when considering its never ending ability to endure that kind of excessive loading on such a regular basis.

Grumbling to himself, his nostrils twitched in response to something he clearly found highly disagreeable, not too far beneath him this early Monday morning, while he anxiously eyed the open tub of cream he was gripping overly tight in his sweaty left hand as he gingerly fingered a blob out of it with his right.

Reluctantly, he lowered his quivering hand towards his groin, desperately trying to keep the blob of cream in place long enough to complete his mission. Slowly he reached down between his legs, leaning forward so his hand could go back a little, and then—very gently—up, up a little more, up a little more. Target acquired.

In the mirror, he watched as his expression contorted—contorted like the face many people pull when they hear the account of how some historians believe that, back in fourteenth century England, King Edward II was assassinated by having a red-hot poker thrust into his anus, through a horn, so that there would be no visible external damage. Although, if that story is true, it is doubtful that, even to this day, anyone has ever pulled that face more convincingly than King Edward II did.

Squealing at a pitch not to dissimilar to the ring tone of his cell phone, he didn't at first notice the incoming call, but catching site of the screen flashing in his peripheral vision, he awkwardly wiped away his tears with the back of his right hand and haphazardly smeared the remainder of the cream onto the tops of his thighs before grasping his mobile phone and snorting into it. "Are you nearly here?"

"Err, no," said Sergeant Ross, jerking his head to one side and using a finger to pop the entrance of his ear canal. "What do you mean?"

"Is that Emergency Medical Services?"

"Err, no."

"Well who is it then?"

"Err, it's Sergeant Ross."

"Who are you?"

"Err, we met about a year ago. Don't you remember me?"

"No."

"You said, if I ever needed anything, I should let you know."

"I find that highly unlikely."

"You said it just before I helped you with a tricky situation you were in."

"What situation?"

"That thing with the Filipino hooker."

"Oh... You must be talking about the very unfortunate mix up with that young Asian woman."

"I think you found it was still a young man actually."

"Look, I'm very busy, but yes, I do vaguely remember you giving me a tiny bit of help."

"Yeah, I made it look like you'd spent the weekend in Alabama if you remember?"

"Yes, yes. I remember that too. What was your name again?"

"Sergeant Ross."

"So what is it you want? And address me properly will you, Sergeant?"

"Sorry, yes, Your Honor, and I hope I didn't wake you."

"I wasn't asleep. I'm actually still at my office. You're not the only person in this city that has to work ungodly hours you know?"

"Told you he would be awake," said Karen in a whispered voice.

"I've been to your office," said the Sergeant, furrowing his eyebrows a moment, "and I don't remember it being that echoey, sir. And you sounded quite distressed when you answered. Is everything ok?"

"I'm in my bathroom."

"Oh, dear. Not suffering with the old problem again are you, sir?" The Sergeant turned towards Karen and covered the receiver of his cell phone with the palm of his right hand—badly. "The Mayor suffers with acute piles. Apparently, in high-season so to speak, it's like a bunch of grapes hanging out of his—"

"Sergeant," said the Mayor, so loudly that Sergeant Ross had to use his finger to pop his ear again, "you'd be wise to focus on your police work. I happen to be performing important mayoral duties right now and could do without interruptions. What the hell do you want?"

Rolling his eyes, Sergeant Ross used his free hand to enact a rudimentary mime of what was presumably supposed to be a giant hemorrhoid hanging from his own backside.

"Is there somebody there with you?" said the Mayor.

"Err, nobody in earshot, sir," said the Sergeant, leaning away from Karen and shielding the receiver of his phone from her sniggering.

"Well? What do you want?"

"Sorry, Your Honor, but I've got a problem here. I'm at an incident, and my team just can't reach any conclusion as to whether it's a crime scene or not."

"And you're calling me? For that? Someone better be dead, Sergeant. And they better be important."

The Sergeant and Karen turned their gaze to the source of the smoke. Laid on a grubby, part-burned, mattress that had presumably been pushed away from the wall a long time back because of the hole in the ceiling that would let in rain water, but just maybe as a result of recent foul play, was the scorched corpse of a man with his lower half covered by the remains of a charred blanket. He was about two hundred and forty pounds and previously in possession of a full head of ginger hair and a beard—although it was difficult to tell whether the two had been quite that frizzy before they caught alight. In fact, the only thing very clear was that he had departed this world with an expression on his charred face, so ridiculous, he looked like he'd been the victim of a freak flash fire at the World Gurning Championships which—if the fire had not have happened—he was on track to win.

"I can safely say the first box is ticked, sir," said the Sergeant, swallowing hard before looking away, "but we just can't figure if this is just an accident or manslaughter or murder."

"What are you asking me for?"

"Well, it wasn't actually your opinion I'm after, Your Honor, but you might remember I used to be able to bring in some help with things like this?"

"So, why don't you? And why are you asking me? Speak to the Captain."

"I would, Your Honor, but the problem is that the Captain isn't available, and more's to the point, you've expressly forbidden the department from using the particular help I need." He held the phone away from his ear in readiness.

"Sergeant, I hope you're not suggesting—"

"He is extremely good at this sort of thing, sir,"

"Oh, no. Absolutely not."

"With all due respect, Your Honor, we're tying up forensics and a physician here and—"

"I've told you people before, I'm not—"

Expecting the remainder of the sentence, Sergeant Ross waited patiently for a moment, but all he received was a hissing noise that was in fact the sound of air escaping through tightly gritted teeth. "Mayor? Your Honor? Are you ok?"

Unbeknown to the Sergeant, the Mayor had become so agitated while delivering his previous statement, he had momentarily forgotten the severity of his pile and, without due thought and preparation, had fingered it with a second blob of cream, employing what could only be described as excessive force and was now experiencing a kind of pain possibly not too dissimilar to having the business end of a lit cigar pressed against his sphincter—which, quite coincidentally, was an activity that several of his politician friends had recently been arrested for whilst spending a quiet evening away from their wives at one of the city's high-class members only gentlemen's clubs. Still, at least they weren't caught doing that thing with the nails and short planks of wood that they'd been up to several weeks before.

"Mayor? Mayor?"

"—having that individual work for anything state funded again," said the Mayor in a strained whisper. "He's insolent beyond belief and charges a small fortune."

"But, he gets results, sir."

"No, Sergeant."

Sergeant Ross turned to Karen shaking his head.

"Bring up how much this is costing," said Karen quietly.

"Ok, Your Honor, it's your decision. I just wanted to give you the option because all these guys I've got here are actually costing the tax payer more right now than he does, and they're getting nowhere. I thought you'd want to know. You know, what with the Mayoral election coming up and all."

"I said, no."

Sergeant Ross shook his head again.

"Say the Press are here," said Karen as quietly as before.

"Plus, the Press have arrived, and they're asking a lot of questions about how crime has been creeping up. And you know what they're like; they keep bringing up the fact that readers have been writing to them—you know, your electorate—and complaining that, if he gets the job done, then we should be using him. You know how popular is he is with the public."

"He's an egotistical bastard who the public don't know the truth about. The answer is definitely no. Is that all, Sergeant?"

Again, Sergeant Ross shook his head.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Karen, forgetting herself and speaking at normal volume. "Tell him the Press will get to hear all about the ladyboy."

Biting his lip, Sergeant Ross scrunched his eyes firmly shut.

"There is someone there with you, isn't there?"

"She just turned up, Your Honor."

"But, she knows something about the unfortunate incident I had no control over?"

"Err... Just a little, Your Honor."

"Right, Sergeant, let me tell you—" The Mayor's cell bleeped with an incoming message. He stopped to read it: ' _Emergency Medical Services at reception but no one to let us up. Will wait 2 min but then must go.'_ "Sergeant, are you still there?"

"Sir."

"Ok, use him if you want, this one time, and I'll tell the Captain I Okayed it when he asks, but make sure you and your companion never breathe another word of that incident again, and be very clear, Sergeant, you have used up all favors and seriously burned your bridges with me."

"He's hung up," said Sergeant Ross, putting his cell phone back in his pocket and turning expressionless to Karen. "Thank you, Ms Smythe. The Mayor, who couldn't remember who I was, now remembers exactly who I am and hates me."

"What do you think of this lipstick?" said Karen, retrieving a compact mirror from her handbag, flipping it open, and beginning to eye her lips critically. "Does it make me look sophisticated, or is it a bit, you know, slutty?"

"Trust me, either way, he won't mind."

# Chapter 2

As if on a quest to find an appreciative ear, the melodic birdsong drifted gently through the wide-open windows, riding gracefully on the cool breeze that puffed its way in from the tranquility of the grounds outside into the otherwise still master bedroom of the mansion house located in one of the most desirable areas of the city.

At the back of the room—exactly mid-way along a sumptuously wallpapered wall with matching cabinets either side of it—sat a solid oak, antique, four-poster bed. And in this bed, laid the tall, slender, figure of a man, flat on his athletic back with his sculpted jaw facing directly upwards, and his short black hair rested upon the silk pillow case beneath. His soft-skinned olive eyelids fluttered serenely under the black organic cotton sleep mask, which he always wore when retired, while his delicate nostrils twitched daintily in response to his gentle inhalation of the cool breeze that had been sweetened by the multitude of flowers and shrubs outside. With each breath his chest softly rose and fell beneath his Mulberry silk blanket as if his diaphragm was following in perfect time with the rhythm of the most melodious strain of the birdsong.

Dreamily, he turned his body just a little, raised his right leg just a fraction, and farted just a bit. But, as has already been declared, it was only a little one and since it made a quite inoffensive sound and was not very smelly, really should not be allowed to tarnish the idyllic picture already painted. Perhaps, in fact, it would have been better to have not mentioned it at all.

On the top of the cabinet, to the right of his bed, sat an original 1950s Belgian polished metal bodied telephone which—without the slightest regard for the dulcet tones of the birdsong—began to ring.

Almost immediately, his torso rose up and forwards in a single perfectly flowing motion as if being drawn by an elaborate collection of pulleys and invisible chains. Once upright, he sat with his head facing directly forwards for a moment in order that he could sample the birdsong, and without the slightest turn of his head or upper body, he gracefully extended his slender, yet muscular, arm to the left—deftly wrapping his long fingers around the handset of the telephone and elegantly returning it to the side of his head.

"Good morning, Sergeant Ross," he said with a soft yet commanding, while extremely well-spoken, voice—not sounding the slightest bit like a man who had just that moment been roused from a deep relaxing sleep. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Good morning, Dr Ramus. Sorry if I woke you. Hey, this is a withheld number. How the hell did you know it was me?"

"Easily, Sergeant. The bird song from outside my bedroom window is exactly five eighths of the way through its daily passage which indicates that, in this week of the year, the current time is somewhere between a quarter past and nineteen minutes past four hundred hours."

Unbeknown to the Sergeant, Dr Ramus had used a finger of his free hand to lift an eye cover of the sleep mask and was covertly peering at the old fashioned clock on the wall in front of him.

"It's four eighteen on the button, but that still doesn't explain how you knew it was me."

"Sergeant, as you know, I have no family and keep very few acquaintances, and even though we have parted company, I know without question, the only person who could possibly be telephoning at this time of day is you."

"Yes, well, I have some good news about the whole parting company thing."

"Really?" said Dr Ramus, his voice tinged with skepticism. "Please explain."

"Simple really, I'm at an incident, I've got a stiff, and I need you to come take a look at it."

"Do I take it you are referring to a dead body, Sergeant?" said Dr Ramus, his well-groomed eyebrows popping out from the top of his sleep mask as he raised them in response to the Sergeant's ill-considered ejaculation which, as it happens, was not the only one the Sergeant had made recently—something, again, which is of no relevance whatsoever to the events being conveyed here.

"Yeah, a crispy one. Trouble is my people can't identify the cause. I need you back, Dr."

"I am sorry, Sergeant, but I am not a charity. I cannot work for free."

"No, of course not. We'll pay you the same rate as before."

"But, you have been prohibited from doing so by our imbecile of a mayor."

"Ah, yes, well, I've personally talked him around," said the Sergeant, ignoring the sarcastic look he was now receiving from Karen.

"Really? I have to say, I am very surprised at that."

"Yeah, well, the thing about the Filipino ladyboy hooker coupled with the bubbles hanging out of his ass may have helped."

Dr Ramus grimaced. "I really do not think this is a good idea. I cannot come back just for one case. It is not worth my time."

"Tell him, if he solves it we can leak it to the Press," whispered Karen.

"Look, Dr, if you get over here and solve this, then the Press can get to find out, and that'll ultimately help put the pressure on to get you back on other cases in the future."

"I am not sure about this."

"How's the private work going, Dr?"

"As I am sure you are well aware, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus with a sigh, "my cases have been a little less interesting just lately."

"Yeah, I haven't seen you on TV quite so much, or heard you on the radio."

"No. You have not."

"Yeah well, as you know, in a city like this, high-profile cases are never too far away. If you got back in with us now, it might be easier for me to get you in again when the next big one turns up. Solve that and you'd be back on TV again in no-time. No doubt you'd be able to write another best seller and get back out at those big book signings you enjoy so much."

"I am still unconvinced, Sergeant."

"Shame. Before you know it you'd be banging shed loads of groupies again. Just like the old days."

"Give me the address. I will have Sinclair drive me straight over."

# Chapter 3

One hour and thirty eight minutes after hanging up on Sergeant Ross—and having just completed a journey that, at that time of the morning, could easily have been made in less than twenty five of those minutes—Dr Ramus cautiously entered the scruffy studio apartment employing the utmost care to ensure his impeccably tailored pashmina, with platinum and gold thread, suit would not so much as graze against the woodwork of the narrow doorframe, or more specifically, its peeling paint and all manner of grime including: dirt, motor oil, some blood—possibly human—and cooking fat residue that had accumulated from the years of deep frying in the kitchenette section of the same room only several yards away.

"Dr Ramus," said Sergeant Ross in a warm tone as he marched over to the door and grabbed his hand to vigorously shake it. "Thanks for coming so quickly."

"Think nothing of it, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus—attempting to scowl at a man in a white coat who had made a very deliberate performance of tutting as he passed by, glaring at his watch—but unable to appear terribly intimidating with his head juddering in time with the Sergeant's over enthusiastic handshake.

"Good morning, Dr. I'm Karen Smythe from the Criminal Psychology Department over at the University."

Seizing the opportunity to release himself from the Sergeant's manic grip, Dr Ramus took Karen's eagerly extended, softer, and considerably less vice-like hand. "Good morning, Ms. Smythe," he said with a honeyed tone as he allowed his gaze to part from hers and wander slowly and deliberately down her front. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"I've read all your books," said Karen, her pupils dilating as she stared into the eyes that had finally returned to hers. "I do a little writing about this kind of thing myself. The Sergeant sometimes lets me come along to incidents that might be murders. I'm a huge fan... Of yours. Not murders. That would be awful. I'm a huge fan of yours."

"And I yours," said Dr Ramus, deliberately examining her contours again.

"You've read some of my work?" she said, excitedly fiddling with the pendant of her neck chain.

"No. Sorry. What was your name again?"

"It's Karen. Karen Smythe."

Frowning at Karen as if she was a star struck teenager who he was afraid was about to pee herself—something that probably would not have made the room smell any worse—Sergeant Ross stepped in and delicately prized her away before putting his hand under Dr Ramus' elbow and gently directing him towards the center of the shabby living area. "Let me introduce you to the team. Everyone's new from when you last helped us. Apart from me of course."

"Of course."

"Team, gather round will you," said the Sergeant, utilizing his booming voice.

Once everyone had assembled, the Sergeant gestured towards a balding, forty something, man with a cigarette tucked behind his right ear, wearing grey slacks and a grimy white coat, round shouldered, and about forty two pounds overweight. "This is Dr Lance our physician."

The physician extended his hand uncertainly, but rather than troubling himself to take it or even particularly turn his body to properly face him, Dr Ramus replied with a simple nod and blink. "Dr."

"And this," said the Sergeant, waving his hand in the direction of another male in a white coat, but younger at somewhere in his mid-thirties, and skinny with anemic skin, unkempt straw hair, thick round glasses, and nicotine stains on his teeth, "is Reece from Forensics."

Recognizing him as the one who had reacted so scornfully when he walked in, Dr Ramus eyed him contemptuously while Reece's response was to stand rigid with his arms tightly crossed and mouth pinched shut.

"Reece," said the Sergeant, his voice raised and impatient. "Introduce yourself to Dr Ramus, please."

Reece stood rigidly silent for a little longer, but as the Sergeant's intimidating frame loomed a little closer, his posture began to soften. "Good morning, Dr Ramus," he said, grudgingly.

"And who do we have here?" said Dr Ramus, immediately turning away from Reece and regarding a pair of young male officers—the first of whom was dark and the second fair, both in their early twenties, medium height, gaunt and gangly, with the first appearing a little on the dim side and the second decidedly retarded.

"Ah," said Sergeant Ross waving his hand at the pair as if they were one. "This is Officers Chalk and Tupper, and I believe we've been joined only a few minutes ago by another officer I've not met before, but I have no idea where—"

"In the bathroom, sir," said Chalk.

At that moment a toilet could be heard to flush, and shortly after that, the only other door in the room creaked open.

"You do not want to go in there," said the astonishingly blonde female officer as she sauntered out of the bathroom in a uniform far shorter, and far less buttoned up, than typical standard issue. "Not because of anything I've done," she said, putting her hand to her mouth in realization of what she had just said. "It's just disgusting in there to begin with. Worse than out here. I had to hover over the bowl. Good thing I carry my own tissues too. Everything in there's covered in brick dust from the building works over the street."

"Yes, if you've quite finished, Officer?" said Sergeant Ross. "I didn't get your name."

"It's Penny, sir."

"Surname please, Officer," said the Sergeant, snapping his hands impatiently to his hips.

"Um, it's Penny, sir."

"Penny Penny? What were your parents thinking?"

Disregarding the idiocy of her superior officer, Officer Penny wiggled her hips over to Dr Ramus. "I've seen you on TV," she said, putting out her hand.

"Yes, I am sure you have," said Dr Ramus, taking her hand but failing to take his eyes from her impressive cleavage.

"And this," said the Sergeant in the warmest tone yet—something that may have been a little disconcerting for his team when considering he was now waving his hands towards the corpse, "is Brian Peterson."

Reluctantly, Dr Ramus wrenched his eyes from Officer Penny's bust and focused instead on the significantly less aesthetically pleasing dead body.

After a moment's pause—and another sly glance at Penny's chest—he took a couple of paces towards the body in order that he could better observe it and its surroundings: the part-burned mattress, the grubby remains of the charred blanket, the ceramic tiled floor, and the small glass topped, steel framed, table to the right. "It is fortunate the mattress was pushed away from the wall, and there is nothing combustible close by, or the whole block could have gone up. It is also fortunate that everything in here is so damp," he said, before turning back to the group and attempting, with some difficulty, to hold his gaze at eye level. "Is everything returned to the way you first found it?"

"Just like the old days, Dr," said the Sergeant. "What happened here?"

Dr Ramus paused and slowly inhaled through his nose. "There," he said as he finally exhaled. "What can you smell?"

Like a pair of backward twin brothers, Chalk and Tupper pointed at the corpse. "Him."

"Other," said Dr Ramus, screwing his eyes tightly shut for a moment, "than the obvious. There is a faint, but familiar, smell in here that you should all recognize."

"Burnt pork?" said Officer Tupper.

"No... You are still focusing on the deceased. It is gasoline. This room contains a very faint trace of gasoline."

While everyone else tried, and failed, to detect gasoline, Sergeant Ross bounced on the balls of his feet, disturbingly pleased with the revelation. "Ooh, do you think he was doused in it?"

"No. I think that if he had been doused in it then we would not be standing here, as the whole block definitely would have gone up."

With his bottom lip slightly quivering, Sergeant Ross' eyes dropped to his feet.

"Accelerants," said Reece, making a deliberate show of shaking his head disdainfully, "were the first thing I looked for, and I didn't find none."

"Which would not be impossible if the quantity was minimal... Or your testing was inadequate."

"You're yapping up the wrong tree, Dr."

"Reece, show some respect," said the Sergeant, flashing his teeth in the process.

"We will see," said Dr Ramus, seemingly unperturbed. "Did any of you happen to pass by the Chevrolet Camaro, twenty yards down the block? It is a ninety one, and it is up on axle stands."

Officers Penny, Chalk, and Tupper, all responded with a muttered yeah.

"Then, when you passed it, you would not have failed to notice the strong smell of spilled gasoline?"

The same three muttered another yeah.

A loud groan emanated from Reece. "So, that's what you're smelling now, or it's still lodged up your nose."

"The Chevrolet is down-wind of us, and I can assure you I have nothing lodged up my nose. Look at the fob attached to the car key over there on the kitchenette work surface."

"It's a Chevrolet," said Officer Penny.

"It was the victim's car," said Karen.

"I think it is likely," said Dr Ramus. "And that toolbox in the corner tells me—"

"He did his own vehicle repairs," said Karen.

"Very likely too. Officer," he said, turning to Penny. "You mentioned the brick dust in the bathroom area?"

"Yeah. I was in danger of having it all over my toosh."

"Well quite, but how much was on the shower cubicle?"

"It was covered."

"So, would I be correct in thinking it does not appear to have been used terribly recently?"

"I would say at least a couple of days. Probably more."

"Hmmm. Look at the remains of the blanket. Some of the black marks are scorching, but parts of the material are damp enough, they were not touched by the fire. Yet there are more blackened areas, and when you look closely, you can easily see they are not ordinary grime."

"It looks like asphalt," said Karen.

"It most definitely is asphalt," said Dr Ramus.

"He used the blanket to lie on while he worked underneath the Chevy," said Officer Penny.

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, "and during his endeavors, he inadvertently caused some gasoline to leak onto both the blanket and himself." He spun to his left. "Over there in that washer dryer are garments he likely used whilst repairing his car. Am I correct?"

"Go take a look, Chalk," said Sergeant Ross.

After a few moments fishing his hand through the now open door of the washer dryer, Officer Chalk turned back to the group. "Yeah, there's overalls and a few other things in here, and now I'm close up, I think I can still smell gas on them. How did you smell that, Dr? They've been through a wash and the door was shut."

"I have been told I have a nose to match the Professeur des Parfums."

Reece frowned at him. "Who the hell is that?"

"Oh, just a man who blends fragrances you could not afford." Dr Ramus immediately turned to the others. "So, when the victim came to the bedsit, he removed his overalls and put on a wash but did not shower. He then went to his bed with his blanket and skin sprinkled with neat gasoline."

"This is all very revealing," said Reece, waving his hands out aggressively, "but what about the ignition? If the gasoline got on him in the way you're suggesting then this almost certainly isn't foul play, but we found nothing that could have started the fire. No faulty electrics, no lighter, no matches, no cigarette end. Nothing."

"Nothing obvious."

"What do you mean 'nothing obvious'? Either there is something or there isn't."

Disregarding Reece, and taking another sly glimpse at Officer Penny's chest, Dr Ramus focused again on the other members of the group. "We must think unconventionally."

"Unconventionally?" said the Sergeant. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, unconventionally. Not the everyday methods. After all, you all went to school..." He paused a moment as he looked at Chalk and Tupper a little unsure, "and I am sure that you learned all manner of ways fire can be initiated."

The room fell quiet.

"A magnifying glass," said Officer Tupper, his eyes looking slightly brighter—albeit no more intelligent—than usual. "Magnifying glasses start fires. I learned that at school."

"Yeah, out in the schoolyard burning our initials on the forearms of the weedy kids," said Chalk, smiling affectionately whilst clearly in the process of casting his mind back to those childhood days that most probably shaped his future as a law enforcement professional.

Frowning at them both for a moment, Dr Ramus waved his hand towards the window. "Can you imagine much direct sunlight coming through that window?"

Looking at the grimy glass panes—and grasping the simple fact that the block across the street would cause the bedsit to be perpetually shaded from the sun—Chalk and Tupper turned their attention back to Dr Ramus, sheepishly shaking their heads.

"And did you find anything resembling a magnifying glass?"

"No," said the pair, slowly staring towards the floor.

"Then I really do not think it was a magnifying glass, do you?"

"Flint stones?" said Tupper, meekly gazing up again.

"Anyone else?"

"Sticks," said Officer Penny. "Rubbing two sticks together. That starts fires."

"Now, that could be interesting."

"What?" said Tupper. "That's no better than mine. But, I suppose, saying flint stones would've been fine if I was a blonde with massive ti—"

"That's enough, Tupper," said Sergeant Ross.

"Now look," said Reece. "I'm sorry, but I really have to agree with Tupper here, and I realize—before anyone says anything smart—sticks could have burned and that's why maybe we wouldn't have found them, but is anyone—I mean anyone—seriously suggesting that this man took two sticks to bed with him and rubbed them together?"

"Do not be so ridiculous. Of course they are not," said Dr Ramus, sneering at Reece before turning away again. "Dr Lance. Would you confirm for me what those tablets on the bedside table are for, please?"

"Yeah, they're epilepsy tabs."

"Hmmm, and I see they are unopened. Did you find any finished strips?"

"I don't think so."

"Anyone?" said Sergeant Ross.

The room fell silent.

"Well, then," said Dr Ramus, taking his time to smile at everyone apart from Reece. "I believe this man forgot his medication and had an epileptic fit."

"What the hell has that got to do with anything?" said Reece, stamping his foot as he aggressively waved out his hands again. "You still don't know what started the fire, and the only suggestion you gave any credence to, was the one about two sticks, which you said yourself, was ridiculous."

"No, I said that the suggestion that he took two sticks to bed was ridiculous, but prior to that, I had indicated that the principle was interesting."

"What?"

From out of his inside pocket, Dr Ramus retrieved a sealed pack containing a pair of disposable medical gloves. Having torn open the plastic, he put them on, walked casually over to the bed, bent down, and grabbed the corners of the remaining material of the blanket with both hands. "It was not two sticks that started this fire, but the fact that..." With one explosive action, he ripped the blanket away. "This man has wooden legs."

A gasp befell the room as its occupants observed the evidence of his revelation.

"He rubbed them together during his epileptic fit," said Karen, wide eyed, as she stared at the pair of round timber posts originating from the corpse's knees and each leading to timber plates that provided the most rudimentary likeness to real feet.

"Correct," said Dr Ramus.

"My God," said Sergeant Ross. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Sergeant, I am quite sure. Officer Penny, would you be so kind?"

Upon her swift arrival, Dr Ramus waved his hand alongside the lower half of the corpse, and in response, she crouched down and laid the flesh of her shapely left leg alongside the scorched timber of Brian Peterson's—not so shapely—right.

Flabbergasted, Dr Lance leant in for a better view, and after a prolonged consideration of the exhibits in-front of him—particularly Officer Penny's—he finally looked up. "He's right, Sergeant. This man's legs are definitely made of wood."

Crouching down beside Dr Lance, Reece clamped his hand across his own forehead. "We went all over the body. I... I just don't know how we missed this."

"Calm yourself, man," said Dr Ramus, placing a gloved hand on Reece's shoulder, "as I said before, there was nothing obvious that could have started the fire. Because of that, you inadvertently overlooked the fact that the victim has wooden legs. You were not looking for them, so in that moment, they simply were not there.

"Maybe you're right," said Reece, solemnly staring at the worm holes and the large stamps embossed into the charred posts, which read: **O'HALLAN'S WOODEN LEGS INC.** , "but I still feel slightly foolish that we didn't pick this up."

"It is a simple mistake that anyone could have made."

"Not you, Dr, not you," said Sergeant Ross, beaming at Dr Ramus as he began to direct him away from the corpse and the two somber technicians. "I have to admit, I would never have worked it out for myself—that's why I needed you here—but now you've explained it, well, the whole course of events is just so damned obvious."

"And I'm sure this'll get in the paper and put more pressure on the Mayor to allow you to come back," said Karen, who was now beside them, fiddling with her pendant again as she stared at Dr Ramus with re-dilated pupils.

"Well, I have seen no sign of the Press here this morning, so I am assuming they will not even hear of it."

"Oh, don't you worry," said Karen. "They will."

"You think so?"

"Oh, yeah, I think so, and... Well... I was wondering if perhaps you would like to meet up sometime? You know, to discuss each other's work? There are definite similarities."

"That sounds like a marvelous idea."

"You think?"

"Absolutely. You can call me on this number to make the arrangements." Dr Ramus passed Karen a business card and immediately turned away from her. "Now, Sergeant, I suppose you are going to have the bother of making sure this is properly written up?"

"Yeah," said the Sergeant with a sigh. "You know how much I hate that, but I guess I can get one of the other officers to do quite a bit of it."

"Yes, yes," said Dr Ramus. "Still an awful inconvenience for you though."

"Yeah, it is, and I wish I didn't have to, but at least this one's solved."

"Yes, I suppose, but... Look, please tell me if I am imposing, but to show my appreciation for your efforts to help bring me back, supposing I wrote it up for you?"

"That's very kind of you, Dr," said the Sergeant, smiling politely but shaking his head, "and I do appreciate it, but really these things are supposed to be written up by a law enforcement officer."

"Yes, protocol I suppose..." Dr Ramus paused, snapped his fingers, and stared the Sergeant directly in eyes. "Oh, I am such a fool."

"You are?"

"Yes, yes, I am. During the whole time I was here, I could not help but notice, how intently one particular officer was following every last detail of the investigation."

"They were?"

"Yes, they were."

"Really? Which one?"

"The female one."

"Officer Penny."

"Yes, yes, that is the one."

"She was?"

"Oh, yes, she really was. Remarkably so. Look, my limousine is just outside. Why not have her come with me and she can create the report, but with my guidance, so as to ensure she does not miss anything?"

"Well that really is very kind of you, Dr, but are you sure? You've really done enough today you know?"

"Oh, I am sure I can squeeze in one more thing."

"Well you make sure you charge the department for this extra effort won't you?"

"Oh, Sergeant, since I know you will not allow me to do otherwise, I suppose I will just have to."

"Yeah, you will," said the Sergeant, nodding his head resolutely as he wandered over to Officer Penny to inform her of her next assignment.

With Officer Penny and Dr Ramus swiftly departing to complete their unfinished business, Sergeant Ross strolled over to Karen, smiling broadly. "Well, what a great morning. At last, I've got a solved case again."

"Yeah, great morning," said Karen, her demeanor at least a match for his.

"And," said the Sergeant, "I don't have to write up a single thing. Penny's a lucky officer you know? There's a lot she can learn there, and she'll be thoroughly filled in."

"Yeah, that's nice for her," said Karen bobbing her body from side to side as she excitedly retrieved a card from her handbag, "but check out the girl with Dr Ramus' number."

# Chapter 4

In the ornate master bedroom of the luxurious mansion house, long platinum-blonde hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

"Oh, yes, yes. Come on, you little bitch. Come on. Come on. I want to cum. I want to cum. I want to cum. I WANT TO CUM, YOU LITTLE WHORE."

"Well, please do not hold back on my account," said Dr Ramus, appearing uncharacteristically ill at ease.

"I want you to cum first. I want you to cum first. Can you do that? Can you?"

"It would be a pleasure, my dear. Please do signal when you are ready."

"Now, bitch. Now. Oh my God, DO IT NOW."

Tilting his head to one side, while one eye opened wider than usual and the other shut into a squint, Dr Ramus' head began a gentle shudder as he stared at her—a little like an escaped lunatic—through the one open eye whilst emitting a low grunting noise that continued for several seconds. "I have completed."

She erupted. "Oh my God... I'm cumming... I'm cumming... I'M CUMMING."

As her orgasm drew to its conclusion, Officer Penny allowed her body to fall limply on to Dr Ramus', her moist forehead thudding against his as she continued to gasp for air. "Oh, Dr, how did you make me cum like that?"

"Easily, my dear," he said, only slightly breathless—and mostly due to fear as opposed to exertion. "The deep dorsal vein of my penis is of more than sufficient thickness to stimulate your G-spot, and by slightly slanting my pelvis and pulling you in by your lower back with my left hand, I was able to angle your hips towards my stomach thus causing additional stimulation to your clitoris that you would otherwise not have experienced, and..."

Slowly lifting her head away from his, Officer Penny stared in disbelief, but her bedfellow had tipped his head back towards the headboard and was blissfully oblivious to her slack-jawed, wide-eyed, expression.

"...this stimulation to two erogenous zones is more than enough to confuse the brain into delivering the most heightened of orgasms. Plus," he said as he proudly revealed his right hand to her in the form of a thumbs-up sign, "my thumb was in your anus."

"Ok..." said Officer Penny, biting her lip slightly. "Thanks for the explanation, but to be honest, my question was kind of a bit like a rhetorical one—although not quite the same. I've never had anyone mildly famous before, and I think that's why I came that hard. Which kind of means it was more me than you. Sorry. And, could you please get that thumb away from my face?"

"Oh, yes, it is a bit, isn't it?" said Dr Ramus, grimacing slightly now that he had retracted his thumb closer to his nose. He brought it directly in for a better sniff. "Maybe you need more fiber in your diet or something?"

"Yeah..." said Officer Penny, shaking her head incredulously. "Or, maybe, I didn't need your thumb up my ass in the first place. But, thanks, I'll look into the fiber thing."

"Good," he said, pushing himself up, and therefore, her also. "Right young lady, we both need to get on with some work. Go and sound the large bell in the hall, and Sinclair will show you where you can freshen up before he drives you back to the station. Then you can type up your report."

"The report you were supposed to be helping to write?"

"Yes, that is the one."

"But you haven't helped, one bit, to write anything."

"Oh, just put in all the things I said in the car and I am sure it will be fine."

"In the car you said you'd like wear my underwear while you fu—"

"Well, obviously do not put that. I only meant, say the things about the incident."

"Which you hardly mentioned."

"You got the gist. Anyway, in the car, you were so busy plying me with my own alcohol, I hardly had the chance."

"Ha. Don't give me that. And you call that having a drink?"

"Hmmm... And that underwear thing was, obviously, just a joke."

"Yeah, those 'things' generally are once a guy's fired his bullets."

"I can assure you I have never, once in my life, felt the need to carry a gu— Oh, I see. Yes, anyway, hurry along. I am sure we will meet again sometime."

"Maybe," said Officer Penny, shrugging her shoulders as she climbed off him without the slightest concern about leaning painfully into his solar plexus as she did so—so much so, he had to lay back down again to allow the discomfort to wear off.

Picking up her clothes from the side of the bed, she walked over to the door and helped herself to one of the luxurious white bath robes that hung from it. "See you later, Hot Shot."

As the door shut, the telephone at his bedside began to ring, and in one flowing motion, he immediately sat bolt upright, retrieved the handset, laid back down, and took a quick glimpse at a name he had scribbled onto the sticky-note he had earlier stuck on the side of the bedside cabinet. "Ms Smythe, how good of you to call."

"Hello. Hey, this is a withheld number. How did you know it was me?"

"I'll explain over dinner. Assuming you are still interested by then," said Dr Ramus, examining the tiny blemish on the ceiling which meant the whole room would need to be redecorated. "Dinner is why you are telephoning, is it not?"

"Err...Yes... Yes. We really should discuss each other's work."

"Excellent. Shall we say seven thirty at The Ritz Carlton?"

## ***

With the light from the overhead streetlamps effortlessly rebounding from its immaculately polished paintwork, the sleek black limousine purred sedately to a halt alongside a sidewalk teeming with—for the most part— elegantly dressed people, making their way to or from one of the many bars or eateries occupying this extremely popular part of the city.

From the offside of the limo, the silhouette of a man began to rise into the air above its roof—an unconventional outline, appearing as if the neck had been completely dispensed with in favor of a helmet shaped head that sat directly on top of a pair of solid shoulders attached to a body that, once the owner had reached his full height, stood just a fraction less than six foot seven inches tall.

He walked around the car, onto the pavement, and into the better light; his proliferation of dreadlocks flowing down the sides of his ruggedly handsome black face, over his shoulders, and down to the chest and back of the black pashmina suit that fitted his powerful body like a custom crafted glove.

Smiling warmly at those passers-by who chose to give his imposing figure a wide birth, he continued along to the back door of the limo, stooped down, and opened it with his enormous right hand.

Beneath the open door, a finely sculpted black Italian dress shoe landed on the pavement before its owner stepped out, revealing the remainder of his outfit: a close-fitting South American Vicuña black evening suit—hand-made by one of the finest tailors in Savile Row.

"Take this back with you would you, Sinclair?" said Dr Ramus, passing him an unfolded copy of a newspaper which had a fairly recent, stock, photo on the front, and the headline: **DR RAMUS WORKS WITH POLICE AGAIN** followed by the sub-line: **Pressure already growing on Mayor to bring him back to serious criminal investigations**.

"You want me to frame it and hang it in your study with the others, sir?"

"Of course," said Dr Ramus, providing Sinclair with the briefest of farewell nods before looking one way down the sidewalk, then the other, and spotting Karen Smythe walking briskly towards him in a long black coat, smiling and waving.

"Ah... She has paid a visit to the hairdresser," said Dr Ramus, under his breath and to himself, as he returned the smallest of waves and began to stroll towards her. "That bodes well."

"Can you spare any change, sir?"

Glancing to his side, Dr Ramus found a scruffy vagrant with an equally shabby cat perched on his shoulder.

"I won't spend it on booze, sir"

Dr Ramus regarded the vagrant through narrowed eyes.

"It's for him you see, sir." He pointed to the cat. "It's so I can buy him some proper cat food, sir. He hasn't had any for ages, and Ralph deserves a treat, sir."

Flicking his eyes back up the sidewalk, Dr Ramus attempted to determine how well Karen might be able to view this exchange, and hissing with the realization it would be only too well, he stuffed his hand into his inside pocket and sharply pulled out a twenty dollar bill but paused before handing it over.

The vagrant's jaw dropped as he gleefully eyed the bill.

"Just make sure it is for food," said Dr Ramus, through the teeth of his tightly clamped jaw while he turned the bill on its side, to ensure that Karen could not fail to witness his good gesture, and slowly eased it towards the man—all the while, watching her from the corner of his eye.

Karen stopped. A woman she appeared to know had walked up to her in the street.

Realizing she was not looking—and not in the slightest bit concerned with the despondent expression on the vagrant's face—Dr Ramus began to retract the bill, but almost immediately, Karen had concluded the conversation and was already on her way, smiling as she stared directly towards them again.

Cursing under his breath, Dr Ramus halted the retraction of the bill, allowed it to waver in the air for a moment, and keeping his eye firmly on Karen, began reluctantly passing it back towards the vagrant.

As the bill edged towards the vagrant—close enough he was almost salivating—Karen looked down to the crack in the pavement she had just that moment stumbled on, providing Dr Ramus his opportunity to yank back the bill and walk hastily towards her.

"That's very kind of you, sir," said the vagrant, snatching the bill from his grasp before he had even begun to implement his plan. "God bless you, sir. Ralph says thank you, sir, don't you, Ralph?"

Looking back up, and continuing towards them again, Karen tipped her head and mouthed 'Awww' as she smiled at Dr Ramus and the vagrant—happily clutching his newly acquired money.

"Well, perhaps he will perform a good deed for me one day." said Dr Ramus, sneering at both Ralph and his owner before turning sharply on his heels and lifting his foot in order that he could proceed towards Karen.

"Let's hope so, sir," said the vagrant, placing the bill in the tattered top pocket of his shirt. "He'd be delighted to. Wouldn't you, Ralph?"

Through the throng of pedestrians, a man appeared from behind Karen, running at an angle directly towards her with his hand extended.

"Ms Smythe," cried Dr Ramus, waving his hand in-front of himself and to the right. "Look out."

Smiling as she raised a cupped hand towards her ear, Karen yelped at the realization her handbag was being wrenched from her shoulder.

Weaving between the mixture of shocked and oblivious passers-by, the fast paced mugger continued along the pavement, drawing closer to Dr Ramus who, by his own calculations, would be close enough to attempt to tackle the man to the ground if he maintained his current trajectory. And, much to his dismay, the man did maintain it.

Contemplating his options, Dr Ramus glanced at the vagrant. "That good deed..."

"Ralph!" cried the vagrant as Dr Ramus grabbed the cat by its scruff and yanked it from his shoulder.

"Meeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooowww!" cried Ralph as he flew through the air like a furry shot put.

"Jesus!" cried the mugger as the splayed out kitty sped towards his face.

Determined to restrain the would-be thief, and moving as fast as humanly possible in order to do so, door staff from several nearby bars swarmed the downed mugger while Dr Ramus sauntered over, and Ralph bolted back to his owner.

"That was amazing," said Karen as she arrived and picked up her handbag that happened to be on a section of pavement right besides Dr Ramus' impeccably shoed feet but he had not troubled himself with fetching.

"Yes, I was rather good at that at school actually."

Karen screwed up her face. "What? Throwing cats?"

"No, no, throwing shot puts."

Clamping her hand to her mouth, Karen exhaled a small gasp as she noticed the mortified vagrant clutching the trembling Ralph. "Oh, that poor man and his cat. We must go and say something."

"Now, now," said Dr Ramus, barely managing to turn the gritting of his teeth into the best approximation of a smile he could muster. "You are distressed enough."

"Actually, I'm not that bad."

"No, no, I will not have you upset anymore. You stay here and I will go over. Oh, and keep a tight grip of your bag until I get back."

Clearly moved by the image before her, Karen watched as Dr Ramus cautiously approached the hostile looking vagrant and Ralph—who, it was fairly safe to say, had also taken quite a disliking to him.

"Keep away from us," said the man as Dr Ramus drew closer.

"Look, I really am terribly sorry about that, and I tell you what..."

The vagrant eyed him suspiciously. "What?"

"I do not have any more loose change or notes right now, but supposing I keep an eye out for you when I come back out from the restaurant? Then I am sure I will be able to give you some more money, so you and..."

"Ralph."

"Yes, so you and Ralph can get yourselves a real treat."

Squinting at him a moment, the vagrant slowly spoke. "Ok..."

"There, that is the spirit I was looking for," said Dr Ramus, giving the vagrant a couple of sturdy pats on the chest before turning on his heel and walking away.

As he approached her, Karen smiled warmly while, retrieving a handkerchief from his inside pocket to wipe his hand with, Dr Ramus smiled warmly back.

"I heard that," said Karen, her eyes more than a little dewy. "You really are a very kind man."

"Oh," said Dr Ramus, rolling his head back and playfully shaking it as he returned the handkerchief, and his recently retrieved twenty dollar bill, back to his inside pocket, "I really am not."

"Oh, yes you are," said Karen, mirroring his frivolity as she harmlessly poked her fingers several times at his stomach.

"Oh, no I am not," said Dr Ramus, joining in with the smiles but abstaining from the poking.

"Oh, look," said Karen, her face a little more serious as she stopped to inspect her fingers. "You might've been right about me being upset. I'm shaking."

"Hmmm," said Dr Ramus, taking hold of her hand and performing his own inspection. "It looks like you are right. This is probably an ideal time for me to take you into the hotel and get something stiff inside you."

Her expression completely neutralized, Karen silently followed Dr Ramus to the entrance.

# Chapter 5

"There. What did I tell you? A good stiff drink is just what the Dr ordered."

"Yes," said Karen, staring slightly hazily at the contents of the tumbler she was nursing. "A large Whiskey—"

"A large Single Malt Whiskey."

"—and a tiny squirt of soda, most certainly is 'what the Dr ordered'. I would have settled with just a normal sized soda. And, I don't suppose I'd be on my third glass by now either."

"Well, here is to new experiences," said Dr Ramus, raising his glass to Karen as he relaxed into his chair and casually took stock of the other diners before returning his gaze to hers. "And, it looks as if the color is returning to your cheeks."

"Well, I suppose that's something," said Karen, lifting the tumbler to her alcohol reddened face, taking another small sip, and stifling the urge to cough it back up again. "I see you got in the paper."

"I did?"

"Yes. Did you not see? You solving that case earlier, made this evening's. Just like I told you it would."

"Oh. I do not take much notice."

"Really?" said Karen, sounding a little put out. "You surprise me. Most people in your position would have them framed and put up all over—I don't know—the walls of their study or something."

"I suppose I am not most people," said Dr Ramus, taking another sip of his drink.

"Well, since you haven't seen it, I should tell you that they're putting pressure on the Mayor too. You know, to let the police use you again."

"They are?"

"Yeah, they are. The public loves conflict, and the Press loves what the public loves because it means they can sell them more papers. And, of course, the public also loves you."

"Oh, Ms Smythe, please," said Dr Ramus, making a respectable show of pretending to be embarrassed. "I really do not believe that is true."

"Please, call me Karen."

"Karen."

"Well, you must believe it, or why else do you think they would buy your books or want to see you on TV?"

"I have always assumed they were solely interested in the criminal aspect of what I do. It has never really crossed my mind that anyone particularly liked me."

"No?" said Karen, taking a sip of from her glass and pondering for a moment. "Actually, I guess there could be some truth in that, now I come to think of it..."

He stared at her, slightly bemused.

"Since you're cases have got, well, less interesting, I haven't seen you on TV for ages, and I can't remember the last time I saw one of your books anywhere prominent in a book shop, and—"

"Would you care for another Whiskey?" said Dr Ramus, thumping the base of his tumbler heavily onto the table.

"Err," said Karen, allowing her slightly blurred vision to correct as she checked the level of her drink. "No, I'm ok, thank you. Where was I?"

"Erm..." said Dr Ramus, holding his chin between his finger and thumb while rolling up his eyes and holding them there for a moment. "I think you had just said something about the public loving me."

"Oh, yes. They love people who keep them safe. And, who can do things most people can't."

"Well..."

"No, really, you shouldn't be modest. The way you worked out how Brian Peterson died. No-one else in that room had the first clue. But you... The answer just came to you naturally."

"Oh," said Dr Ramus, signaling the waiter and covertly indicating that he immediately required the pre-arranged, and pre-prepared, next two Whiskeys, "it really was nothing."

"That's my point. It wasn't nothing. It's like you were born to do this stuff."

"That is very kind of you to say, but I suspect it just all boils down to my passion for helping others."

"Yeah, well I can see that now. The way you gave that homeless person—"

"Madame, Sir," said the waiter, placing two more drinks on the table.

"Oh, I think there's been a mistake," said Karen. "I didn't—"

"That will be all, thank you," said Dr Ramus, leaning forward to Karen and speaking in a low voice while the waiter went back about his business. "I think he might be new. Must have misunderstood my signal. Now, where we in this delightful conversation?"

Karen stared at her two Whiskey tumblers for a moment, shrugged, and relaxed her posture. "Oh, to hell with it. Erm, yes, where were we? Dunno. Never mind. I was going to ask earlier, when I said about you being born to do this stuff..."

"Yes?"

"What about your family? I've read a lot about you, but nothing is ever mentioned of them."

"Well, the answer to that is easy. I have no brothers or sisters, and I lost my parents when I was seven."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. How awful."

"Yes, Christmas and birthdays were pretty dull after that, I have to say, but now I do not have to worry about buying for either of them, so it turned out not so bad after all."

"Yes," said Karen, hesitantly producing half a smile as she tried to determine whether or not that had been a joke. "So, do I take it your parents were killed in an accident?"

"Yes, quite a vile one actually."

"Oh," she said, clawing slightly at the tablecloth. "Perhaps we should change the subject."

"You know," said Dr Ramus, caressing his Whiskey glass, "it probably would do me good to talk about it."

Looking slightly anxious, Karen paused before responding. "If you really think?"

"Yes, yes I do. Some things should be discussed, gory details and all."

"If you're really sure?" said Karen, the tone of her voice strongly suggesting she wasn't. She took a large sip of her Whiskey.

"Yes, really, I should do this." He took a deep breath. "It appears my parents were experimenting with auto-erotic asphyxiation."

Karen spat her large sip of Whiskey all over the table cloth in-front of her.

"You are aware of the practice?"

"Err, I've kind of heard of it," she said, meekly, and hastily taking another slug that she fully intended to quickly swallow.

"Well, it is a nasty business. Those engaging in it, choke themselves—often with a noose—for sexual gratification." He took some of his Whiskey, rolled it around his mouth, and licked his top lip with a click. "Sadly, while my parents were partaking in the practice, something went horribly wrong, and they simultaneously hung themselves."

"Oh," said Karen, subconsciously raising her hand and signaling the waiter that more Whiskeys were urgently required. "How awful."

"Indeed."

Preparing to speak, Karen hesitated but then continued. "But, to do it at the same time?" she said delicately. "That's extremely unlucky."

"Well, yes, although I am not sure either of them would have felt any luckier choking to death on their own."

"No, no, I mean..." She hesitated again. "Maybe it wasn't, completely, a sexual act. Maybe, it was, you know..."

"Suicide?" said Dr Ramus, leaning forward and nonchalantly resting the elbow of his Whiskey glass arm onto the table before taking another nip. "I do not believe so."

"No?" said Karen, taking some more of her own drink.

"No. At least, not according to the sworn statements from the troupe of sadomasochistic midgets they had invited over."

Holding her mouth, she struggled for a moment before finally managing to swallow.

"The real tragedy is that they were all too short to help get them down," he said, cocking his head and staring upwards for a moment. "Funny really..."

"It is?"

"Yes, even though they were circus trained and could stand on each other's shoulders and all that kind of thing, they still could not reach the nooses."

Shaking her head, mostly in despair of her own situation rather than that of him or his parents, Karen took some more Whiskey. "That really is too terrible."

"Yes, yes... But would you like to know the worst thing about it all?" said Dr Ramus, staring over the top of her head and into space.

"Not really."

"The worst thing was, at the age of seven, having to go and identify my parent's bodies..."

"Oh," said Karen, looking down at the table cloth as she silently berated herself for her lack of compassion, "yes."

"...when your dead father is still dressed in your dead mother's peekaboo bra and panty set."

Karen swiped at her tumbler and took a massive mouthful of her Whiskey.

"Mind you, I suppose it is better than him being naked. I would not have wanted to have seen that... Apparently, he still had an extremely sizeable sex toy inserted in his—"

"Madame, sir, your drinks, and are you ready to order?"

"Oh, thank God, you're here."

"Is everything alright, Karen?" said Dr Ramus, squinting at her.

"Err, yes. I'm just really hungry," she said, snatching a menu and placing it in-front of her face. "Right let me see..."

"If you could bring a bottle of Dom Pérignon and the sea food platter, that will be all for the moment." said Dr Ramus.

Slowly lowering the menu, Karen revealed her face again—her mouth slightly ajar. "Actually—"

"Thank you, sir," said the waiter, hurrying away.

"What, my dear?"

"Well... I kind of had my own ideas about what I might have."

"I understand that, but trust me, you will thank me once you have experienced the seafood here. The oysters are an absolute delight."

"I don't like seafood."

"You will like this seafood."

"How do you know? And, also, how do you know I haven't had it here before?"

"You work in a University."

Her mouth dropped open. "I have a very good job."

"Yes, but—"

"And, besides, how do you know I haven't been brought here before on, say, a date?"

"Oh, Karen, I really do not believe you move in the kind of circles that can afford to bring you here."

"You did."

"Hmmm..." he said, tipping his head to one side while he deliberated on her last statement. "That is true."

"And I'm starting to wish I hadn't accepted your invitation."

"Actually, if you wanted to be completely accurate, you sort of asked me," said Dr Ramus as Karen stared at him wide-eyed and open mouthed, "but I do understand how much that awful incident with the mugger must be spoiling what would otherwise be a wonderful evening for you. Have another Scotch, and I am sure you will soon be over it and enjoying your seafood."

"I don't want any more Scotch. I've had more than enough already. And, I suppose, Whiskey, Champagne, and oysters are all part of a ploy to get me up into a hotel room later?"

"Good Lord, no," said Dr Ramus, genuinely taken aback. "I would not dream of such behavior. I just thought we would get a little tipsy and enjoy a nice dinner together."

"Oh," said Karen, biting her lip as she evaluated his resolute response.

"Although I suppose, if you are that keen, we could always retire to my town house. It is far more comfortable than this place."

Unable to find quite the right words, Karen's draw dropped open again.

"However, if there is to be any of that kind of business, I will—as a Gentleman—have to insist you sober up first." He turned and called out loudly across the room. "Waiter, could you fetch us a large jug of water, a glass to go with it, and we will only require one Champagne flute." He turned back. "You better pass your Whiskeys to me."

From the neighboring tables, a small chorus of gasps erupted as Karen's chair flew back with a thump. "Actually, Dr," she said, ignoring the plight of the passing waiter her chair had just smashed into, "I think I'd like to retire now, and most definitely, on my own. Thanks for a lovely evening." Turning to leave, she spun back and picked up one of the full glasses of Whiskey. "And I'm nowhere near ready to sober up," she said as she bolted down its contents, spun back again, and stormed towards the door.

"Women's problems," said Dr Ramus, shaking his head slightly as he smiled at the bemused diners on the closest table. "It is a curse. It really is."

"That," said an extremely irate looking lady, probably in her early-sixties, and doing her best to ignore the men at the table who had nodded agreeably to Dr Ramus' remark and already returned to eating their meals, "is so unreasonable."

"I wholeheartedly agree, my dear. Nature really has been quite cruel to the female of the species, has it not?" He casually took a sip of his drink and smiled warmly at her. "Still it does not go on forever. I doubt you even remember what all the fuss was about, do you?"

For the next few minutes, he sat staring across the room and out through one of the large windows, allowing his vision to over focus as if he was looking straight through anything that happened to be in his line of sight. Although not drunk, the almost continuous sips of Scotch had most definitely mellowed him, and the not so unpleasant hum of the voices of the other diners had carried him away into a rather agreeable daydream. But, before very long, his subconscious had been alerted to a new sound and set about bringing him back to his senses.

Lent against the bar was the petite figure of a woman with curly long brunette hair, tied behind her neck, and tumbling down her back until the longest strands reached all the way to just below the line of the black belt that fitted snuggly around the waist of the little black dress that clung flawlessly to the contours of her shapely feminine body.

Despite facing away from him, Dr Ramus could see the woman's features very clearly in the large mirror directly opposite her, behind the bar tending area. Her face was already extremely attractive, but most endearing of all, was the way it lit up each and every time she released another of the shrill hoots of laughter that had brought her to his attention in the first place.

Either side of her were two older female companions, seemingly recounting a tale that the younger woman clearly found tremendously amusing, and Dr Ramus watched with fascination as, time and time again, the two women's facial expressions, and body language, would reliably become more and more animated until they inevitably reached another high-point of the story and the young woman's mouth would unfailingly gape as she howled with yet more laughter.

Mesmerized by this spectacle, he sat picking olives from the bowl on the table. Each time, popping one into his mouth, and while he slowly chewed on it, automatically selecting another, putting it on his side plate, and rolling it around under the tip of his middle finger until, right at the point he knew the woman was about to burst into laughter, he would let it go and unconsciously flick his flick his finger towards her as if he was somehow conducting her actions.

At the bar, the two companions began to become more and more enthusiastic as they told the next instalment of the story until, predictably, they reached yet another high-point, and yet again, the young woman laughed loudly—so loudly, in fact, that not one of them heard the ping of a small projectile as it rebounded off of the stem of a bottle on the other side of the bar.

The laugher drawn to an abrupt halt, the two older women gasped as they watched their young friend grasping at her own throat, gasping for air, but before they could even absorb what was happening in-front of them, a pair of hands appeared around the front of the young woman's body, jerking so hard up into her abdomen, she lunged forward violently and spat an olive across the bar.

With her palm and splayed open fingers clamped to the front of her chest, the shocked young woman turned around to find the individual who had now removed his hands from her person. Meanwhile, behind her, her two equally shocked friends remained silent for a moment but soon began to talk in whispers to each other behind shielding hands—presumably about the unexpected arrival.

"Err... Look," said Dr Ramus, unusually reserved and, surprising even himself, a little apologetic, "I may have inadvertently fli—"

"Have I seen you on TV?"

"Yes," he said, any distress he may have caused already fading from the forefront of his mind. "You very likely have."

"You're that detective, aren't you?"

"Hmmm," he said, raising his eyebrows and casually tipping his head to one side.

"You performed the Heimlich maneuver on me."

"I did," he said, repeating his last gesture, only to the other side.

"I don't know what to say."

Playfully, he shrugged shoulders. "I am sure you will think of something."

"Really... I'm lost for words."

"Well," he said, noticing the two waiters who had just that moment arrived at his table with a large tray of seafood and a bottle of Champagne on ice, "why not join me for Champagne and oysters, and perhaps, I can be of assistance in finding those words?"

Pausing for a moment, she looked around to find her two friends fervently nodding their heads in the direction of the table. She turned back. "That would be lovely. How... How can I ever thank you?"

## ***

In the ornate master bedroom of the luxurious mansion house, long curly brunette hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

# Chapter 6

As the door shut behind the young woman carrying her clothes in her hand, and dressed in one of the luxurious white bath robes, the telephone at Dr Ramus' bedside began to ring, and in one flowing motion, he sat bolt upright, retrieved the handset, and laid back down again. "Sergeant Ross. How can I be of assistance?"

"Err... Yeah... We've got a case. A big one. You heard of James Frankley?

"Of course."

"Well, he's been murdered."

"He has?"

"Yeah, earlier today, and I need you on it a.s.a.p."

"You are absolutely sure it was murder?"

"Judging by the note we found, and where we found it..." said The Sergeant, stifling a giggle to which Dr Ramus could only shake his head. "Yeah, it's murder alright."

"This note—"

"Yeah, you need to read it, but the important thing is: it said there're more on the way, so we need to get him fast, and for that, I need you."

"What is the Mayor's view on this?"

"He's agreed. Doesn't have much choice. This'll be in the paper within hours, and they'll be hounding us—and him—to find out what's being done."

A smile began to creep across Dr Ramus' lips. "Hmmm... A serial killer, ay?"

"Yeah, if we don't get to him first, it sounds like that's exactly what he'll be."

"These people normally label themselves with a moniker."

"Huh? Who's Monica?"

"A nickname. They normally give themselves a nickname."

"Oh, yeah, you'll like this. He's calling himself the Professor."

"Why on earth would I like that? It is a stupid name. I sincerely hope this investigation is not going to turn out like some clichéd and formulaic, pulp-fiction, crime novel, Sergeant?"

"Why? You'll still get paid, and if it did, wouldn't it make it easier to plan out what his next move might be? Besides, judging by the way my officers reacted to his..."

"Moniker?"

"Yeah, that. The way they reacted to his moniker, the public'll lap it up. Just think, there could be room for you to get a book out of this. If you don't, I'm sure someone else might."

"Hmmm, interesting," said Dr Ramus, smiling again. "So, what do you want me to do first?"

"Ah, yeah, you're not gonna like this, but the Mayor wants to see the both of us first thing in his office."

The smile faded. "Oh, for the love of God. Why?"

"I think he might want to tune you in."

"Tune me in?"

"Yeah, set some ground rules. Seeing as what a big fan he is of yours."

"Can he not brief the Captain? Then the Captain can brief you, and you can brief me."

"Already suggested that to the Captain, and he said if you wanted the work, you and me had to go. To be honest, I think he hates the Mayor more than you do."

"That, Sergeant, I very much doubt."

## ***

With the castors of his executive leather chair having found—as they always did—the deep craters they had permanently created in the sumptuous pile of the cream Axminster carpet, the anally tormented Mayor lazily reclined his portly body behind his ludicrously large, leather topped, mahogany desk and the few items atop it: a gold colored name plate—unusual in that it had been engraved on both sides, an untouched leather-bound writing pad with a gold pen in an ornate holder, an extremely simplistic looking office telephone, and a TV remote with large finger worn buttons.

In front of the desk were a couple of visitor's chairs, clearly from the same range as the Mayor's but nowhere near as grandiose, and beyond that, a sixty inch flat screen TV on top of a glass fronted mahogany drinks cabinet that sat flat against the lavishly papered wall which, apart from the gold clock, was much like the other walls of the room in that it was adorned with gold framed photos of the Mayor buddying up with various celebrities and high-powered individuals who had at some time visited the city, and in most cases, appeared far less enthusiastic about being photographed than he did. In summary, this was a room— pretentious in nature—and bearing little evidence that any real work ever took place there.

As the gold hands on the ornate wall clock ticked thirteen minutes past 9 o'clock, a female voice resonated from the loudspeaker of his telephone. "I have Sergeant Ross and Dr Ramus here to see you, Your Honor."

Pausing for a deliberately protracted moment, the Mayor finally lurched forward to pick up the remote, switch off the TV, and press the large intercom button on the front panel of the telephone. "Tell them they're late, but they may enter."

The first of the room's, two, large mahogany doors swung noiselessly open and Sergeant Ross walked briskly through it. "Good morning, Mayor. Sorry we're a little late" he said as he came to a halt in-front of the desk.

"Sergeant," said the Mayor, irritably.

After several moments of staring at the Mayor in anticipation he might elaborate as to why he had invited them, the Sergeant coughed awkwardly. "Sir?"

"Well, I can't start without him, can I? Where is he?"

"Huh?" said the Sergeant, looking around to discover he had walked in unaccompanied. "I'm sorry, sir, I thought he was right behind me."

From the still open doorway, the low rumble of a male voice—followed by distinctively female giggling—drifted into the room, causing the Mayor to respond with uncharacteristic urgency by stabbing his podgy finger as robustly as he could manage at the intercom button. "Hazel, tell him to get in here, right away."

Over the intercom, the voice of his Personal Assistant wobbled as she struggled not to snicker. "Yes, sir."

"Seven thirty at the Ritz Carlton then," said Dr Ramus, over his shoulder as he meandered through the doorway and nonchalantly made his way to the Mayor's desk.

Flaring his nostrils at the new arrival, the Mayor stabbed at the intercom button again. "Hazel. Come and shut the door behind him will you?"

"Mayor Pecker-Fudger," said Dr Ramus, his voice deliberately bouncy. "How are the hemorrhoids?"

The palms of the Mayor's hands slammed onto the leather desktop. "Will you mind your own businesses, Ramus? And, for the last time, it's pronounced 'Peeker-Foodger'."

"Just showing some concern, Your Honor," said Dr Ramus, casually picking up the name plate from the Mayor's desk and sneering disdainfully down his nose at it. "And, as for the name thing, perhaps you should discuss that with whoever engraves your name plates because the one on the door, and this one here, do clearly say Pecker-Fudger."

"Put that down. You'll get finger prints all over it. And I'm not prepared to discuss with you—again—the proper pronunciation of my name."

"No, you are probably right," said Dr Ramus, wearily shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. "I am not sure you will ever get this."

Observing the Mayor's crimson red face, and teeth clenched—so tight he was in danger one or two might actually crack, Sergeant Ross stepped forward, slightly obscuring the line of vision between the Mayor and Dr Ramus. "Now, sir, Dr Ramus and I appreciate you're busy, so why don't we quickly listen to what you had to tell us, and then we'll be out of your way."

After some delay, the Mayor finally allowed his jaw to prize itself apart. "Firstly," he said, still narrowing his eyes at Dr Ramus, "I want to hear your plan for pursuing and catching the murderer."

"May I enquire why?" said Dr Ramus.

"I need to asses it," said The Mayor, staring at him as if this were routine procedure.

"But, you have already stipulated that I will only get paid if I produce results, so why would you need to assess the detail? After all, criminal investigation is hardly your area of expertise, now is it?"

His eyes widening, the Mayor snorted as he inhaled a particularly large volume of air. "Now, listen here, Ramus. Since I took office, I've made a point of involving myself in many of the criminal investigations that have affected this city, and I consider myself to be highly experienced in these kinds of matters."

Pausing as he allowed his eyes to wander across the items on the Mayor's desk, and then to the surrounding areas of the room—as if he were silently asking a rhetorical question as to how only a pen, an unused notepad, a TV remote, and a telephone that looked like it was made by Fisher-Price, could possibly be considered as sufficient productivity tools for anyone in the twenty first century to do anything useful with—Dr Ramus ran his hand hard through his hair before staring back at a physique showing all the indications that its only regular source of any exertion, of any kind, was trips to the toilet—possibly stopping by the drinks cabinet along the way. "Mayor, do you remember the last case I was involved in? The Reeves & Jeeves cocaine smuggling operation?"

Hesitantly, the Mayor broke eye contact with Dr Ramus—staring instead at his empty notepad as if that might in some way jog his memory.

"You should. You tried blaming me for its outcome."

"This isn't the time to discuss that," said the Mayor, appearing to have now remembered.

"Do you remember your 'highly experienced' decision to insist sniffer dogs were sent in to search the ship we suspected the cocaine to be on?"

"Under the circumstances, my decision was correct."

"The ship was sinking, Your Honor," said Sergeant Ross, stepping slightly forward again.

"That's as maybe, but it still needed searching."

"Three of the dogs nearly drowned," said Dr Ramus.

"Nobody could have foreseen that. After all, dogs can swim can't they?"

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, holding his chin and nodding his head, "but they do tend to struggle with holding their breath when they are two decks down and the compartments have flooded. Or, perhaps, you thought they were provided with specially designed doggy breathing apparatus that, not only allowed them to survive in such unfriendly conditions, but also did not impede their ability to follow the scent of narcotics that had been completely submerged in salt water?"

The Mayor opened his mouth to speak.

"It is a wonder we managed to resuscitate the handlers."

"That is true," said the Sergeant. "They swallowed the most water, swimming out with their mutts across their shoulders."

"Look," said the Mayor, ignoring Sergeant Ross' comment and focusing on Dr Ramus, "if you wish to take this contract with the Police Department, I would advise you to focus on explaining to me how you intend to catch this murderer."

"Very good," said Dr Ramus, sighing as he spoke. "Once we have concluded here, the Sergeant and I will try to compensate for valuable time lost and make our way as fast as possible across the city to Amos Finch at his town house."

"I've provided him police protection," said Sergeant Ross, "but Dr Ramus is right, we need to speak to him directly. He may be willing to help us trap the killer."

"Yes, I heard about that via a brief email exchange between my PA and the Captain's assistant." said the Mayor, stroking his chin and pondering for another deliberately protracted moment. "Didn't like that idea at all. We can't go showing favoritism to the rich and famous you know?"

"Favoritism?" said Dr Ramus, glancing at several of the photographs in his peripheral vision—not one of which contained the Mayor posing with anyone who was anything but rich and famous.

"Yes, favoritism. Anyway, I got a reply from the Captain, just before you arrived, and he agreed to have the officers removed immediately."

"What?" said Dr Ramus, while his open mouthed companion shook his head in response to the piece of information that, clearly, no-one else had considered he need be made aware of. "Amos Finch is the next logical victim. He could be used as bait."

Resting his palms in his lap, the Mayor reclined pompously in his chair. "Obviously, I understand why you might want to explore the possibility that the killer is prejudiced towards chefs, but we can't give special treatment to one or two of them just because they're well known and have money. There'd be a public outcry."

Holding his breath, Dr Ramus looked to the ceiling for a moment before reconnecting his gaze with the Mayor. "Did you read the note the murderer left with James Frankley?"

"It was pinned to the baguette we extracted from him, Your Honor," said Sergeant Ross, helpfully.

The Mayor shuffled awkwardly in his chair. "I heard the gist of it."

"Hmmm," said Dr Ramus, sneering at him. "Would you pass me your transcript please, Sergeant?"

The Sergeant fumbled in his inside pocket for a moment while—outside the window—the previously still wind began to bellow, and a dark-grey rain cloud—that seemed to have weirdly appeared from nowhere—drifted into view, obscuring the sun and dramatically darkening the room, but for a small break, permitting a narrow channel of light to eerily illuminate just the head and shoulders of Dr Ramus who, as the wind died back down to nothing and the Sergeant landed a piece of paper in his hand, appeared to adopt an unnaturally dark and menacing air. "There is a section in it that reads...

" _I shall rid this country of the curse of egotistical nonentities, shamelessly parading their talentless endeavors before our public and feeding upon their cretinous naivety._

In living rooms, bars, and even workplaces, across this once great nation, this curse rampages while the talent of geniuses is, for the most part, overlooked, and at best, devalued.

This city harbors many of this kind, so it is here my work must begin.

The first to be judged are those whose pitiful claim to greatness is the simple ability to prepare foodstuffs and apply garnish, and since the most prominent of these was James Frankley, it is only fitting that you find both notice and proof of my intentions with him.

I am the solution. I am the antidote. I am the Professor."

Almost as if the elements were in some supernatural harmony with Dr Ramus—and were now aware his recital was complete—a new gust of wind blew steadily until the cloud drifted away into the distance and normal daylight returned to the Mayor's office.

"Jesus," said the Sergeant, who had stepped back a couple of paces and was gripping the back of one of the chairs he had shuffled up to. "That was very scary."

"Oh," said Dr Ramus. "Yes. Sorry about that. I have been coerced into playing lago in a small production of Shakespeare's Othello, and there is a particular scene I really want to give some oomph to, so I have been practicing it to death. Trouble is, now, I seem to come across like that any time I read anything out loud."

"I nearly shit myself," said Sergeant Ross, forgetting himself.

"You may joke," said Dr Ramus, shaking his head, "but the other day, I was simply reading out a list of items I wanted attended to, and my gardener did."

"Nasty."

"Well quite. Thankfully we were outside at the time or he would have very quickly had another item on his list, I can tell you."

Looking back to the Mayor, they found him cowering as far back into his executive chair as its sumptuous padding would allow—the hue of his face matching the whiteness of his knuckles as his fingers clasped the ends of its arms.

"So, now do you see my point?" said Dr Ramus.

Not responding, the Mayor simply stared meekly at him.

"He is talking about celebrities and is beginning with celebrity chefs. James Frankley was the highest rating TV chef in America, and he lived in this city. Amos Finch has the next highest rating, and he also lives in this city. And there are others after that. We must endeavor to both protect, and work with them all, if we are to catch this murderer."

With the Mayor still saying nothing, Dr Ramus slammed his hands on the top of the desk. "For God's sake, man."

Violently recoiling in his chair, the Mayor released a high-pitched squeal.

"Ooh, sir," said Sergeant Ross, scrunching the muscles of his face as he observed the similarly contorted features of the Mayor. "You didn't just clench your pile did you?"

The traumatized Mayor remained silent, not even moving his head, but if it were possible to read a man's thoughts by the look in his eyes, his were saying that he had—and it felt like it had just been smashed between two bricks.

"Perhaps we should go?" said the Sergeant.

Finally, the Mayor eased his mouth open to speak. "I think so too," he said with a strained tone that was several octaves higher than normal. "We'll reconvene later. For now, get out there and track this murderer, but you are not to show any preference or prejudice, or you'll both be off the case. Do I make myself clear?"

"But—"

"Come along, Dr," said Sergeant Ross, gripping his arm and steering him towards the door. "Best we go and do as the Mayor says."

"I suppose you are right," said Dr Ramus, turning towards the door but stopping to hold his stomach. "Oh, oh dear," he said, biting his lip in, evidently in distress.

"What's the matter?" said Sergeant Ross.

"I regret," said Dr Ramus, looking a little awkward, the Mayor is not the only one here with an embarrassing condition. I am sorry, Mayor, but I absolutely must make immediate use of your en-suite.

As the Mayor hastily pointed towards the door they had entered through, muttering something about his own urgent need for the bathroom and there being a communal toilet down the main corridor, Dr Ramus hurried to the second of the office's large mahogany doors. "Sorry, Your Honor, but there is no time."

## ***

With the din of the outside traffic rumbling into the bathroom through the wide open window—mingling with the hum of the powerful extractor fan that had been activated with a pull of the light cord—conditions were probably about as favorable as one could reasonably expect to assist with the masking of the inevitable unwanted noises, and the removal of the unsavory odor, that were surely about to follow.

Hurriedly, Dr Ramus lifted the toilet seat lid—allowing it to clank noisily against the cistern—while stepping quietly over to the basin, and as gently as he could manage, opening the doors of the medicine cupboard above, in order that he could scan its contents until his eyes met with the item he was searching for: a large tub of Pile Driver Hemorrhoid Cream.

Carefully removing the tub, he noiselessly stepped back over to the toilet and unscrewed its lid, lightly placing both items on top of the cistern before putting his hand into his inside jacket pocket and retrieving a slightly battered leather case which he unbuckled at its clasp—opening it out to reveal a glass vial, a small number of individually sealed wipes, and a similar number of individually sealed plastic spatulas.

Taking out a spatula and the vial, he put the case on the cistern and set about removing the spatula's cellophane, making sure to put it in his pocket. He then unscrewed the vial's cap and placed it carefully on top of the cistern with the other items.

Carefully, he held the vial above the open tub of cream—with his nose and mouth held well away—and turned it until several drops were released. He then quickly replaced its cap and employed the spatula to stir in the liquid that was already producing faint wisps of white smoke from the top of the ointment.

Satisfied his task was concluded, he reassembled the contents of his leather case, placing it back in his inside pocket before putting the lid back on the tub and loudly returning the toilet's lid to its seat as he operated the flush. He then stepped back over to the medicine cupboard where he positioned the tub exactly as it was before and gently closed the door.

Having washed and dried his hands, and re-pulled the light cord, he unlocked the door before gently pushing it open and stepping back into the main office. "Thank you Mayor. That has made me feel much, much, better."

## ***

As the city officials, tourists, and all manner of other every-day pedestrians, came and went from all directions, Dr Ramus and Sergeant Ross stood on the sidewalk facing the grand white frontage of City Hall and the several vagrants who had not yet been moved from the steps leading up to the entrance of the building.

"So," said Sergeant Ross, "what now, Dr?"

"We continue as originally planned and proceed directly to Amos Finch," he said, eyeing a couple of passing female backpackers.

"But what about what that stuff the Mayor said? He won't be happy if we go against his wishes."

"No, but he did appear to have other things on his mind. Hopefully, that might keep him occupied for a while, and he will be unaware of our movements."

"Yeah, he did look like he was in a lot of pain, but even so, it won't—"

An agonizing scream echoed from the open window two floors above them.

Jerking his head skyward—along with many others in the vicinity—Sergeant Ross traced its source. "My God. I think that was him again."

Tipping his head for a moment's consideration, Dr Ramus leisurely gazed up towards the window. "Do you know? I think it just might be? I wonder what could be wrong now?"

"Well," said Sergeant Ross, appearing a little surprised at Dr Ramus, "I'm pretty sure that came from his bathroom, so I would guess it must be his hemorrhoid playing him up some more."

"Hmmm. You know what, Sergeant? I think you are probably right. Clearly, there is a fine detective in you just waiting to be unleashed."

As Sergeant Ross stood proudly grinning to himself, his moment was abruptly interrupted by the theme tune from a 1970's cop show—about two Southern California police detectives who drove around in a rather garish Ford Gran Torino catching bad guys—emanating from his inside pocket. Fishing out his cell, he checked the display and answered it. "Hello, Mayor. Are you alright, sir?"

Wrenching his cell in one direction and his head in the other, the Sergeant lowered the phone and passed it to Dr Ramus. "He wants to speak to you. Quite urgently by the sounds of it."

Furrowing his eyebrows and lightly shaking his head, Dr Ramus shrugged his shoulders, took the cell, and spoke into it as jovially as he had when he entered the Mayor's office earlier that morning. "Mayor..." He resisted the urge to say Pecker-Fudger. "What a pleasure to speak to you again. And, so soon."

"Was that you, Ramus?"

"No, Mayor. I think you will find it was you. At least, that is how it sounded from here."

"You know exactly what I mean."

"No, not really. Could you—"

"Shut-up and listen. You must think you're very clever getting back in with the police and giving your career a shot in the arm, but let me tell you, if you don't succeed, and soon, I will make it my personal mission to paint a picture of you in the media, so damning, you'll never sell another book, get on TV, or get hired by anyone again. You'll be down there, sat on my steps, with the other nobodies."

"You know, I think you are right," said Dr Ramus, having been hung-up on and passing the cell back to Sergeant Ross, "that hemorrhoid really is playing him up."

"So, what are we doing?"

"There is no time. I am sure Amos Finch is in imminent danger, and we should get to him before he too is dispatched, but we will have to go without backup, and something tells me we need to approach this with an additional degree of caution."

"Why do you say that, Dr?"

"You may remember, on the phone earlier, I said that I hoped this investigation was not going to turn out clichéd and formulaic?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the..."

"Professor?"

"Yes... Do I have to refer to him by that stupid name?

"Stupid as it is it, it's what he's going by."

"Alright. If I must. The Professor's note was far too explicit. I believe, Sergeant, that he is encouraging us to trail him."

# Chapter 7

With the reflected flicker of naked flames dancing an unruly jig on the area of white patterned ceiling directly above the silver candle chandelier, the man laid spread eagle beneath drew little to no comfort from the fact his hands and wrists had been bound with four of his own finest quality silk ties that had each bought by a different catwalk model girlfriend, or that he was laid on a lavish Persian rug that had been a gift from a billionaire businessman whose daughter's wedding he had catered for earlier in the year, or that he was in the ornate living room of his very own—bought and paid for—luxury town house, located in one of the city's most desirable main streets that was now so sought after, even the few individuals with many times his considerable income were struggling to secure property there.

With his voice already hoarse from protestation, he tried again. "Please, what do you want? You're not going to kill me are you? I have money. Lots of money."

Of the two captors, only one had spoken throughout the whole ordeal: a tall, muscular looking, Caucasian male, probably in his early thirties with light, swept back, dark brown hair that ended in a ponytail, piercing blue eyes, and a face that—although a little gimpish and pale—provided a reasonable backdrop for the stubble that had been sculpted into an extremely short goatee beard. "Mr Finch, or can I call you Amos? You're gonna pay for your crimes but not with money."

"Yes, you can call me Amos. You can call me whatever you like. What crimes?"

Shaking his head while retrieving a gag from his bag, his captor turned to his companion. "Prepare the execution."

"What? Execution? No. No. Please, I'll give you anything. I'll do anything you want."

"Thanks for the offer, Amos, but really, I only want you to do what you're doing right now. Nothing more, nothing less."

With a dark shadow looming above his head, Finch made his final petition. "No... Oh my God no. Not that... No... No..."

## ***

Having run up the fleet of steps leading from the pavement to the large black double doors of the town house, Sergeant Ross urgently punched his fingertip against the shiny aluminum button of the intercom. "Do you think he'll answer?"

"I fear, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus, reaching the top at a considerably more leisurely place than his older colleague and setting about an intense inspection of the double doors, "we may be too late."

"Yeah, his cell being off doesn't fill me with confidence either. Not when he promised to keep it by his side." The Sergeant anxiously stabbed at the intercom button again. "How do we get in then?"

Pausing for a moment, Dr Ramus continued to examine the doors. "Hmmm," he said as he ran his hand down the smooth paintwork either side of the gap in the middle where the two doors met. "I wonder?"

"You got an idea, Dr?"

"Maybe. I am not sure."

"Care to share?" said the Sergeant, his voice brimming with urgency.

"You see these doors here?"

"Yeah, they're right in-front of me."

"Very fine, sturdy looking, doors. Would you agree?"

"Yes, yes they are."

"Well, here is my idea. You have seen the doors on the front of my house, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And this is most important—you remember, well, what they look like, yes?"

"Yeah," said Sergeant Ross, hurriedly nodding his head.

"Well... How do you think it would look if I replaced them with a pair of these?"

Sergeant Ross' mouth fell open but words failed to follow.

"Mine are perfectly acceptable, you understand, and perfectly serviceable, but they are certainly due for redecoration, and front doors set such an important first impression to visitors. Maybe, it is time for a change. What do you think?"

Words continued to not issue forth from the Sergeant's mouth.

"No, forget that question. I have made up my mind. As soon as I return home, I shall instruct Sinclair to call for quotes on a pair of doors just like these. Right, we better focus on the man possibly on the other side of these... quite exquisite... although maybe not so much the door furniture... Anyway, the man on the other side of these doors, very possibly in mortal danger if not already dead."

"That's very good of you, Dr," said the Sergeant whilst mildly shaking his head, "but, how we gonna get to him?"

"Now, look here," said Dr Ramus, pointing towards the area where the two doors met each other. "Look at how this whole frontage is completely flush, and there are just these gold finger plates and a flat plate for the keyhole that—frankly—would not have been my first choice, but most importantly, still means there are no ghastly handles poking out."

"Err, Dr, sorry to interrupt, but do you think we could leave this till later?"

"What do you mean 'leave this until later'? This is extremely important."

"Look, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to insist you focus on getting to Amos Finch."

"Which is exactly what I am attempting to do, Sergeant. Look, this surface is lovely and flat, and therefore—"

His nostrils flaring and face reddening, the Sergeant angrily raised his finger.

"—lends itself to being impacted by a running shoulder barge."

"Ay?"

"Sergeant, have you been listening to anything I have just said? Pay attention would you? A running shoulder barge. If there were handles you would risk doing yourself an injury."

"Oh," said the Sergeant, relaxing his posture. "Hold on a minute. What do you mean 'doing yourself an injury'? Is 'yourself' myself?" Squeezing his right eyelid shut, the Sergeant stopped to ponder for a moment on the brand new source of confusion he had just inflicted upon himself. "You want me to shoulder barge through this door?"

"Oh, Sergeant, really," said Dr Ramus, patting him on one of his muscular biceps, "a big stallion of a man such as you should have no trouble at all breaking through this setup. It will be as if everything you see in front of you is made of Papier-mâché."

Taking a moment to assess the obstruction, Sergeant Ross frowned and motioned to speak, but ignoring his motion to speak, Dr Ramus simply motioned towards the pavement. "All you need to do is go down there, take a run up these steps, and impact all your weight via your shoulder into the mid-section of the two doors. Aiming for the two gold finger plates should do the trick. Easy."

Sergeant Ross stood rooted to the spot.

"Sergeant, may I remind you there is possibly a man in great peril on the other side of these doors? Time is of the essence you know?"

"But these look pretty heavy. I don't think this is gonna work."

"You need not worry about the weight of the doors, man. The lock will break, and they will simply fly open."

"I don't know, Dr. Amos Finch is a wealthy guy. I'm sure he would've bought pretty sturdy locks."

Pausing for thought, Dr Ramus put his hand in his inside pocket. "Allow me," he said, pulling out his leather case.

"What are you doing?"

"I am about to ensure, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus, retrieving the glass vial and unscrewing its lid, "that an already simple task becomes a trivial one. That way, your mind can be put at ease—allowing us to hurry up and save the man inside."

"How?"

"This is sulphuric acid."

"Should you be carrying that?"

"Please, Sergeant, focus on the urgent would you?"

"Sorry," said the Sergeant, biting his lip and looking to the floor.

"Being careful not to breathe in the fumes—and you should take the same precautions—I am going to pour some of this into the keyhole, and it will run down onto the internal bolt of the mortise lock that is securing the two doors, weaken it, and as a result, make your shoulder barging through to the other side—as I have already stated—trivial."

"But—"

"Stand away," said Dr Ramus as white fumes began to discharge from the keyhole. "There. All done. Whenever you are ready?"

As he stared at the smoking keyhole, an expression indicating his sudden realization that this would not make the slightest bit of difference—since, not only would that amount of sulphuric acid have little to no effect on the steel of the internal bolt of a mortise lock, especially in such a short space of time, but more significantly, it would not reach it anyway because the bolt is always located above the entry point of the key—made no attempt whatsoever to materialize upon the Sergeant's vacant face. "Do you really think this'll work?"

"Sergeant, you watch plenty of TV cop shows and movies. When have you ever seen something like this not succeed?"

"True," said the Sergeant, seeming to relax a little as he turned to descend the steps. "I tell you what, I'll see what it looks like from the bottom."

With his colleague now at the base of the steps and turned around, Dr Ramus stared at him expectantly for a moment. "Ok, Sergeant, any time now would be good. Man in mortal danger inside and all that."

"I'm really not sure this is going to work, Dr."

"You know, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus, shaking his head solemnly, "I am actually a little offended that you cannot trust my judgment on this"

He sighed. "Ok, I'm sorry. I'll do it."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

After a little hesitation and a couple of false starts, the Sergeant heroically bounded up the steps, brought his shoulder to bear, slammed the center of the doors and—with absolutely no hesitation or false starts whatsoever—bounced straight back off and into a crumpled heap on the pavement below at exactly the same spot he had started from.

"A couple more of those, and you will have this nailed," said Dr Ramus, smiling warmly at his colleague who, on account of the groaning noise he was making, he knew must have still been vaguely conscious. "Let me know when you are ready to try again, and I will make sure I am standing well back."

"What the hell? I thought you said earlier that the killer was encouraging us to trail him?"

"Yes, I believe that may well be the case."

"Then why's he left it so damned hard to get in?"

"Hmmm," said Dr Ramus, rubbing his chin a moment before nonchalantly turning around and crouching towards the floor. "Give me a moment would you?"

"No problem," said the Sergeant, cautiously instigating the process of discovering which parts of his body he might be able to still operate—starting with the ends of his fingers.

While Sergeant Ross attempted to muster up the courage to begin hauling himself from the ground, Dr Ramus appeared back at the top of the steps, chuckling and lightly shaking his head. "You are not going to believe this, Sergeant, but look what I found." With his left hand he showed him an envelope with **DR RAMUS** written in large black letters on the front, and with his right, he jangled the front door key he had just retrieved from it. "You know, if it was not so amusing, my pride would be quite damaged right now."

Choosing to grit his teeth instead of reply, the Sergeant pulled himself up and slowly limped his way up the steps with one hand on the railing and the other holding his shoulder until finally he made it to the top. "Talking of damage," he said, "I think I've done some. I heard a hell of a crack when I made contact."

"Yes, I heard that too," said Dr Ramus solemnly, "and have to confess I am a little worried about it."

"You are?"

Dr Ramus stared at him wide-eyed. "Naturally, Sergeant. What do you take me for?"

"Oh... Sorry. I didn't think you'd have even noticed."

Shaking his head, Dr Ramus turned back to inspect the doors again. "Well that is where you are wrong, Sergeant. It dawned on me, just after you had tumbled down the steps and were lolling about on the pavement like a beached whale—an extremely lost one, obviously—if Finch is dead, why do I not see if I can do some kind of deal with the Executor of the will? After all, I could buy these, they can replace them with something that looks similar—but is considerably cheaper—and whoever inherits the place will probably be none the wiser. I just hope you have not caused them too much harm."

"Unbelievable."

"Yes, I know," said Dr Ramus, shaking his head again. "I am kicking myself for not thinking about it before. Anyway, come along. The quicker we get inside, the quicker I can make an appraisal and then, I suppose, we better go and find Finch."

## ***

Removing his left hand from his injured shoulder and immediately deploying it across his gaping mouth, Sergeant Ross stood in silence a moment before finally managing to call out. "Dr, I think you need to get in here."

"Will be with you in a moment, Sergeant. There is this rather nice ornamental—"

"Err... It's kind of urgent. Now would be good... I'm gonna have to insist."

"Oh, my Lord," said Dr Ramus, his hand flying to his chest as he walked in and immediately stumbled backwards a little. "Who on earth is that? I say, I like that Persian rug."

"I don't know," said Sergeant Ross.

"Just to clarify, we are both talking about—"

"Yeah, the mammoth oriental guy in the jockstrap."

"The Japanese Sumo wrestler."

"Well, yeah. Obviously, I knew that's what he was."

"And that is not a jockstrap, Sergeant. It is a Mawashi—the traditional outfit."

"Ok, I didn't know that. But that still doesn't really answer the question."

"No, or explain why he is here and why he is standing over Finch's face like that."

"No. It don't," said the Sergeant, pausing for a moment while he considered the scene in front of them: a celebrity chef, laid spread-eagle on his back with the top of his head the closest point to them—his feet the furthest away—and a very large, very vacant looking, Japanese Sumo wrestler facing in their direction and stood directly over the chef's head.

"Hmmm... Have you tried asking him any of this?" said Dr Ramus.

"He's gagged."

"Not Finch, the Sumo."

From the floor, muffled protests began to immediately escape the sides of Finch's gag.

"Why's he just this minute gone ape?" said Sergeant Ross. "He was quiet as a mouse just now."

"No idea. Maybe he was asleep. Now, about asking this nice Japanese fellow a couple of things..."

Finch's moans intensified.

"Shhh," said Dr Ramus to the top of Finch's head, "we will be with you in just a moment. "Sergeant Ross, as the law enforcement officer, I think you need to speak to our new friend."

Finch screamed.

"For the last time, will you shhh. Sergeant, please, before Finch gets any more hysterical."

"Yeah, Ok... He looks kind of spaced-out though."

"Just try," said Dr Ramus, his voice raised in order that he could be heard over the wailing chef.

"Err, Mr Sumo wrestler—"

In response, the Sumo's eyes immediately widened but were worm holes in comparison to those of Finch—the unwilling first hand observer of an, extraordinarily huge, Oriental ass and groin in unstoppable free fall directly towards his ashen face.

"Oh, dear," said Dr Ramus. "Maybe that was not such a good idea. I think your speaking to him may have acted as some kind of subliminal trigger."

"Huh? Well, whatever that is, it was your suggestion," said the Sergeant, staring aghast at the quaff of ginger hair protruding from under the Sumo's groin and between his hulking buttock flesh which—if it wasn't for Finch's splayed out arms—would, from their current vantage point, now be their only visible clue that the chef was even present. "Any more ideas?"

"Yes, I think you should go over and pull him off."

Seemingly unable to find a suitable verbal response, the Sergeant cocked his head as he turned and stared disbelievingly at Dr Ramus.

Dr Ramus narrowed his eyes back at him. "You do realize, I meant for you to drag the Sumo away from Finch? Not..."

"Ah, got you," said the Sergeant, relaxing temporarily before his mouth fell open again. "You must be kidding. That's no better. Look at the size of him."

"Yes, thinking about it, you might be better off trying your first interpretation," said Dr Ramus, tipping his head casually to one side. "After all, he is clearly doped, so maybe—if you perform the task reasonably—you might be able to lead him to another part of the room. I carry disposable gloves if that helps?"

"Yeah, dragging him away probably is the best option. Come on. I'll need some help."

With Sergeant Ross taking the lead—and Dr Ramus reluctantly following—the two men made their way over to the expressionless Sumo wrestler sat upon the face the celebrity chef who was currently in the midst of a thoroughly disappointing morning.

"Grab him by the neck." said Sergeant Ross, straddling Finch's quivering body and wrapping his left arm around what felt like a flesh covered tree trunk while waiting until Dr Ramus did the same. "Now pull."

The two men heaved with all their might, but the mammoth did not budge.

"It is no use," said Dr Ramus, letting go and stepping back. "Try climbing onto him and applying your body weight."

"Ok." With his left arm still in position, the Sergeant leapt onto the Sumo's back like he was about to receive a piggy back ride around the house—an event that would actually, not only have been extremely fortuitous for the suffocating chef, but would also have been quite a unique experience for the Sergeant and would certainly have given him something to talk about later on, should he have felt the events of the day had otherwise been a little lackluster. Sadly, for all interested parties, the Sumo did not oblige.

"I'm not making any difference," said Sergeant Ross.

"Hold on tight. I am coming aboard."

Taking a small running jump—and kicking Finch in the side while he was about it—Dr Ramus leapt onto the Sergeant's back, and together, they leant backwards, attempting in vain to pull the Sumo away.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," said Sergeant Ross, "it's killing my shoulder. I'm gonna try swaying from side to side instead."

As Sergeant Ross began to sway, Dr Ramus instinctively raised his right arm to steady himself—accidently swiping the chandelier.

"Ahhh, what was that?"

"Oh... Sorry, Sergeant. It was candle wax."

"Dr, the candle."

"What about it?"

"It's on the floor."

"Please do not tell me it is burning that Persian rug."

"Worse."

"How?"

"Finch's hair's on fire. You're gonna have to get down and put it out."

"Ok, on my way... Oh, no."

"What?"

"Burning hair. I hate that smell."

"Dr, get on with it will you."

Releasing his grip on the Sergeant's back, landing on Finch's stomach—and promptly stepping heavily on his groin—Dr Ramus clamped his hand over his mouth and nose, stepped down to the floor, and side-stepped his way around to the front of the Sumo and the small fire flickering directly beneath his Mawashi.

"The fire is actually quite trivial. Finch must use something in his hair that is not terribly flammable."

"You're still gonna have to put it out."

Groaning as he scanned the room for something he might use, Dr Ramus picked up a vase, yanked out its flowers, and threw the contents at the fire. But the vessel was almost dry, and the dribble of water that did make it out, failed to even reach the flames. "Damn you, Sumo," he said, kicking the goliath hard in the gut. "I will have to go all the way to the kitchen now."

However, to Dr Ramus surprise and delight—since it meant he no longer had to trouble himself with a trip to the kitchen—the Sumo once again responded to human interaction; this time by impulsively grabbing his stomach, dropping his jaw until his mouth could open no wider, and producing an extremely unpleasant sounding Sumo-sized fart with complementary fireball bursting from beneath his Mawashi.

"Would you look at that for a piece of good luck," said Dr Ramus, his eyes still adjusting from the unexpected flare. "The flash actually put the fire out."

"Yeah, Finch must think all his Christmases come at once," said Sergeant Ross. "Can you get back over here and help, please?"

With Dr Ramus clambering onto the Sergeant's back, the Sumo erupted again. "I think I may have upset his stomach."

"Ah, Jesus, I think you're right," said the Sergeant. "That smells disgusting."

"Yes. Now there is no fire, there is nothing to burn them away," said Dr Ramus, just as the Sumo ripped out yet another.

"I don't know how long I can put up with this," said the Sergeant, "it smells like rancid beef stew."

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, eyeing another candle in the chandelier. "I could go and set Finch on fire again if you like?"

"Probably best you don't, but I think you should try going back around the front and see if there's anything else you can do."

"Ok," said Dr Ramus, following the Sergeant's suggestion.

As he arrived, the Sumo let rip the most repugnant sounding expulsion yet—a hideous symphony of thunderous lumpy wetness assaulting their delicate ears.

"That's it," said the Sergeant, convulsing as he spoke. "I can't take anymore. If it's the only way to get him off Finch, I'm gonna just shoot him."

"Actually, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus, his tone somber, "It might be best if you just come down and shoot Finch."

"What you talking about?"

"That rancid beef stew you were talking about..."

"What about it?"

"Finch has just received an extra-large serving... Along with that beautiful Persian rug."

## ***

On the sidewalk, within the freshly erected police cordon outside Amos Finch's town house, Sergeant Ross sat on the steps with a bucket at his feet while his trembling hands struggled to retain the mug of hot sweet tea that Officer Tupper had provided after his superior officer had, quite inexplicably, flatly refused his usual favorite of creamy hot chocolate with extra grated chocolate chunks on top.

Close by, Dr Ramus sipped at his Cappuccino whilst supervising Officer Chalk who he had personally tasked with taking measurements of Amos Finch's front doors.

Leaving the Sergeant's side for a moment, Tupper walked over and lifted the barrier tape in order to allow Karen Smythe into the restricted area. Hurriedly, she made her way over to Sergeant Ross and Dr Ramus. "I just heard what happened. Well kind of. They wouldn't tell me much over the phone. Sergeant, you look terrible. Are you ok?"

"It was terrible. Just terrible," he said, grabbing her wrist with his left hand while spilling his tea with the other. "How could anyone go like that?"

Apparently not quite as concerned for the Sergeant as she had maybe first thought, Karen smiled weakly, eased herself away, and turned to Dr Ramus. "Hi. Look, I know we didn't part on the best terms last night, but are you ok? Whatever happened must've been pretty distressing for you too?"

"Yes, thank you, for asking. It was."

"Can I ask what actually did happen?"

"Well," he said, running his hand hard across his brow, "there was this Persian rug, and I have been on the lookout for one like it for a while, but after what took place—"

"Yeah," said Karen, urgently, "what did take place? I know Finch is dead, but how?"

"Asphyxia," said Dr Lance, the physician, as he ambled out of the house carrying a polythene bag containing a pair of particularly filthy latex gloves.

"He was suffocated?" said Karen.

"Err, you could say that," said Dr Lance, awkwardly, "but possibly not the way you're thinking—"

"Huh?"

"—and most suffocation victims I've ever come across can still have an open casket at their funeral. This guy..."

"He can't?"

Dr Lance shook his head solemnly. "Nah. That would be some undertaker to clean him up."

"I don't understand."

"Hey, does anyone wanna help me with this?" said Officer Tupper, taking delivery of take-away bag being passed to him across the cordon. "It looks like I ordered way too much."

"What is it?" said Chalk.

"It's Kurimu Shitu, a kind of Japanese creamy stew. I got the beef one. It's delicious."

On the step, Sergeant Ross made immediate use of his bucket while Officer Chalk eagerly made his way over to his partner to help him with lunch.

"Sergeant Ross, Dr Ramus."

While Sergeant Ross looked up from his bucket, and Dr Ramus reluctantly tore himself away from his re-inspection of Finch's doors, the Mayor clumsily maneuvered himself under the cordon's barrier tape. "What the hell happened here?"

"I will handle this, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus to his quivering colleague. "Mayor—due to the victim having no police protection—the Professor was able to break in and make arrangements for Finch to be executed as soon as we arrived."

"I know Finch is dead," said the Mayor, spitting as he spoke. "I mean: why are you even here when I specifically told you not to be?"

"Dr Ramus," came a shrill female voice from the other side of the cordon as several camera flashes illuminated the side of his face. "Amanda Rose from the Times. Is it true you came here knowing you may confront the killer without adequate support from law enforcement officers?"

"Ms Rose," said the Mayor, his face suddenly reddening as he turned to her as quickly as his hemorrhoid laden ass would permit, "I can assure you that officers were deployed appropriate to the threat."

"Mayor Pecker-Fudger, since the killer is clearly targeting celebrity chefs, are the city police offering them sufficient protection?"

Fidgeting slightly, the Mayor awkwardly cleared his throat. "Err... The official position is... And has always been... That those individuals—who the police believe are at risk—have been offered protection if they decide to accept it."

"But—"

"Sorry, no more questions," said one of the Mayor's aides, stepping between him and the Press. "The Mayor has important duties that he must attend."

Immediately, Amanda Rose turned her attention elsewhere. "Dr Ramus, is it true you bravely wrestled with the killer's four hundred pound Sumo wrestler henchman?"

"Oh," he said, shaking his head a little, and smiling delicately, as he wandered over to the cordon. "I really would not want you to make too much of it."

"Really? It seems you're quite the hero, Dr," said Amanda as her photographer took another snap of him—followed by one of Sergeant Ross sat on the step with his feet clasped either side of his sick bucket. "Could you provide some me more detail of what took place?"

"Yes, I do not see why not. Although... Perhaps it is a little noisy here? Why do we not go somewhere a little quieter?"

"That sounds perfect," said Amanda, delicately pressing the tip of her tongue to her top lip. "How can I ever thank you?"

## ***

In the ornate master bedroom of the luxurious mansion house, long brown hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

## ***

As the door shut behind Amanda Rose, carrying her clothes in her hand and dressed in one of the luxurious white bath robes, the telephone at Dr Ramus' bedside began to ring, and in one flowing motion, he sat bolt upright, retrieved the handset, and laid back down again. "Sergeant Ross. How can I be of assistance?"

"Err... Yeah... Dr, just calling so we can plan our next move."

"Yes, sorry I did not inform you of my urgent need to depart."

"It's ok. Chalk and Tupper let me know. Said some stuff about you needing to slip something to the Press to make sure they got the right end of things and were properly filled in. Come to think about it... The pair of them went on about it like that for ages—giggling like a pair of school kids."

"Clearly, Sergeant, they are not only extremely keen, but very much enjoy their jobs. Something I believe can only be viewed as a testament to you as their superior officer."

"Gee, thanks, Dr... And well done with the Press. We need to be in bed with them right now. Make sure you bill the department for the extra hours."

"Anything you say, Sergeant."

"Good. Right, as you know, the Mayor lied to the Press and made as if we offered protection to the most at risk celebrity chefs from the get go. So, now, we're doing it officially—including Liam McHillory."

"Who, in light of recent events, is now the highest rating TV chef in the city."

"Yeah, he must be over the moon. Do you think we should go speak to him? See if he might be willing to help?"

"Absolutely, Sergeant. We should proceed with utmost urgency. There is no time."

# Chapter 8

Shuddering at the sound of his crocodile skinned loafer crunching into the red gravel adorning the vast parking area, Dr Ramus stepped from the back of the police cruiser while, apparently less concerned about damage to his own slightly more utilitarian footwear, Sergeant Ross exited from the other side and continued to survey the surroundings he'd been completely preoccupied with ever since they had passed through the wrought iron front gates which likely cost more than he earned in a year—and that included kickbacks. "This guy's obviously got way too much time and money on his hands."

"Hmmm."

"I mean, this place is bigger and more elaborate than yours."

Dr Ramus shuddered again, but this time, it had nothing to do with shoes and gravel.

"Sergeant," said an officer who had scurried over from the front door of the mansion house, "McHillory's in an outbuilding behind here. You can either get back in the car and follow the driveway around to the back, or if you just head over there," he said, pointing to an opening in a hedge not far beyond the far left corner of the house, "and follow the path, you won't be able to miss it. It'd be quicker to walk to be honest."

Thanking the officer, and before Dr Ramus had chance to insist they took the car, the Sergeant waved it away and began marching towards the opening with his reluctant colleague following behind, grimacing with each and every new step.

Having reached the opening, they followed the footpath between the left flank of the house and a tall hedge row the other side of it until they came to a gated arch at the end. Through the arch, they re-joined the driveway, and about forty five degrees to their left, could now see another Mock Tudor construction. Considerably smaller than the gargantuan main residence, but still bigger than most people's homes, this building was not only notable for its hand-painted British pub-style sign hanging over the door, announcing it was 'Liam's Rumpus Shack', but also, the plethora of adult sized outdoor leisure equipment strewn about its paved frontage, and the two extremely dopey looking law enforcement officers casually standing guard outside.

"Chalk, Tupper," said the Sergeant as he and Dr Ramus made their way over to the officers who were stood beside the front door, in-front of a covered alcove containing, among other things: a couple of motocross bikes, a rack of mountain and racing bikes, and an adult-sized pink tricycle. "What you grinning at, Chalk?"

"Oh, it's Tupper, sir," said Chalk, looking to his slightly out of breath partner.

"What about him?"

Chalk giggled. "Do it again, Tupper. Show the Sergeant."

Putting down his drink can and smiling like a child about to go and see Santa, Tupper walked over to the pink tricycle, leant over it, and pulled up an adult-sized space hopper that had been wedged between it and the wall.

"See I'm holding it in the air?" said Tupper, standing at an offset so that the Sergeant could see him holding the object by its sides with his palms.

"Yeah."

"Well, if I let go..." He released his hands. "It floats."

Officer Chalk spoke in a low voice. "McHillory's such a fat bastard he's had one specially filled with hydrogen, so he has a chance of leaving the ground when he's on it."

"Is that it?" said Dr Ramus, slowly shaking his head and disdainfully flicking his gaze between the two snickering officers and the space hopper as it bobbed about against the short tether that had been tied between it and the pink tricycle. "Is that what you are finding so amusing?"

"No," said Chalk, struggling to get his next words out. "This is amusing. Hey, Tupper, it just insulted your momma again."

Tupper narrowed his eyes at the smiley face on the front of the space hopper. "You insult my momma? You insult my momma?"

"Watch this, Sergeant," said Chalk, giggling as he spoke.

"You wanna piece of me? You wanna piece of me?" Launching himself at the space hopper, Tupper produced a sudden flurry of punches. "You like this? You like this? Huh? Huh? Do ya? Huh? You see who I am now, don't ya? You see who I am now..."

"Hmmm," said Dr Ramus, stony faced, as he turned his back on Tupper's frenzied display to find the Sergeant and Chalk holding their sides and snorting like a pair of seven year olds. He shook his head disapprovingly before raising his voice. "Where is Liam McHillory?"

"He's inside," came an equally serious sounding female voice as Officer Penny emerged from the doorway of the outbuilding. "He's on his squash court—"

"Yeah, the lucky bastard's got everything—"

"Shut up," said Dr Ramus, turning to Tupper and glaring at him before swiftly focusing his unwavering attention back to Penny's chest. "And what, Officer?"

"He's not well. Not well at all."

"What are the symptoms?"

"He's in a lot of pain, and it looks like his body's swelling up. You really need to come see."

"I think the Professor may have got to him. Quickly, there is no time."

"Tupper, Chalk, call an ambulance and stay here," said Sergeant Ross, following Penny and Dr Ramus but not before pausing to take another quick peek at the bobbing space hopper. "Brilliant," he said, shaking his head and giggling.

Inside, the trio ran through an open area containing a number of pieces of fitness apparatus.

"Why's he even got this stuff?" said Sergeant Ross, hastily flicking his gaze between the treadmill, the cross-trainer, and the various items of weight training kit. "The man's a whale."

Through another door they entered a room containing both a snooker and a pool table.

"Ah," said Sergeant Ross, focusing on the extraordinarily well-stocked bar on the far side of the tables. "I imagine this is probably where he spends most of his time."

Hurriedly, Penny yanked open another door, and they entered a lightly furnished area with a table and a few comfortable chairs, drawing to a halt as—on the far side of that—they came to a glass wall separating it from a squash court.

Sat on the floor with his legs splayed out and his back against the court's main wall, Liam McHillory clutched at his mid-section as it strained against the material of his already immense polo shirt. "Help me."

"My God," said Officer Penny. "I swear he's even bigger now than when I left him just a moment ago. I'm not joking."

Dr Ramus tipped his head back, biting the side of his cheek for a moment. "Now that reminds me of something."

"What?"

"Just the other day, I was told an absolutely superb fat man joke—"

"Maybe tell it after, Dr," said the Sergeant, holding his hand up gently for a moment. "Right, come on," he said, hurrying to a chair, sitting down, and bending forward.

"What are you doing?" said Dr Ramus.

"We need to get in there and help him," said the Sergeant, fiddling with his shoelace whilst looking up and nodding at a sign on the door.

"White soled shoes only," said Dr Ramus, reading it out loud. "Damn."

Officer Penny squinted at her superior and Dr Ramus—who was already sat down on the chair next to him, "Err... I think McHillory might make an exception this time."

"Maybe," said Dr Ramus, "but I will not run the risk of legal action against me. Now, do either of you carry a shoe horn? I really would prefer not to stretch these."

"I think you can keep them on," said Penny. "Look."

With the expansion of his stomach suddenly resembling slow motion footage of an air bag deployment, McHillory shrieked, and a chorus of thuds echoed from the glass wall as chunks of him exploded all over it.

## ***

After an extended bout of hysterical high-pitched screaming, Officer Penny finally calmed Sergeant Ross down enough that she could leave him to his own devices in one of the chairs she had specially turned away from the glass wall.

"So," said Tupper, stood staring mesmerized at the Sergeant as he rocked back and forth, "run over it again will you?"

"McHillory," said Officer Penny in a slow deliberate voice, "exploded, and it wasn't very nice. How many different ways do you want me to explain this?"

"Woa, that must've been so cool," said Chalk.

"Yeah, like a 3D movie," said Tupper, enthusiastically, as he lifted his gaze to the blood and guts smeared across the other side of the glass. "One where a big fat man gets put in a supersized blender or something."

Although startled by the sudden hideous retching noise, by far and away the biggest shock to Tupper was the tube of projectile vomit directly to his mid-section. "Ah, Jesus, Sergeant."

"Ha," cried Chalk. "I guess, now, it must be like a blender someone left the lid off?"

Rolling his eyes, Dr Ramus walked towards the glass door. "I suppose, I better go in there and take a look."

"Hold on," said the Sergeant, looking a little more compos mentis as he wiped his lips and attempted to flick the residue towards the floor but managed instead to inadvertently flick a bit more puke at Tupper. "I think I'll come with you."

"Are you sure?" said Dr Ramus, squinting at him. "I am not convinced your stomach will handle it in there."

"It can't be any worse than it is out here," said the Sergeant, grimacing at the vomit Tupper was attempting to remove from himself with an inadequately sized tissue. "Besides, that actually made me feel quite a bit better."

"Oh, good," said Tupper. "Any time..."

Opening the latch and kicking open the door, Dr Ramus stepped back and patiently waited for a piece of intestine to slowly slide from the glass above and land with a splat on the hardwood floor, before entering the court and carefully stepping over the larger chunks of McHillory that were scattered across the path between the entrance and the remainder of his corpse. Swallowing hard, Sergeant Ross followed Dr Ramus' lead but chose to make the trip staring at the ceiling on account of the carnage being a little less apparent up there and because, however disgusting, given the choice of seeing a bloody remnant or finding out about it when it plopped on his head, his preference leant strictly towards the former.

Arriving next to Dr Ramus, Sergeant Ross took a glimpse down at the remains, swallowed hard again, and swiftly looked back up to the ceiling. "What are we looking for, Dr?"

"Clues, Sergeant."

"But, there's nothing left," said the Sergeant, attempting to ignore the excess saliva building up inside his mouth.

"Look again, and tell me what you notice?"

The Sergeant flicked his eyes to the corpse and immediately back to the ceiling. "I see a big fat dead chef blown apart at the belly and stinking to high heaven."

"Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"There is fur caught in the top button of what is left of his shirt."

"Ok, you've got a keen eye, Dr. I doubt I would've noticed that at the best of times."

"Well, you do need to be looking in the right direction, Sergeant."

"That, Dr," said the Sergeant, stifling a retch, "is what I'm paying you for right now."

Putting on one of his disposable medical gloves, Dr Ramus pulled some of the fur away from the button and held it in front of his face, twiddling it back and forth between his fingers. "So, where did this come from, I wonder?"

"Ah, that I can help you with. Fur comes from a variety of animals such as dogs, lions, mice, bears, Guinea pigs, cats, rabbits, minks, monkeys, hamsters, tigers, gazelles, otters—"

"Yes, thank you, Sergeant, for sharing your comprehensive zoological knowledge with me, but you have somewhat misinterpreted my question. Besides..."

"Besides, what?"

"Besides," said Dr Ramus, pondering a little longer, "this fur is synthetic."

"What's the significance of the fur anyway?"

"It is quite simple really, Sergeant. McHillory was a wealthy man who always took pride in his appearance when it came to the clothes he was seen in—"

"Even though he was so fat?"

"Well, yes. Anyway, I therefore think it is fairly certain that such a man would not have put on this shirt before he came over here—and past your officers—if the fur had already been attached to the button."

"So, it got there sometime after he put it on. I don't see how it helps us."

"But, how did it get there? Especially as we know it is not real so cannot have come from a pet."

"Maybe he wore a fake fur coat over here."

"Sergeant, I can assure you that this man would not be seen... Well... dead in fake fur."

"Ha, I see what you did there... Sorry. Go on."

"So, in order for the fake fur to have got there, I believe he must have interacted with someone who was wearing it, and since there was apparently no-one at else at his house today, I can only believe this interaction happened here, shortly before we found him."

"So who's this someone?"

"That, Sergeant, is the big question." Dr Ramus turned towards the door. "Officers, will you come here, please?"

Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and utilizing it to cover her nose and mouth, Officer Penny sauntered in with Officer Chalk following close behind her.

"Tupper."

"I'm still wiping off the hurl," came Tupper's voice from the other side of the gut splattered glass wall."

"Now," bellowed Dr Ramus.

Dashing through the door, and accidently stepping on one of McHillory's kidneys, Tupper slipped over and slid across the blood coated floor for the remainder of the journey—slowing to a halt just as he reached Dr Ramus' feet. "Oh, for—"

"All of you," said Dr Ramus, insistently, "listen carefully because this is extremely important. Are you absolutely sure that no-one—other than officers you can account for—had contact with McHillory before he died?"

"Can't help you with that," said Officer Penny. "I only got here a couple of minutes before you did."

"What about you two?" said Dr Ramus, looking at Chalk and then Tupper who, despite being refused a hand up from his partner, had now made it back on to his feet."

The pair stared blankly back at him.

"Possibly someone," said Dr Ramus, tapping his foot impatiently—albeit silently due to the rather squidgy fragment of duodenum that had found its way under the sole of his loafer, "wearing fake fur?"

After a brief silence, Chalk took a sharp intake of breath. "The teddy bear."

"The what?" said Officer Penny, squinting at him.

"Yeah," said Officer Tupper, suddenly beaming like a retarded monkey who had just been shown a picture of a banana, "the teddy bear."

"What teddy bear?" said Sergeant Ross.

"The McMeaty Tweety Tasty Treaty teddy bear," said Tupper.

Chalk leant forward eagerly. "Him and McHillory are supposed to—I mean were supposed to—be playing a friendly squash match for charity next week at the County Fair."

Dropping his face into the raised fingers of his right hand, Dr Ramus held his breath for a moment before continuing. "Both of you... Answer me a couple of questions would you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Firstly, when was the last time either of you saw a squash court at the—completely outdoor—County Fair?"

Having briefly looked to each other for answers, the pair silently squinted back at Dr Ramus.

"And, secondly, the individual who informed you about this squash match. Was it Liam McHillory?"

"Ooh, I can answer this one," said Tupper, smiling like he had been shown another banana. "No, McHillory didn't mention it at all. We found out from—"

"The McMeaty Tweety Tasty Treaty teddy bear," said Officer Chalk, his mouth falling open as the color drained from his cheeks.

"Yeah," said Tupper, just as chirpily as before. "Him."

Turning to Dr Ramus, Sergeant Ross bit his lip a moment. "What are you driving at, Dr?"

"Jesus, it was the Professor," said Penny, staring disdainfully at her two peers while the Sergeant raised his hand to his mouth. "And you two bozos let him in, didn't you?"

"We didn't know," said Chalk.

"No," said Tupper, "We didn't. And he looked so cute."

"My God," said Sergeant Ross, through his fingers. "The devious bastard. He's good, very good. Maybe this is why he's calling himself the Professor? You know, like the ones in crime novels who are masters of disguise?"

Penny turned to him with her mouth open. "He probably just went to a fancy dress shop."

"When did he leave?" said Dr Ramus.

"I guess it depends how long it took him to choose an outfit," said Tupper.

"Not the fancy dress shop. When did he leave here?"

"Not very long ago," said Officer Chalk. "Just before Penny got here. There was another tricycle out there and he took that."

Taking his own sharp intake of breath, Tupper clapped his hand across his mouth.

"What?" said Chalk.

"He stole it... From right under our noses."

Attempting to ignore Tupper, Dr Ramus stared insistently at the slightly brighter of the two morons. "Which way did he go?"

"There's a narrow path behind here that leads directly to the public golf course," said Chalk, "He went that way. But he can't have got far cos he was riding real slow."

"Yeah," said Tupper, "probably still had tired legs from the squash game."

Side stepping the body fragments as he made his way to the door, Dr Ramus cranked his head over his shoulder. "I am going after him. Put out an APB, and then go by car to the streets around the golf course to see if you can head him off. He should not be too difficult to spot."

"I'll come with you," said the Sergeant.

"No, go in the car. I cannot be stopping and waiting every time you bring up your last meal."

## ***

Swiftly exiting the front door, Dr Ramus made a beeline for the first of the two motocross bikes, but finding no key in the ignition, he hastily moved along to the next, only to find the situation was the same.

Moving to the bicycle rack, he selected a mountain bike that was not only the correct size but also a color that would not clash too badly with his suit. However, on attempting to remove it, the sudden resistance and clank of metal on metal, informed him it was locked to the rack. They all were.

Resigned to the fact he would have to make the journey on foot, Dr Ramus turned to leave but caught his toe against something—the rear wheel of the remaining pink tricycle.

Hesitantly regarding its feminine styling and garish colors—that most definitely did clash with his suit—he checked to see if it was secured to anything and found, much to his dismay, that it was not—nothing but the space hopper, still bobbing on its tether with its perpetually smiling face taunting him while he grudgingly untied the cord.

# Chapter 9

The elderly man studied the fairway one last time before turning his gaze back to his ball and beginning to raise the head of his driver in a slow steady arc behind him, but having only completed half of the upswing, found himself uncharacteristically distracted by the mutterings of his three—normally well-mannered—friends standing just a few feet behind him. Irritably lowering his club and turning around to reprimand them, he parted his lips to speak but found his companions to be entirely preoccupied with something to the side of the fairway. Following their line of vision, his gaze fell upon the spectacle that had clearly been the catalyst for the unsolicited murmurings: an electric pink tricycle being ridden by an individual dressed in a manner wholly unsuitable for his surroundings. Immediately, he forgave the transgressions of the others.

"Good morning," said the rider, nodding politely at the golfers, and in particular, the man who had been about to take the drive.

Taken aback, the elderly man, whose mouth had never closed since he first opened it to scold his colleagues, began moving his lips to mindlessly return the pleasantry, but before any words could issue forth, was distracted by a brand new manifestation further up the path.

Realizing the golfers' attention had shifted elsewhere, the Professor cranked his head over his shoulder in an effort to see for himself what it was they were staring at. No simple task, considering it was encased in a quite substantial teddy bear headpiece and his body in the remainder of the furry suit. Nonetheless, he achieved his goal, and to his amazement, witnessed first-hand the bewildering sight that had successfully vied for the golfers' attention. Over the brow of the hill, the figure of Dr Ramus rose magnificently into the sky on what could only be described as the mother of all space hoppers: a hydrogen filled beast that, once his sworn adversary, was now his loyal steed.

Winding his head sharply forward, the Professor furiously pressed the balls of his feet hard into the platforms of the peddles, forcing the front wheel of the pink tricycle to momentarily lift from the ground.

In response to his quarry's quickening speed, the airborne Dr Ramus pulled his body weight forward and expertly collided the underside of his rubber mount with the dry soiled ground at what could only be described as the optimum attack angle. This superlative display of hoppermanship producing a textbook—low trajectory—bounce, propelling man and hopper across a distance nothing short of remarkable.

As he prepared for the imminent next recoil, Dr Ramus pondered over why he had never, once in the past, seen or heard of a hydrogen filled space hopper. Why were these things not abundant on the streets he wondered as he completed another dazzling rebound. In this world of soaring energy prices, surely there was a place for this astonishing form of transport? Not for him, obviously. He would stick to his chauffeur driven limousine, but he really could see no reason why poor people couldn't make do with it. Especially overweight ones, he deliberated. After all, they couldn't make the excuse that their backsides weren't adequately accommodated for, like they would with bicycles, and they could lose weight while they travelled—preferably to work; the lazy fat bastards.

Stealing another glimpse behind him, the Professor realized that, to his dismay, Dr Ramus was gaining on him rapidly. Recognizing the need to act fast, he veered off of the main path and onto another which was worn into the side of a steep slope. Lowering his upper body tight to the handle bars, the streamers protruding from his handle grips began to stretch backwards to form a horizontal line while the wind flattened his artificial fur to his body, and his more aerodynamic configuration quickly gathered pace down the hill.

Arriving shortly behind him at the turn off, Dr Ramus swerved his latex stallion onto the path and began his own descent. Soon, however, he found that here he had found the space hopper's Achilles' heel as its smooth underbelly simply could not offer the traction required for this kind of steep loose terrain, and despite the fact the Professor was putting distance between them, he acknowledged the painful truth that he simply had to slow down, and fast, before he lost control completely and totally extinguished any chance he had of this particular suit and pair of shoes ever being seen in public again. A proficient skier and snowboarder, he had an idea. Pulling firmly on the space hopper's handles and leaning feverishly, he swerved the latex brute hard to the left and rode the downhill at an angle before repeating in the other direction—it was working; man and space hopper were successfully traversing the slope.

The descent perilous, but under control, Dr Ramus focused back on the Professor. He was on the final section of the downhill path and was plainly gathering as much speed as he could possibly muster—not just to escape, Dr Ramus realized, but because at the bottom of the path was a valley, and it was one he clearly intended to jump.

Having battled so determinedly to reduce the speed of his space hopper to something manageable, Dr Ramus cut his current traverse short and pointed his mount straight down the path. He was going to have to make the leap too, and that was going to require more speed, but unlike the Professor, he had another complication to concern himself with—he would have to time his final bounce perfectly if he was ever to make it.

Aboard a small leisure boat, gently winding its way along the river, a group of Japanese tourists stood slightly disinterested and unsure what to do with themselves, since—although pleasant enough—this part of the river was narrow and the banks on either side were high, affording little view of anything other than mud and grass, and having already taken snaps of that anyway—plus a glut of each other—there simply was nothing else they could find even the flimsiest of excuses to now photograph.

Delighting in this short respite before the incessant clicking would inevitably begin again, the helmsman cranked his neck back and closed his eyes, but as the sun pleasantly warmed his face, the agreeable pink glow inside his eyelids darkened, and a chorus of gasps and unexpected shutter clicks assaulted his ears.

His eyes snapping abruptly open, the helmsman contemplated the vision above him: the underside of a giant sized teddy bear on an electric-pink tricycle in mid-flight above his head. Blinking hard for a moment—perhaps thinking he was about to wake up—he opened his eyes again, only to be confronted with the underside of a well-dressed man on an adult-sized space hopper with his initials embossed in the leather soles of his shoes—something not seen very often.

Looking behind him, in a bid to determine whether or not Dr Ramus had made the jump and discouraged that he had, the Professor peddled hard along the footpath that ran by the side of the river until he happened across a fork that led him to an opening out onto one of the city's streets. He turned to the right and onto another steep decline.

Speeding down the asphalt, the Professor's tricycle and Dr Ramus' space hopper both quivered violently as they uneasily handled the velocities they simply were not constructed to tolerate. Having turned his head in an effort to assess the distance between himself and his pursuer, and evaluate whether it was increasing or diminishing, the Professor looked back to the road in-front of him to find two delivery men ahead, carrying an impractically large sheet of polished glass across the road from a stationary lorry which it would have made far more sense to have parked on the side of the road they actually needed to be on. Swerving violently to the right, he mounted the pavement and crashed haphazardly through the spray from a fire hydrant that just happened to be open for no good reason whatsoever.

Observing the Professor's sudden deviation and the reason for it, Dr Ramus swerved his space hopper to the left, bouncing dangerously in front of an oncoming lorry before maneuvering onto the other pavement and straight through an inexplicably empty stack of boxes beside the open doors of a delivery van—a little like a scene from a lazily written 1970's cop show that, nowadays, no self-respecting writer would even consider insulting their audience with.

Bouncing perilously back across the road and through the relentless stream of traffic in both directions, Dr Ramus followed the Professor through a large pedestrianized gate and into one of the city's larger parks, swerving in and out of the dumbfounded walkers and joggers scattered along the walkway.

So mesmerized was one walker—by the teddy on a tricycle and the man on the space hopper she recognized from TV—she completely failed to notice her Jack Russell terrier slipping its lead in order that it could go and take a closer inspection of the hairy creature that it did not understand, could clearly determine was significantly larger than it, and still decided it was a good idea to try and antagonize anyway.

"Virgil, Virgil," cried the owner as the tiny dog snapped at the Professor's furry boot. "Stop that, Virgil."

Having exposed its gnashing teeth to the impact from a furry toe, Virgil acknowledged its owner's instructions and ceased its snapping but refused to surrender its ground—standing senselessly yapping at the departing teddy before turning its attention to the next target coming its way.

"No," screamed the horrified owner, realizing her beloved pooch was standing in the path of the space hopper—directly at the point its next bounce was sure to take place. However, acknowledging the owner's heartfelt scream and likely fearing any subsequent bad publicity or legal proceedings, Dr Ramus heaved with all his weight, amended his trajectory, and miraculously avoided the Jack Russell before utterly flattening a dachshund and Chihuahua who had been minding their own business sniffing each other's butts just to the left of it.

Thrown off course—and slowed down by the splayed out Chihuahua that had briefly stuck to the underbelly of his space hopper—Dr Ramus attempted to make up lost ground but was further impeded by several nearby dog walkers—particularly the owners of the ones he had just levelled—attempting to assault him with everyday items they happened to have upon their person, including one angry man flicking a smoldering cigarette end at him which, having landed in his path, he battled with the hydrogen filled space hopper to avoid while his mind battled with the chilling visions of a modern day Hindenburg disaster taking place right between his legs. All this because, whilst attempting to rid the public of a maniac, he had quite accidentally squashed two small dogs—one of which, if the owner would only stop bleating for a moment and start to use a little imagination, would now make a very serviceable novelty draft stopper, and the other being pretty pointless to begin with. Quickly, he renewed his efforts to reduce the gap between himself and his quarry and increase the one between himself and the baying mob.

Realizing that Dr Ramus was gaining on him again, the Professor took the next exit out of the park, across another busy road, and through the automatic sliding doors of the building ahead.

Inside the shopping mall, the backend of the Professor's pink tricycle slid out as he sped around the corner, narrowly avoiding the 'wet floor' signs and bemused mop maneuvering cleaners who had placed them there. Checking on the distance between himself his pursuer, he could see that Dr Ramus was also struggling to acquire the necessary traction on the slippery surface, but nonetheless, was keeping pace. He looked to acquire his next point of exit and spotted a nearby elevator arriving at their floor with its overhead up/down sign indicating that it was to continue to the level below.

Passing narrowly through the closing transparent doors of the glass elevator, the Professor began turning his tricycle around in readiness for a quick exit while looking for Dr Ramus outside. Inside his headpiece, he grinned to himself fleetingly until he realized that the elevator next door had also just come down from the floor above and that Dr Ramus was heading straight into it.

As Dr Ramus drew to a halt in the middle of his elevator, the other passengers stood wide-eyed as they switched their collective gazes between the oddity in their car and the one in the car next door. The only sounds to be heard being a combination of the piped rendition of 'The Girl from Ipanema' droning over the internal speakers and the tiny thumps from the bottom of Dr Ramus' space hopper as he performed a rapid succession of small bounces on the spot until he had turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face the door.

The two adversaries stared across at each other briefly until the Professor's car began its descent. Emotionless, Dr Ramus turned his face back towards his car's doorway and waited patiently. Finally, the pair of glass sheets slid together, and after another brief pause, it began its downward journey.

Arriving at the level below, Dr Ramus watched the Professor peddling across the concourse but sat as patiently as before until it was time to clip the sides of his space hopper with both feet and spring towards the glass doors as they silently slid open.

Heading towards an exit, the Professor spotted a police cruiser pulling up outside, and unnerved by its presence, veered sharply towards the open frontage of a large department store inside the mall.

On a temporary platform, a smartly dressed saleswoman addressed the crowd of shoppers who had accumulated to watch the in-store promotion she was busy hosting. "And due onto the stage now is the lovely Andrea wearing our beautifully seductive Sintilation stocking, suspenders, bra, and panty set. Very reasonably priced at $110." Uplifting chart music ushered the saleswoman off of the stage while the woman, previously introduced, sauntered sexily onto it wearing the underwear described.

Sweeping from one end of the stage to the other, the attractive young model enchanted the audience with her elegant movements. Her beautiful face, luscious caramel hair, sparkling eyes—and for most of the men and quite a few of the women—scantily clad body, captivated the crowd who had already become quite mesmerized by her.

Completing a series of struts and poses, Andrea's rapport with her audience only intensified until, most regrettably for her new fans, her confident performance began to lose its finesse as she became unmistakably distracted by something behind them.

Turning to assess this distraction, bewildered members of the crowd were confronted by a teddy bear laden pink tricycle followed by the country's most famous private detective on, not just a space hopper, but a space hopper that was clearly far more sprightly than the ones any of them recalled owning as kids.

At first, some of the crowd assumed that this was nothing more than some strange pre-planned segment of the show, but realizing that would be extremely stupid, and assessing the break-neck speed at which the pair was hurtling towards them, they soon put that idea to rest. Anxious they might be about to become victims of the first ever underwear parade disaster, frightened shoppers began scrabbling over each other to get out of the way.

Approaching the stage, the Professor suddenly swerved hard to the left, causing the back of his furry head to abruptly exit Dr Ramus' line of vision and provide him a new focal point—something far less hairy, and most definitely, more agreeable: Andrea's panty clad crotch at head height and only a few feet away.

Re-aligning his space hopper beneath him, in order to match the direction the Professor had taken when he veered off, Dr Ramus held his gaze on Andrea's gusset for a moment longer before reluctantly wrestling his eyes back towards his quarry, but rather than finding him, he found a small child—clutching a much smaller teddy—who had separated from its mother and wandered directly into his path.

Eager not to harm anybody else's loved ones today—as a result of rapidly estimating the possible compensation costs—Dr Ramus hauled right, veered erratically towards the stage, and now completely out of control, bounced so hard he was thrown straight over the handles—braking contact with his trusty steed and face planting Andrea directly in the crotch of her of lace panties which, as it transpired, provided woefully inadequate protection against incidents such as this.

After several moments on his stomach, and still a little shocked, Dr Ramus lifted his head from the rather pleasant resting place he had accidentally found for it and checked on the whereabouts of the Professor; he had not got far. Tensing his body in order that he could rapidly return to the chase, he took one last look beneath him before allowing his head to fall back down again, clearly deciding he was in no state to continue and really should stay where he was for a while—as long as possible, in fact.

Eventually, the dazed model spoke. "I've seen you on TV."

"Yes, I am sure you have," said Dr Ramus with a muffled voice as—despite not being the slightest bit dazed himself—he did not dare risk lifting his face out from her gusset. "I can give you my autograph if you like."

"Yeah, that's great... How can I ever thank you?"

## ***

In the ornate master bedroom of the luxurious mansion house, long caramel hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

# Chapter 10

Wearing the exact same set of clothes he had worn when he departed, and uncharacteristically opening the door for himself, Dr Ramus stepped from the back of his limousine, the moment it drew to a halt back outside Liam McHillory's Rumpus Shack.

"Dr," said Sergeant Ross, wandering out from the group gathered by the front door while Dr Ramus hurried to join them. "Where've you been? We've been worried."

"Sorry, Sergeant, but I assure you I got back with as little delay as humanly possible."

The Sergeant spoke rhetorically. "No luck catching the Professor then."

"I got close—very close—but I am saddened to say that, in the end, my space hopper was no match for his tricycle."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said the Sergeant, looking a little awkward—as if he had just been confronted with a euphemism he was too embarrassed to admit he didn't understand.

"And I assume you and your people did not find him?"

"We turned up nothing, unfortunately. I tried calling you on your mobile to update you, but you hardly ever answer the thing."

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, eyeing the bright yellow taxi snaking around the corner towards them, "I am afraid I have a tendency to leave it switched off with the number directed to my home telephone. I suppose I am just old fashioned."

The door of the cab flew open. "How did McHillory die?" said Karen, passing payment to the cab driver with one hand whilst hauling herself out with the other.

"His stomach exploded," said Dr Lance, the physician, ambling out of the building carrying a particularly bloody polythene bag.

With the taxi already beginning a U-turn behind her, Karen threw her hands up to her face. "Exploded?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is that the medical definition, Dr?" said Dr Ramus, his tone conveying at least a hint of sarcasm.

Dr Lance puffed on the cigarette he had just lit with a battered old Zippo. "I doubt it, but whatever it is, I don't know it because I don't see this kind of thing very often. Actually, make that: I don't see this kind of thing ever."

Karen squinted at him. "But, exploded like—"

"Like a volatile reaction took place inside of him, and the walls of stomach couldn't retain it."

"What?" said Karen, holding her mouth with one hand while she fanned smoke away from her face with the other—and Sergeant Ross walked up the drive retching. "There was like... Like a bomb in him?"

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, cutting across Dr Lance, "but probably not in the way you are thinking."

"Huh?"

"McHillory was swelling for a while beforehand, and then when the fatal event actually occurred, his expansion was fast but not nearly fast enough to suggest it was the kind of device that you might typically think of."

"Well, what then?"

"I believe a chemical reaction took place utilizing the acids inside his own stomach."

"I tend to agree," said Dr Lance, exhaling two imbalanced jets of smoke from his nostrils. "I'll need to get test results back to confirm it, but I think he was injected with something."

"But, what could do that?" said Karen.

"Obviously," said Dr Ramus, "we will not know for sure at the moment, but I would suggest that, whatever it was, reacted with his stomach acids a little like bicarbonate of soda does with vinegar—only considerably more extreme."

"You mean he was like a human bottle rocket?" said Karen.

"Yeah, I guess," said Dr Lance, slightly distracted by a large black SUV that had just that moment turned the corner, "if you took that 'bottle rocket' and shoved a cork so far up its ass, there was no way anything was ever getting out. The contents of his stomach had nowhere to go but out threw ruptures to his skin and all over the walls."

Karen clasped her hand tight across her mouth. "Oh, my God. That's terrible."

"Sure is," said Dr Lance. "That squash court was brand new."

"And," said Karen, talking through her hand and grimacing as she pointed to Dr Lance's polythene bag with the other, "is that where you think he was injected?"

"What this?" said Dr Lance, holding the bag up at eye level to clearly revel its contents: a belly button with a hole in the middle and enough surrounding skin to include the tattoo of what appeared to be a herb—possibly Dill—running around it. "Yeah, and looking at it, the needle was pretty sizeable."

"So, that's going off for testing as well?"

"Nah. No need. This is just a souvenir for my study."

"What happened here?" said the Mayor, shouting across the shoulder of the driver helping him out of the back of the vehicle.

"I'm afraid he struck again, sir," said Sergeant Ross, returning to the group and patting away some final remnants from around his mouth with a tissue. "Another terrible death."

"Dr," said Press reporter Amanda Rose, coldly, as she emerged from the back of the Mayor's SUV and came to stand beside him, "my sources tell me you gave chase?"

"And lost him," said the Mayor.

"In fairness, Mayor," said the Sergeant, "I doubt Dr Ramus gave it anything but his all."

"Oh, trust me, Sergeant, I intend to find that out. And, after that, I also intend to find out how the hell the Professor managed to get past your officers, and to McHillory, in the first place."

"Hmmm," said Sergeant Ross, looking awkwardly to the floor a moment before enthusiastically snapping his head back up. "We do have a new lead though."

"We do?" said Dr Ramus.

"Yeah, and it's a peach. We've got a photo of the Professor."

"Really? How? When?"

Smiling a little awkwardly, the Sergeant rolled his eyes. "Well, I've literally just found out and haven't seen it myself yet, because the numskull never mentioned it before, but Tupper took one with his phone just before the Professor made his escape."

Dr Ramus furrowed his brow. "Err, Sergeant..." he said quietly.

"Like I say," said the Sergeant, oblivious to Dr Ramus, "I haven't seen it yet, but I told Tupper to get and email it straight over to the station and get an APB out... Tupper, get over here with that photo will you?"

"Err, Sergeant, a word," said Dr Ramus.

"Yeah, two seconds, Dr," said Sergeant Ross, clearly enthusiastic that Tupper had arrived with his cell phone ready in his hand. "Show everyone the photo. I expect Ms Rose here will want to get it in the paper?"

Screwing his eyes tightly shut, Dr Ramus allowed his head to fall into his hand. "Oh, God."

"Oh, yes..." said Amanda Rose, the first to speak after the stunned silence that had ensued as Tupper proudly presented them with a selfie of himself and Officer Chalk in a buddy hug with a man dressed from head to foot in a teddy bear suit—providing no clue, whatsoever, to his actual identity. "I would absolutely love to get that in the paper."

"Really?" said Tupper, excitedly. "I'll email you a copy."

An impish grin swept across Amanda's face. "Thank you. And, yes. Really."

A retarded grin swept across Tupper's. "Ooh, I can't wait."

"It'll go well with my story about all of you," said Amanda, narrowing her eyes at Dr Ramus. "Trust me, I intend to leave the public in no doubt when it comes to the quality of all your efforts."

"Awww, thanks, Ms Rose," said Tupper, his face so lit up, he looked like he'd just been offered a free trip to Disneyland.

"Mayor," said his driver. "We're gonna be late."

"Right you two," said the Mayor, directing his unhappy demeanor at Sergeant Ross, and in particular, Dr Ramus. "Wait for me to call you both later, but in the meantime, do nothing until I've had chance to speak properly with the Captain."

"But we should get to the next potential victim," said Dr Ramus. "There is no time."

"I said: do nothing," cried the Mayor. "Everyone at risk has tight security, and the Captain has already assured me that—this time—no-one, but assigned police officers, will be allowed anywhere near those individuals under protection. Come along Ms Rose. We have a lot to discuss in the car."

With the fat tires of the Mayoral SUV crunching noisily on the gravel as it crept its way back along the drive, Karen stepped closer to Dr Ramus and rested her hand lightly on his forearm. "Come on Dr. I think you need something stiff inside you."

## ***

As the rather discourteous barman—patently more interested in the game playing on the huge TV over on the opposite wall than the well-being of his patrons—clumsily slapped down the next two large glasses of Whiskey and soda that Dr Ramus and Karen had ordered way too many minutes ago, Karen regarded her companion staring into his glass and the ring of spirit that had slopped onto the surface of the bar around it. "Look, I realize things aren't going as well as you might like, but at least you've been getting closer to him."

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, wearily putting down the spent glass he had been clutching and picking up his fresh one, "although I do believe that is what the Professor wants."

"Really? Well, even so, if it had been up to the Mayor, you wouldn't have even started on the right trail."

"Maybe, but that does not change the fact that two men are dead since I joined the case, and the Professor is still at large."

In a bid to force him to look her in the eye, Karen put her hand on Dr Ramus'. "That isn't your fault. Remember, you were the one who realized straight away it was celebrity chefs who were in danger, and it was the Mayor who expressly told you not to go to Amos Finch's. But, you followed your instincts and went anyway. It's hardly your fault you didn't get there in time."

His eyebrows faintly furrowing over his slightly drunk eyes, Dr Ramus' mind appeared to wander a little—possibly to a time spent wasting precious minutes putting acid in the Mayor's hemorrhoid cream and then dawdling around beneath his bathroom window in order that he could gleefully listen to his agonized screams.

"And," said Karen, squeezing his hand, "I'm sure you did everything possible to make sure you and Sergeant Ross got over to Liam McHillory's place as quickly as you could."

Dr Ramus' mind appeared to wander somewhere else—possibly to a time spent, not encouraging the Sergeant to agree that they should be making haste to Liam McHillory's, but instead, making haste back to his own mansion house with Amanda Rose in order that he could writhe around naked with her in his luxurious bed, sparing no consideration whatsoever to the plight facing the next man on the killer's list until the Sergeant called him and made that very suggestion.

"And, don't forget, you were the one who chased the Professor all across town without giving up."

Tipping his head back, Dr Ramus stared at the ceiling, seemingly recounting something that—just maybe—included an image of an underwear model's lacy crotch nestled to his face while he very much gave up on a chase for a dangerous killer, and instead, took the woman back to his bed in order that he could writhe naked with her in much the same way he had with so many of his other conquests, so often, at the most inappropriate of moments.

"And, I'm also sure that, if it was your choice, you would be putting in just as much effort right now as you did then."

"Removing his eyes from the ceiling, Dr Ramus turned to Karen and allowed them to meet with hers."

"Dr," said Karen, having waited for him to respond but receiving nothing. "DR?" she said, jerking her head back at the realization he was unconsciously thrusting his groin back and forth.

"Yes... Yes, you are right. I should be probing deeply. Perhaps we should proceed to my town house?"

"Huh? Probing what exactly?"

"Err... The evidence of course," said Dr Ramus, snapping back to reality.

"What evidence?"

"The Sumo."

A small frown appeared on Karen's face. "You should be probing the Sumo? And you want me to come too?"

"No, no... God, no," said Dr Ramus, staring at her almost as disconcerted as she had been whilst staring at him during the groin thrusting episode. "Hoshiko—"

"Who's Hoshiko?"

"The Sumo. That is his name. Anyway, the important point is: he was not a willing accessory to the death of Amos Finch."

"But, he sat on his face, and then he..."

"Asphyxiated him."

"Yes, asphyxiated him. That's a nicer way of putting it, but how did he do any of that unwillingly?"

"He was drugged and had been conditioned to subliminally respond the moment he was in any way directly challenged."

"Respond by siting on Finch's face and..."

"Asphyxiating him."

"Yes. That."

"Precisely. Although I do believe his particular method of asphyxiation was not quite what was intended, but anyway, the point is: the police could not charge him with anything."

"Ok, but back to your probing..." She fell silent. "Dr?" she cried but without daring to look anywhere near to below his waist.

"Yes... Yes. Hoshiko was drugged with a compound, the chemical make-up of which is not recognized."

"Ok..."

"And tests showed there was quite a lot of it in his system."

"Because he's so big?"

"Possibly, but the interesting thing is that, when Dr Lance examined him, he found the injection mark and commented in his report on how abnormally large the needle, and in turn, the syringe must have been. Far larger than actually necessary—even for a man the size of Hoshiko."

"Ok..."

"Now, as you know from the previous discussion with myself and Dr Lance, Liam McHillory was injected with a substance that caused a rapid expansion within his stomach."

"Like he was a human bottle rocket with a cork shoved up his ass?"

"Yes... I could not have put it better myself. Well, you saw for yourself the size of the needle hole in the remnants of his belly button, and you heard Dr Lance remark on it."

"So, the same kind of syringes and needles were used in both instances?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Ok, but going back to the first guy..."

"Hoshiko."

"Yeah, Hoshiko. Don't you think it sounds as though that sized syringe and needle was used because it was what was easily available to the Professor? Think about it, he'd probably already acquired the items he needed for future killings?"

"Oh, I have thought about it—and you may well be right—but nonetheless, after he injected Hoshiko with it, he left his first clue. Then he left a second clue when he injected Liam McHillory with one exactly the same, and then he left a third."

"A third?"

"Yes. When I examined Liam McHillorys's body, and found the artificial fur, I also found a receipt."

"You did?"

"Yes, and I do not believe it belonged to McHillory or that it was dropped there accidentally."

"You think it was left to be discovered?"

"Yes, I do. It was extremely close to the body, and because it was behind the radius of the blast, it did not become too badly soiled. Therefore, it should not be terribly difficult to trace the vendor."

"So, surely, the police are on that?"

"No, they are not aware of it."

"Why?"

"Well, when I found it, Sergeant Ross was so busy looking up at the ceiling, he did not even realize it was present."

"No, I mean: why haven't you told them? You could be in serious trouble for that."

"Look... Karen, I know that, but think about everything that has happened—the outlandish ways of killing people, the ridiculous teddy bear suit, and means of getaway."

"Yeah, you certainly couldn't make it up. I mean, really, if someone wrote this shit down... As a fictional story... Well... No-one would do that. Pure and simple. And, if they did, I'm sure as hell, no-one would read it."

"No, I agree they would not. But, I am sure that all this sensationalizing, along with his stupid name, is designed to garner maximum public interest, and I have suspected all along that the Professor is leaving clues designed to lead us to the next place he wants us to be."

"Ok, but why couldn't you just have said this to the Sergeant?"

"Because, I want to make sure first. I need to probe a little deeper, and then I will take my findings straight back to him."

"So, what've you done so far?"

"Well, nothing... I had not had the chance in between finding the receipt, chasing the Professor, and returning back to McHillory's. After that, of course, I have been sat here drinking Whiskey with you."

"Well," said Karen, looking a little perplexed, "don't you think you should be getting on with it?"

"Absolutely," said Dr Ramus, taking a slug of his drink. "I suggest we finish these and proceed immediately to my house. There, we can examine the receipt more thoroughly and attempt to find the supplier on the internet."

"Err... Most people would have done that on their cell phone by now," said Karen, frowning at him, "but, Ok, let's at least get out of here, and I'll help you, any way I can, with your probing."

Concluding she had waited a little too long for a response, Karen examined Dr Ramus' eyes for signs of vacancy, and then— tentatively—his crotch for signs of movement. "DR?"

"Sorry... Yes... What?"

"On thinking about it, perhaps you should proceed to your house immediately while I proceed to mine. I have a feeling that you may stay a little more focused on the case that way."

## ***

As the antique silver tray, conveying a silver pot of extremely strong black coffee with an empty bone china cup on a saucer and a matching plate brandishing a single finger of Scottish all butter shortbread, settled gently on the green leather top of the antique mahogany writing desk, Dr Ramus positioned the cursor, clicked the print button, and leant back from the screen he had been avidly studying for the last ten minutes.

"Thinking of breeding some horses are we?" said his burly Rastafarian employee.

"No, Sinclair, and you are supposed to call me sir during working hours. And, I would invite you in future, to not look over my shoulder when I am on the Internet."

"Sorry... Sir. Could have been worse though." Sinclair began pouring the coffee. "You could have been looking at those pictures of chubby chicks on the crapper."

"What?"

"Nothing," said Sinclair, shaking his head slightly as he replaced the pot on the tray.

"Good. There is a sheet of paper on the top of the printer with an address on it that I want you to drive me to."

"Very good... Sir."

"We leave in five minutes."

## ***

With those rays of sunlight that successfully made it through the black-green grime on the neglected glass panes, serving little more purpose than to illuminate the particles of dust that hung lazily in the air and create shadows of the rusty old steel frames of the windows—looming distorted across the floor between the entrance and the back of the store—the battered old sign, lit by a couple of equally filthy fluorescent lights and carrying the faded words 'Roderick and Hick Livestock Supplies' painted upon it, swung in the draft over the extremely basic concrete-block counter, behind which were shelves full of dusty livestock suppliers and a not so dusty, auburn haired, country-girl wearing dark blue jeans, a red checked lumber shirt, and an easy smile she eagerly directed at the approaching stranger.

"Good day," said Dr Ramus.

"Good day to you, sugar," said the woman, wiggling while she spoke with a Deep Southern accent, not at all native to the area. "My name's Ginette, and I will be your server today. How can I help you, honey pie?"

"Am I right in thinking you are the only stockists of specialist livestock equipment within fifty miles of the city? For artificial insemination and the like?"

"We certainly are, sweet pea. Our motto is: If you've got a bull with a limp dick, come see Roderick and Hick."

Raising an eyebrow, Dr Ramus paused a moment. "Yes, of course. Now—"

"No, really, pumpkin, it is," said Ginette, pointing proudly to some smaller writing at the bottom of the sign which read precisely as she had just quoted.

Briefly shaking his head, Dr Ramus pulled a small piece of slightly blood splattered paper from his pocket. "This receipt is a little spoiled, but most of it is legible—"

"Legible?"

"Readable. Most of it is readable, and it is definitely one of yours."

Apparently unfazed by the blood, Ginette leaned in for a better look. "Yep, that's one of ours, sugar cakes."

"Excellent..."

"And?"

"Oh, yes," said Dr Ramus, wrestling his gaze away from her cleavage. "Now, the item code is extremely difficult to decipher—"

"Decipher? You're gonna have to start speaking English sometime soon, sweet cheeks."

"Err, sorry. The item code is difficult to read because the print is so badly smudged."

"Yeah," said Ginette, nodding to the antiquated till on the top of the counter, "this baby has definitely seen better days."

"Well, quite, but the date is not so bad, and I believe that it says the eighth of April which was last Friday—"

Ginette leant in for another closer inspection. "Yep, honey bee, I agree with that."

"So," said Dr Ramus, pressing himself to remove his eyes from her cleavage again, "I was wondering if you might be able to tell me: did you sell anyone any syringes that day? Large ones with needles that might be used on larger animals?"

Ginette stared down at the receipt now laid on the counter. "Last Friday. Last Friday..."

"To someone you may not have recognized? And possibly not coming across as being particularly familiar with livestock and farming?"

"Yes," said Ginette, suddenly raising her head and grinning as she caught Dr Ramus with his eyes down her top. "There was a guy on Friday, and he didn't seem one bit a farm boy. Weird looking sucker too."

"Really? Could you elaborate? I mean... Could you describe him?"

"Sure," said Ginette, winking appreciatively. "Well, here's the thing: he was white and about six one. That I can tell you, but apart from that, I'm not sure 'bout anything much at all."

"Why is that?"

"Well, and I know this is gonna sound a little crazy, but nothing else about him looked any ways natural. And, if I didn't know better, I'd swear he was in disguise. Big beard, big hair, wrong color eyes for his skin—"

"And, do you know any better?"

"Come to think of it," said Ginette, shrugging her shoulders and smiling. "No, I don't. And, if I'm really honest; however dumb it may sound, I think maybe he was in disguise."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I suspect you are right."

Ginette beamed at him.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?

"Nothing I can think of, sweet pea."

"Anything at all?" he said, resting his gaze on her chest while she wasn't looking. "Even the smallest detail."

"No, that's it, I think," she said, shaking her head. "Except, he was incredibly, unbelievably, rude. Not to me, but to one of my customers."

"Really?"

"Yeah. To Ol' Billy."

"Could you tell me any more about that?"

"Well, Ol' Billy is the owner of, believe it or not, Ol' Billy's Farm just a mile up the road that way, and he's been a customer here since, well, I don't know when. And he's old. Which explains that part of his name, obviously. And he don't see so well, or walk so well, and apparently he left his truck parked so the strange guy couldn't get his vehicle out."

"Did you see this vehicle?"

"The weird guy's?"

"Yes."

"No, sugar, I couldn't see it from here, but he came back in while I was serving Billy, and he was steaming. The way he asked—no told—Billy to go move his truck; well, it wasn't just rude. He scared him. Scared him good. Was lucky none of the other younger local boys were in here, or they'd of whooped his ass for sure."

"So, Billy must have seen his truck?"

"Yeah, sure, Billy would've seen it."

"Maybe I should ask him. You say he lives a mile up the road?"

"Yeah," said Ginette. "I suppose I did say that, but now I think about it, I really shouldn't have. Look, you're cute an all, but I'm telling you way too much here when I don't have the first clue who you are."

"You do not recognize me from TV?" said Dr Ramus, his eyes slightly wider than normal.

"No, honey," said Ginette, shaking her head while smiling like she had just been told a mildly amusing joke, "I don't recognize you from TV."

Although he tried to hide it, Dr Ramus' expression betrayed the fact he was more than a little distressed by the last revelation.

"Anyhow," said Ginette, "I'm sorry, sweetie, but my shift finishes in a moment, and I really don't wanna spend any more of my day standing around in here."

"I understand," said Dr Ramus. "Listen, you may not believe me, but I am actually a private detective—"

"So you lied about being on TV?"

"No, I appear on TV quite often, but currently, I have been contracted by the local police department to help track down a dangerous killer."

Ginette's mouth fell open. "And you believe it's the guy we've just been talking about?"

"Yes, I do, and I promise you that, if any of the information you have provided me today assists us towards apprehending this man, I will personally ensure you are recognized for your contribution."

"Aw, baby cakes, that is very sweet... Are you really from off the TV?"

"Yes, really."

"Aw, well, like I say, it's very sweet of you to say all that." She wiggled at him some more. "How can I ever thank you?"

## ***

In the ornate master bedroom of the luxurious mansion house, long auburn hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

## ***

As the door shut behind Ginette, carrying her clothes in her hand and dressed in one of the luxurious white bath robes, the telephone at Dr Ramus' bedside began to ring, and in one flowing motion, he sat bolt upright, retrieved the handset, and laid back down again. "Sergeant Ross. How can I be of assistance?"

"Err, yeah, the Mayor wants us over at his office a.s.a.p."

## ***

"Tell them they may enter," said the Mayor, releasing the intercom button and immediately stabbing at it again with his podgy finger. "Oh, and Hazel, make sure Ramus comes straight in here with the Sergeant."

As the door swung gently open, Sergeant Ross stepped into the room and stood to one side of the entrance in a bid to ensure his colleague swiftly followed him through. "Mayor," he said, catching up with Dr Ramus and arriving alongside him at the desk.

"Mayor," said Dr Ramus, making a very deliberate performance of reading from the Mayor's nameplate and stopping short at pronouncing 'Pecker Fudger'.

As the traffic noise from outside faintly rumbled through the thick triple glazing, the only other sounds to be heard were the ticking of the clock and the Mayor's significantly noisier inhalations through his flared nostrils, followed by what appeared to be deliberately forced exhalations, not a fraction of which made it out through the lips of his tightly pinched mouth.

Attempting to analyze the Mayor's demeanor: the way he was sat motionless—aside from his animated nostrils—with his hands in his lap and obscured by his monstrous desk, Sergeant Ross contemplated the situation a little longer before leaning slightly towards him. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"Damn right it is," screamed the Mayor, jerking his hands up from his desk and revealing a folder newspaper which, by the time he had let it go and his palms hand slammed down on it, was flat on the desktop with its front page facing them, displaying the headline: **KILLER TEDDY ESCAPES WHILE DR RAMUS FROLICS**.

"What do we have here?" said Dr Ramus, raising his eyebrows as he leant in to take a better look at the accompanying photo: half of his face wide-eyed and grinning, the other half buried in the skimpy triangular frontage of a pair of white lace panties.

"What we have here," yelled the Mayor, "is this evening's paper that's about to hit the stands, and if I don't handle this correctly, become an absolute PR nightmare."

"Look, Mayor," said the Sergeant, frowning in particular at the photo, "with all due respect, I know what happened now, and really, this looks much worse than it actually is."

"How so, Sergeant?"

"Well... Clearly, an overenthusiastic member of the public snapped this with their cell after Dr Ramus—while bravely pursuing an extremely dangerous killer—lost control of his means of transportation to avoid injuring a child, but unfortunately, collided with a nearby stage performer."

"You make it sound as if you think this is rational, Sergeant?" said the Mayor, shaking his head at him. "But, let me give you a few key points from the accompanying article. A killer in a teddy bear suit escapes on a pink tricycle—"

"His choice of attire and getaway vehicle was out of anybody's control," said Dr Ramus.

"—and Ramus here, pursues him on an adult sized space hopper—"

"Which was by far the best of the limited options available," said Dr Ramus.

"—and flattens two small dogs on the way—"

"Regrettable collateral damage in the face of a larger threat."

"—one of which, according to the article, the owner was so distraught about the thought of losing, she was going to have turned into a novelty draft stopper—"

"Ah," said Dr Ramus, nodding his head approvingly. "That will be the dachshund."

"No, said the Mayor, interrupting his own rant. "It was the Chihuahua."

"Stupid woman," said Dr Ramus, shaking his head. "Does she live in a doll's house?"

"Well, it's neither here nor there as one small saving grace in all this was both dogs miraculously came around and are fine."

"They did? Well I never. Hydrogen filled space hoppers ay? Cheap, reliable, and most of all, safe."

"Then," said the Mayor, turning his attention back to the Sergeant, "he scares the hell out of a bunch of upstanding citizens going about their daily business—"

"Getting their cheap jollies in an underwear department," said Dr Ramus.

"Avoids a kid—"

"Which, surely, even you cannot fault me for?"

"—who would never had been in danger in the first place if, as several eye witnesses have reported, Ramus' eyes hadn't previously been firmly-fixed on the crotch of a half-naked model's panties—"

"Err..." said Dr Ramus, stopping short and simply shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"—who he then crashes head first into, but luckily for him, she isn't pressing any charges."

"From what I understand, Mayor," said the Sergeant, "she was quite laid back once she realized she'd seen him on TV."

"Laid back and positively gushing," said Dr Ramus. "Mayor, can I ask you who wrote this?"

"Amanda Rose wrote it, and however embarrassing it might be, I actually think she's providing the public a great service by ensuring this will be brought to their attention."

"By undermining police efforts to catch a dangerous killer?" said Dr Ramus.

"No, by drawing attention to the fact that you are a drain on resources who is showing no positive results whatsoever."

"Oh, you are not falling for that surely, Mayor? She just wants to sell more papers."

"I'm not falling for anything. She's on our side. I know that because she personally killed the story about how the Professor got past the pair of morons guarding McHillory in the first place, and she made sure the photo of them giving him a hug before he left, isn't getting printed. Despite the fact it would be absolute gold for her paper."

"But, like you, it seems she has the daggers out for me?"

"No, like me, she has the public's interests at heart. She made a very good point earlier you know?"

"Really? What was that?"

"After this was taken," said the Mayor, stabbing at the photo, "it was approximately another two hours before you arrived back at McHillory's. Where the hell were you?"

"I had a wound that required urgent attention, but I assure you, I came as fast as I could possibly manage."

"Well, that aside, this article is damning. The press know you charge a fortune, but since you've been involved in this, there's been two more killings, and now there's a photo of you lying about gawking into a model's gusset. All the while, the killer's still at large."

About to protest, Dr Ramus was interrupted by the Mayor. "I'm afraid you've left me with no choice. Dr Ramus, by order of the Captain, you are officially off the case."

## ***

"Look," said Sergeant Ross, absentmindedly surveying the pedestrians as they went about their business between where the two men were stood and the grand entrance of City Hall, "I'll have a word with the Captain and see what I can do?"

"I do not believe there is much point, Sergeant," said Dr Ramus, barely noticing the attractive young woman walking past in a low-cut top. "The Captain does not want the hassle of dealing with the Mayor, and therefore in situations such as these, simply bends over and allows himself to be shafted by him."

"Ugh," said the Sergeant, grimacing.

"After all, that episode just now, it should have been the Captain conducting that conversation with you, not the Mayor delighting in the opportunity to sack me personally."

"Yeah, I know, but if the Professor carries on killing and we—the police that is—don't catch him soon, everyone else will come round to having you back with us, and then the Mayor will have to as well."

"I am not so sure about that," said Dr Ramus, staring to the Sergeant's chest. "You have changed you ringtone."

"Yeah, I used to love this show," said the Sergeant, smiling affectionately as he retrieved his cell from his inside pocket and inspected the screen. "Oh, what now?" He answered it. "Hello, Your Honor."

Raising his brows while ensuring he had sufficiently covered the microphone with his palm, Sergeant Ross passed the cell to Dr Ramus. "He wants to speak to you, and he sounded real friendly. Maybe he's had a rethink."

"Can I help you, Mayor?"

"Yes, actually, you can. I'd like you to just listen a moment to something I wanted to tell to you personally. Just you and me; man to man—"

"Well it is hardly man to man over the telephone is it, Mayor?"

Stuttering a little, the Mayor continued. "I just want you to know, Ramus, just how happy I am you got hired by the police again. Really happy. Because it's given me the opportunity to wipe that smug smile off your face, and now I can finally watch your career slide off the edge of the cliff it's been teetering on for all these years."

"Oh, really, Mayor," said Dr Ramus, jutting out his chin and rolling his eyes, "I think you are grossly overestimating the effect this might have on me."

"Yeah, well, I think otherwise. You're definitely not getting any more work from the City, and I don't think big-shot private clients are gonna be flocking to you either. In fact, I think you can look forward to poky little jobs, near non-existent book sales, and the only TV appearances you'll be making will be dated old footage on 'Where did they go?'."

"Mayor, it is one article, in a city wide newspaper, that will soon blow over and be forgotten."

"Yeah, well, you might think that now, but wait until you read the one in tomorrow morning's edition. Then look out for the exposés coming out over the next few weeks, all about your lifestyle and how much of that's been funded by the tax payer over the years. I told you not to mess with me."

"He hung up," said Dr Ramus, passing the cell back to the Sergeant.

"What did he say?"

"Hold on would you?" said Dr Ramus, suddenly distracted by an individual hurrying towards the steps. "Ms Rose? Amanda?" he shouted—but failed to make her so much as turn her head, let alone slow down. "Have the courage to face me would you?"

Spinning on her heel, Amanda Rose marched straight towards him. "Good morning, Sergeant," she said, casting a brief smile at his companion before coming to an abrupt halt and staring Dr Ramus hard in the face. "What can I do for you?"

"Your article in this evening's paper has been somewhat less than helpful," said Dr Ramus, endeavoring to appear laidback, "and from what I gather from a recent conversation with the Mayor, you must be here visiting him in order to write another?"

"My next appointment with the Mayor isn't your business."

"It will be tomorrow morning."

"Well ask me about it then."

"Oh, Ms Rose, have you just invited yourself to stay over again?"

Appearing slightly awkward in-front of the Sergeant, she scowled at Dr Ramus. "You know exactly what I mean. If you don't like what's in the story then email my office."

"Well, since you are here," said Dr Ramus, while in his peripheral vision a nearby vendor cut open a bundle of evening papers, "what about the story that has just entered the public domain? Supposing I do not like what is in that one?"

"Well, I'd say, that's tough because everything in it is the truth."

Shaking his head slightly, Dr Ramus stared her deep in the eyes. "Could you not have at least credited me for going after the killer unaided?"

"Oh, don't give me that. You went after him like that because you thought it'd be good publicity, and given how farcical the whole thing looked, it probably would've been if you hadn't showed your true colors the moment you got a whiff of another woman you might be able to bed."

"I say, Ms Rose. That is a little graphic."

"Ugh, you know exactly what I mean, and stop with all the innuendo will you? It's not clever, and you're not some re-hashed creation of the late Ian Fleming who can somehow get away with that kind of thing."

"So," said Dr Ramus, looking a little hurt by the last revelation, "do I take it you think I do not respect women?"

"No, actually, it isn't that. I think you don't respect anyone. You treat men just as badly, but the only difference is: you don't want to bed them. Or, at least, not as far as I know, but nothing about you would surprise me. Any port in a storm I should think."

"Well it did not stop you. Or was that just so you could get the Sumo story?"

Grabbing Dr Ramus roughly by the arm, Amanda dragged him away from the Sergeant. "You see, it's that kind of self-satisfying insensitivity that I'm talking about. And, let me tell you, that's why no-one you meet thinks much of you after very long knowing you. At best, you become a colleague, an acquaintance, or an employer. Nothing more."

Turning to walk away while Dr Ramus stood in silence, Amanda swung back around. "And, Dr, please accept the one and only piece of friendly advice you're gonna get from me. The next time you take someone to your bed, try having a conversation once you've got your jollies. Maybe take their number. Even if it's just to stop you from looking like a total dick. But, most of all, try not to let them have to find their own way out of your house. And, for the love of God, try saying goodbye before they go.

# Chapter 11

As the antique silver tray—that was perhaps a little excessive for the conveyance of nothing more than a bone china cup of green tea on a saucer—settled gently on the green leather top of the antique mahogany writing desk, Dr Ramus sighed as his eyes happened, yet again, upon the morning edition of the city newspaper, and most significantly, the headline it was brandishing: **DR RAMUS SACKED FOR INCOMPETENCE**. Swiftly turning his attention back to the spread-sheet on his laptop, he quietly groaned a little more as he reread its title: **Monthly Revenue Streams**.

"Look, all I am asking is that you take into account the possibility of an imminent decline in my income from private work, book sales, TV appearances, and the like," he said, sat with his elbow on the arm of his leather swivel chair and his head rested against the receiver of another of the 1950s Belgian polished metal bodied telephones he was so fond of, "and find a better place for my investments, so I can make up the shortfall."

Taking a sip of the tea, he sat and listened to a short response from the person on the other end of the line.

"No, of course I do not have any idea where. Why do you think I have called you?

"The size of the decline? Well... Well, it might be best to allow for pretty much all of that income—

"Yes, all of it. What part of that statement could you possibly not have understood?

"Yes, I have signed the contract on the DVD publishing.

"No, I do not think I will be selling too many of those now.

"Yes, the Dr Ramus junior detective kits were a bit of a disaster.

"No, I did not know they were going to put real acid in the vial.

"Yes, I know it is going to cost rather a lot of money. Look, could you please start providing me with information that I am not already aware of? Preferably, something useful?"

Running his free hand firmly through his hair, he listened to some advice he clearly did not care for. "But, surely, there must be better returns to be had? You are my financial adviser. This is what I pay you for.

"Why I have not questioned that before is neither here nor there. I simply have not got around to it. That is all.

"Reign in my spending?" he said, slapping the palm of his free hand down on the surface of his desk, causing his tea to spill over the sides of the saucer. "And how exactly would you propose I go about that?

"Are you mad? Those trips are vital to my sanity, I—

"Travel economy class? Do you take me for some kind of animal?"

With a loud clank, the receiver landed back onto the main body of the telephone and more tea sloshed everywhere.

"Now look what you've done," said Sinclair, picking up the stained newspaper. "There's no way I'll be able to frame this now."

Catching his own reflection in a picture frame containing one of the more complimentary front page headlines about his exploits, Dr Ramus paused to compose himself before responding. "Yes, very good, Sinclair," he said, having just navigated to another page in the spread-sheet and staring uneasily at its title: **Monthly Living Expenses**. "Do something useful, would you, and start thinking about things we might be able to cut back on. Like here, I think the caviar spend may be a tad excessive."

"If I were you," said Sinclair, walking across the room to a half filled refuse sack on the floor, "I wouldn't worry about the edible items just yet."

"You would not?"

"No, I would not. I would start with the alcohol and work back. You drink far more than you eat."

"Oh, I do not think that is entirely—"

"Yes, it is true," said Sinclair, continuing to throw away empty spirit bottles that had been put back in the drinks cabinet, "and if you could see how much you spend on it every month, I mean, truthfully—and as real cash—then you'd realize."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I think. Hell, if it was a sack full of dollar bills, it'd be bigger than Aunt Shirley's Jamaican booty."

"My God. That is monstrous."

"Hey," said Sinclair, launching a bottle into the sack. "It's one thing for me to say her butt's big. I'm family, but—"

"I am talking about the amount I spend," said Dr Ramus, scrutinizing a particular subtotal on the spread sheet.

"Oh." Sinclair relaxed his bulky frame and continued with what he was doing. "Anyway, the alcohol you've got on there... You're only looking at a basic month's supply."

"And?"

"And, a basic month's supply never actually lasts a month. Nowhere near."

"Does it not?"

"No, it does not. Most of the time, I end up picking up more for you which you always—but always—forget all about. On account of drinking it."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do. You really don't have any idea how much you actually consume do you?"

"Now hold on a minute," said Dr Ramus, spinning his chair sharply around. "I happen to know, for a fact, that you help yourself to more than the odd glass."

"Yes, yes you do, because I don't make no secret of it, and given all the things I do for you, and put up with from you, I think I deserve—no scrub that—I definitely deserve 'the odd glass'."

Tipping his head for a moment, Dr Ramus turned back to his spread-sheet. "What about the limo?"

"You're ok there. She's teetotal."

"Yes, very amusing. I imagine it uses quite a lot of fuel?"

"Yeah, it's a limo; what do you expect?"

"Well, given my current situation, maybe I have to consider whether I need a vehicle that large and you driving me everywhere."

"Hey, I don't like the sound of that. You planning to get rid of me? I do a lot more than drive for you, you know?"

"No, Sinclair," said Dr Ramus, wearily leaning back from his laptop and turning to face him again. "Your family has been entwined with my family since... Well, since back from a time where I cannot view my family history with much pride."

Sinclair simply provided a knowing nod.

"No, I would stop buying those Cuban cigars I enjoy before I ever let that happen."

"Why thank you," said Sinclair, curling one of his nostrils as he stared at his employer down the ridge of his nose. "The other thing you could try, of course, is not letting this thing beat you. You could fight back."

"Yes, thank you, Sinclair, but while you are still in my employ, you could try keeping certain opinions to yourself."

"Screw you. I'm next in line after a box of Cubans."

"Sinclair, do you mind? It is bad enough you not calling me sir—"

"And screw you with that sir crap, Cornelius. We've known each other since we were kids, and I never called you sir back then. Hell, we were friends back then—"

"Are we are not friends now?" said Dr Ramus, his expression a mixture of inquiry tinged with dismay.

Sinclair sucked through his teeth. "You don't have time for friends, but since I used to be one, I'm gonna give you some friendly advice anyway.

"Not you as well."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

Taking a moment to compose himself, Sinclair wandered to the other side of the room and propped himself against the sideboard. "Listen, you've always been good to me."

A hint of a smile formed on Dr Ramus' lips.

"In your own strange—not terribly apparent—way."

The hint faded back to nothing.

"And I hope you know that I've always tried to be good to you?"

Dr Ramus issued a brief nod.

"You were born into wealth that most people don't earn in a lifetime, and the problems you think you've got right now, well, they ain't problems."

"Now—"

"No, Cornelius, they ain't. If you started living like a half-way normal person, you could just carry on for the rest of your life, existing very nicely without ever doing a day's work again."

"And you think that is what I should do?"

"That's up to you, but I don't think you'd be happy with it."

"Damn right I would not be happy. Me, a 'normal person'?"

"I said 'half-way normal', but yeah, I didn't think you'd take too well to the idea, but I'm just trying to give you some perspective on how blessed your life actually is."

"So, what then?"

"Like I said, you fight back against this thing. You deal with it."

"That is easy to say, but the damage is done now."

"Maybe, but think about this: if you were responsible for the Professor's capture then maybe the damage could be reversed."

"Yes, but since I cannot work with the police, I cannot possibly be responsible for that."

"Why can't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, Cornelius, for a guy with your intellect, you can be incredibly dumb sometimes?"

"Humor me," said Dr Ramus, frowning at him.

"Go looking for him yourself. Find out who he is, and make sure there's enough evidence to nail him."

"And make a citizen's arrest? The man is a maniac."

"No. Let the police make the arrest, but just ensure you're the one who's led them to him."

"Covertly do their work for them? For no fee?"

"Yes, for no fee, because as long as you make sure all the positive investigative work can only be attributed to you, it'll leave the Press with no choice—"

"But to write something good about me," said Dr Ramus, gently running his fingers down his chin as he pondered the suggestion.

"Now you're getting it. Your reputation can be restored, and you'll be big news again. Only, for the right reasons this time. The book selling and TV appearance type reasons."

"Hmmm... I do not know."

"What don't you know?"

"Without certain information, that I will no longer be privy to, I am just not sure this will work."

"Make it work. Even with your constant self-sabotaging, you're still the luckiest person I've ever met, and when you bother to use it, you have a genuine gift. I mean, the way I hear you intuitively figured that guy the other day had wooden legs, well, that was just geni—" Sinclair paused and stared into his employer's eyes a moment. "You did figure that out didn't you? I mean, you didn't already know?"

"No, really, that was honestly one of mine."

After a little more inspection, Sinclair relaxed the intensity of his gaze. "Ok, I believe you. I know when you're lying."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. Why'd you think I always beat you at poker?"

"Oh... Well, more fool you for telling me. I shall not be playing you again."

"Yeah, you will. Next time you're drunk. Anyway, where was I?"

"You were saying something about me being a genius."

"Oh, yeah. Now, most of the time, of course, you get by without people really seeing through you just blagging it, not doing anything spectacular, and not putting any real effort in—"

"Not putting any real effort in? What about me chasing the Professor across the city?"

"Don't give me that. You only chased him because you thought it'd be good publicity."

His lips parting slightly, but abruptly closing without the utterance of any words, Dr Ramus simply narrowed his eyes at his employee.

"But, I'm glad we're in full agreement about the blagging and not doing anything spectacular aspect of the situation."

"Could you get to the point please?"

"Well, as it happens, I was. This time, you're going to have to make sure your put in some effort. A lot of effort."

"And not blag it, and perhaps, do my best to do something spectacular?"

"Actually," said Sinclair, ignoring his employer's sarcasm, "if I was you, I would carry on with at least some of the blagging, but yes, doing the odd spectacular thing here and there, might not be such a bad idea."

"Good. Glad we have got that straight," said Dr Ramus, huffing as he looked back at his computer. "Anything else? Any other flaws I have, you might like to bring up before we conclude this conversation?"

"Womanizing, drinking, gambling, glory-hounding —"

"Glory-hounding?"

"Again, I see you don't deny the other stuff?" said Sinclair while Dr Ramus, who had spun around to face him again, sat in stunned silence. "You are a glory hound, Cornelius, and because you want all the credit all the time, you can't bear asking anyone for help."

"But, hold on, you just said that I should make sure all the positive investigative work can only be attributed to me. How could I do that without taking all the credit?"

"Ok, I did say that, but you could share a little of that credit."

A small frown appeared across Dr Ramus's face.

"Look, you said yourself: there's certain information you won't be privy to now."

"Yes, I did, and that statement was correct."

"Well, you should already be thinking about who you could be asking to help get that information— Hold on." Sinclair walked over to an intercom that had just started buzzing and picked up the handset. "Hello.

"Yes, ok, I'll be there in two."

"What was that?" said Dr Ramus as Sinclair returned the handset to its cradle.

"A delivery. Alcohol, funnily enough." He put on his jacket and hurried over to the door. "We can continue this later if you'd like?"

"Oh, yes," said Dr Ramus, sneering as he turned back to his computer. "I would love to."

With Sinclair out of the room, Dr Ramus stared blankly at the spread-sheet for a while before turning his attention to the top drawer of his writing desk, opening it, and fishing around inside until he finally found what he was looking for. Then, after a few moments contemplation, he put the business card on the desk, picked up the receiver of the Belgian telephone, dialed a number, and waited. "Hello

"Cornelius Ramus.

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is.

"Well... The thing is... I was wondering if you might be kind enough to lend me some assistance?"

## ***

With the city traffic rumbling gradually by, the three police officers stood idly chatting on the sidewalk in the shade afforded by an enormous emerald green awning suspended above the immaculately polished glass and chrome frontage of the swanky down town restaurant that, under normal circumstances, not a single one of them had any reason whatsoever to be in such close proximity to.

"Hello boys."

Unaware anyone had been approaching, Sergeant Ross spun around from his companions. "Oh... Hello. You never mentioned you were coming."

"Well no, but I'm on the way to give a lecture on the other side of the city, so since I was passing, I thought I'd drop in quickly and see how things are going."

"Oh, ok. Well, so far—"

"But the thing is," said Karen, faintly fluttering her eyelashes.

"Yes?" said the Sergeant, in a slow, drawn out, and suspicious manner.

"Well, you see, an old friend of mine, who does the exact same job as me, over at Stockholm University..."

"Yes?"

"Well, he showed up in town yesterday..."

"And?"

"And... He's with me today." Karen nodded sideways and back, towards a row of parked cars across the street. "And, I told him about the case..."

"So?"

The eyelash fluttering intensified. "So, he was real interested and asked if he could maybe come take a peek at what's going on."

"Hmmm," said the Sergeant, rubbing the back of his neck uneasily. "The problem is, seeing as how the Professor got past our officers so easily before"—like a pair of scolded children, Chalk and Tupper immediately stared at the pavement—"I have to be real careful who comes anywhere close. Even you as it happens."

"You think I could be the Professor in disguise?"

Taking the opportunity to legitimately run his eyes down Karen's front, and back up again, the Sergeant paused for a moment. "Well, if you are, I gotta say, this one sure beats the teddy bear suit."

"Sergeant," said Karen with a sharp tone accompanied by a playful wink. "What if he just comes over and has a chat?"

"Who?"

"My colleague," said Karen, now appearing slightly irritated with the Sergeant's preoccupation with her cleavage.

"Oh, err, yeah, that should be ok."

Spinning around towards one of the cars parked back down the other side of the street, Karen made a beckoning motion. "He'll be so interested," she said, turning back, "and the other thing is: you might be able to tap him for some useful information."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. He knows a lot about typical serial killer pattern behaviors—"

"That's not because he is one, is it?" said the Sergeant, uneasily eyeing the approaching individual: a tall, olive skinned, man with a massive mop of unkempt grey hair and a huge curly beard cascading over the front of an immense sports jacket which hugged snugly to the rather lumpy contours of his bulky shoulders and chest, but then hung loosely over a pair of finely tailored trousers containing legs considerably more slender than his upper body.

"Err... No."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I've known him for years," said Karen, looking a little awkward as her colleague wandered into hearing range. "Sergeant, may I introduce Bjorn Nödtveidt."

Biting the inside of his lip, the Sergeant hesitantly extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr..."

Briefly shaking his hand, the newcomer proceeded to reach into the right pocket of his jacket, pull out a small device, and tap on its miniature keyboard before revealing its mini screen: _'Likewise Sergeant, and just call me Bjorn.'_

"Bjorn doesn't speak any English." said Karen.

"Oh," said Sergeant Ross, nodding his head but suddenly stopping to wrinkle his eyebrows. "Then how did he know what I said?"

"Err..."

Quickly tapping out a new message, Bjorn showed the translator to the Sergeant again. _'I understand English but cannot pronounce it.'_

"Oh, of course, what with you being..."

Tap, tap, tap. _'Swedish.'_

"Yes, Swedish... Obviously. So, Ms Smythe tells me you're interested in the case?"

Tap, tap, tap. _'Very.'_

"Well, I hadn't arrived long before you did," said the Sergeant, turning his body so he could address the whole group. "So, I actually need a bit of an update myself. Chalk? Tupper?"

"What?" said Tupper, his voice muffled by a hunk of doughnut churning between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

"Any activity?"

"Not really, sir," said Officer Chalk, lowering the doughnut he was about to take a bite from and taking a moment to wipe away some of the excess sugar that had previously gathered around his lips. "We followed instructions to the letter."

"Excellent," said Sergeant Ross. "I'm glad to hear—"

With the translator suddenly in-front of Chalk's face, everyone paused to read the screen. _'What did you mean by "Not really"?'_

"Huh?" said Chalk, his mouth now stuffed.

Grunting disapprovingly, Bjorn yanked the translator away, forcefully punched at its keyboard for a protracted moment, and thrust it back in his face.

"The Sergeant asked you if there was any activity," said Chalk, reading the scrolling message out loud while spitting bits of doughnut in the process, "and you said 'Not really'. What did you mean by that?"

"Oh," said Tupper, interrupting his partner, now his doughnut now completely consumed, "he just had a delivery."

"A delivery?" said Karen.

"Yeah," said Tupper, pausing to straighten himself and smile at everyone with a sense of pride, so rare, it was clearly almost alien to him, "but, I personally made sure that even the driver didn't get access to our guy and took it in myself."

Ignoring Tupper as he continued to beam self-satisfied at the others, Bjorn hastily hammered another message into the translator and showed it to him. _'What was delivered?'_

"A cake, sir."

Another translator message swiftly arrived. _'Can I assume it was in a box?'_

"Yes, sir."

' _Could you see into the box?'_

"No, sir," said Tupper, scratching his temple as he squished his eyebrows together.

' _How large was the box?'_

"Huge," said Tupper, abandoning his puzzled expression and smiling smugly again at the different members of the group as his eyes darted between each of them. "Good thing it was on a trolley. Weighed a ton. And seeing as one of us had to stay out here, I pushed it in all by myself."

As Sergeant Ross nodded his head approvingly at Tupper who was, in-turn, gawking at Karen—probably in the hope he might receive some display of sudden adoration—while Chalk winced at his own position out of the limelight, Bjorn hammered out another message and jerked it between them. _'Was the box_ large _enough to contain a curled up man?'_

"Huh?" said Tupper, still smiling smugly.

"Oh my..." said Officer Chalk.

"What?" said Officer Tupper, shaking his head slightly but failing to dispense with his cretinous grin.

Another translator message appeared in Tupper's face. _'How long ago did you take it in?'_

"About fifteen minutes ago," said Officer Chalk, stepping slightly across his still puzzled partner as he deliberately butted in. "Actually, I wasn't comfortable about it at all. Tried to—"

Instead of the translator appearing in front of Chalk's face, a simple raised finger conveyed the next message: _'Shut the fuck up.'_

"What is it, Bjorn?" said the Sergeant.

Tap, tap, tap. _'The Professor is in there. There is no time.'_

## ***

Waving their un-holstered pistols from side-to-side in a manner far more likely learned from a TV cop show than anything they might have been taught in training, Chalk and Tupper burst through the large double swing doors of the kitchen, swiftly followed by Sergeant Ross, then Karen Smythe, and after some delay, Bjorn Nödtveidt.

"His ass definitely looks smaller on TV," said Officer Chalk, lowering his pistol as he stared dumbfounded at the spectacle before them.

"Thank God you're here," said the man, craning his neck in order that he could turn his head to them as best as possible but somewhat hampered by the fact his hands were bound to a rack bearing bags of powdered ingredients, such as flour and an assortment of different spices. "Help me. He's mad. "

"Mr Howard," said Sergeant Ross. "What did he do?"

"Well, for a start, I wasn't dressed like this."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have been," said the Sergeant, slowly shaking his head as he regarded the man's single piece of attire: a pair of shiny red rubber underpants with the word **NONENTITY** emblazoned in big black letters across the seat. "We'll get you untied."

"There's something else."

"What?"

"Well, he knocked me out temporarily before all this and..."

"What?"

"Well..."

"What?"

Howard stuttered slightly. "When I came to, he was holding this big syringe, and..."

"He'd injected you?" said Karen, hurriedly, while pulling a face he couldn't see.

"Well, I don't know. It didn't have a needle, and... I'm not sure... But I think he might have squirted something..."

Recognizing his difficulty in finding suitable words, Officer Tupper kindly stepped in to help out. "Up you're a—"

"I don't know," said Howard, the loudness of his voice clearly engineered to cut Tupper off, but actually surplus to requirements, since—along with Chalk—he had already turned away, snorting into the hands he had clamped tightly across his nose and mouth.

"Sorry," said Karen, doing her best to ignore the wailing taking place just to the side of her—possibly concerned that she might start to find it infectious, "Mr Howard... Can I call you Crispin?"

"Damn it, woman, you can call me what you like."

"Good. Crispin, I don't watch your show, but... Has your butt always been that big?"

"No, of course it hasn't. It's whatever that madman did. You've got to help. I can feel it expanding."

Staring at each other for a moment, Sergeant Ross, Karen, and Bjorn nodded grimly before shuffling silently towards the door—shepherding the still guffawing Chalk and Tupper along the way.

"Stop," cried Crispin Howard, straining to look out of the corner of one eye as he desperately attempted to comprehend what was happening, not too many feet, beyond his now rapidly expanding backside. "Where are you going?"

From the other side of the doorway, Sergeant Ross held the double doors open long enough to offer a brief nod accompanied by a smile. "By the way, Mr Howard..."

"What?"

"For what it's worth, I'm a big fan of your show. Huge."

## ***

With Crispin Howard's bawling gradually becoming louder and his words less audible, Sergeant Ross, Karen, and Bjorn sat at a dining table, awkwardly casting their eyes this way and that while they waited for the inevitable outcome that was surely about to occur.

"I should leave soon," said Karen, checking her watch. "I really can't be late for my—"

POP.

"Oh," she said, the color draining slightly from her cheeks. "That really is too terrible."

"Yeah," said Sergeant Ross, his cheeks paler than hers. "At least the wailing's stopped though."

"Hmmm," said Officer Tupper to Chalk—sat on another table on account of their decision that they should attempt to show a little humility and contain their sniggering between the two of them. "He could've done something a bit more original. Was quite similar to the last one, don't you think?"

Chalk rested his chin on his hand in a manner reminiscent of 'The Thinker'. "Yeah, I suppose he could've been a bit more creative. Must've hurt like hell though. My ass hurts just thinking about it."

' _Most unfortunate'_ were the words appearing on Bjorn's translator before he showed a second message to Sergeant Ross. _'May I go and take a look?'_

"Yeah..." said Sergeant Ross, pausing before he reluctantly continued. "I suppose we better come with you."

# Chapter 12

"Oh dear," said Sergeant Ross, shaking his head grimly as he contemplated Crispin Howard's mostly skinny—and thoroughly dead—body, slumped limply against the shelving rack and still sporting the pair of rubber pants that had expanded, to such an extent, they now resembled a solitary distorted bead on a piece of loosely dangling white string that had the word **NONENTITY** inflated into letters, so huge, they looked not too dissimilar to a logo viewed from a distance on the canvas of a hot air balloon, "that really doesn't look good. Not good at all."

Stepping hastily back, Officer Chalk regarded his superior warily. "You're not going to hurl are you, sir?"

"No, Chalk, it's ok. It's not so bad when you can't actually see the damage."

"That's true," said Officer Tupper, absentmindedly, as he stared transfixed at the back of Howard's pants, "but just imagine what all that sloppy, exploded, ass matter must look like in there." A stream of projectile vomit thundered into his mid-section. "Oh, what?"

"There it is," said his partner, making no effort to conceal his glee. "Sergeant Retch-it-up strikes again."

Clamping her hand over her mouth, Karen turned sharply away and began walking briskly towards the door. "I'm late. I really should go to my lecture."

' _We should search for how the killer escaped'_ were the words on the screen of Bjorn's translator as he held it up for everyone else to see—although a little distance away from Sergeant Ross on account of the smell of fresh sick."

"It's a good point," said the Sergeant, spluttering slightly as he patted his mouth with a tissue in what was fast becoming a routine ritual. "Chalk, Tupper. Start checking the exits."

With one of her feet poised to cross the threshold of the doorway, Karen froze for a moment before spinning around to face the new, unfamiliar, voice reverberating from a dark recess across the room: "That won't be necessary, Sergeant. I'm still here.

"I would put down your weapons if I were you," said the stocking masked individual to Chalk and Tupper who—uncharacteristically responsive—had un-holstered their side arms and taken aim at him as he emerged from the alcove with his hands held casually over his head and something in his right. "I have the building rigged, and if you care to look, you'll see my thumb is on the trigger."

Their weapons wavering in their hands, albeit not quite in the same way they usually did when a mysterious figure emerged from the shadows—although that was generally during one of the seedy back-alley strip shows they regularly frequented over on the other side of the city, and as for the actual weapons, that is probably best left.

The pair looked to Sergeant Ross for direction, but sadly, none was immediately forthcoming until he had chance to absorb the fresh translator message that had been thrust urgently into his face. "Put your guns down boys," he said wearily. "We can't take any chances."

Stepping a little closer, Karen studied the man for a moment. "So, Professor, or at least, I assume that's who you are?"

He produced a single nod.

Her face reddened. "Why are you doing this? To take other people's lives like you have? And in the vile ways you've been going about it? Why?"

"Oh, you'll find out," said the Professor, allowing his arms to relax down to his sides now that Chalk and Tupper had kicked their firearms over to him. "Although, to be perfectly honest, I'm surprised you have any sympathy for this one."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" said Karen, her face flushing even further. "Why wouldn't I have sympathy for him?"

Raising his hand, the Professor silently pointed at something on a narrow table beside the alcove he had just materialized from and waited patiently while Karen leant forward, squinting in an effort to establish exactly what it was. "I don't understand," she said finally. "Is that... Is that a hamster tank?"

"Close," said the Professor, nodding his head. "They're actually gerbils."

"Right..." said Karen, scratching her temple. "Ok, I agree that keeping pets in the kitchen isn't all that hygienic, and I'm sure it breaks some regulations, but that's no reason to kill the man, and besides, I expect—"

"I couldn't care less about the gerbils being in the kitchen," said the Professor, his voice raised and impatient.

"Oh... So what's your point then?"

The Professor's lips fluttered for a moment as he exhaled against them. "I just thought you might be fond of animals. That's all."

"Huh? I am fond of animals. Very fond in fact. What are you talking about?"

Swallowing hard, Sergeant Ross leant towards her, looking more than a little awkward. "Err... I think he's referring to some allegations that were made against Howard a few years ago."

"What allegations?" said Karen, furrowing her eyebrows as her eyes flicked between him and the killer.

"Oh, yeah," said Officer Chalk, suddenly animated. "I remember. We had to investigate Howard and some of his friends for suspected lewd conduct.

"Lewd conduct?"

"Yeah, what's it called again; what he was supposed to be doing?"

Sergeant Ross began to raise his palm in the air. "That's enough, Chalk. I really don't think Ms Smythe needs—"

"Gerbiling," said Chalk, triumphantly. "I remember now."

"Gerbiling?" said Karen, clearly no more enlightened than before.

"Oh, yeah," said Officer Tupper who—despite being recently spewed on—was clearly every bit as excited as his partner. "Gerbiling, aka gerbil shooting, gerbil stuffing, or felching. Although, felching also has another meaning which is not quite so extreme. Still gross though. Anyway, it's a bit confusing, so you probably want to avoid felching... Using the name that is... Or doing it... Either kind... Well... Unless, that's what you're into? You're not are you? Yuk. Which one?"

"What are you talking about?" said Karen.

Still oblivious to his superior's raised hand, and more disturbingly, the fact there was a wanted serial killer only yards in front of him, Chalk turned away from the Professor and faced Karen with more enthusiasm than he'd shown about anything in recent memory. "Howard and his wacky friends were getting their kicks out of taking their pet rodents and sticking them up their—"

"Chalk," shouted the Sergeant.

"Where the sun don't shine," said Tupper, jubilantly.

Karen froze for a moment before clamping her hand over her mouth in a ritual that had become as common to her as wiping sick away had become to Sergeant Ross. "Eeeeeoooow, you're kidding me?"

"Allegedly," said Sergeant Ross in a loud voice, "but anyway—"

"Poor things," said Karen.

"You see?" said the Professor, tipping his head towards the corpse. "Not so fond of him now are we?"

"Nothing was proven," said the Sergeant, his voice even louder than before.

"Although, they do say," said Chalk, ignoring his superior and turning to address the Professor in a quite matter-of-fact manner, "that, apparently, the gerbils get pretty used to it in the end."

"Yeah," said Tupper, turning towards both of them. "I read that, once they get to learn that treats come afterwards, they're gagging to get stuck in."

"Why would you read about that?" said Karen.

"Must be a bit like going pot holing," said Chalk, ignoring Karen's question, and more significantly, the look of horror on her face—presumably fuelled by the fact that he and Tupper, not only knew so much about all this, but were now engaging in a casual chit-chat about it with a known murderer. "I mean, I'd hate the idea of pot holing, but if I knew I had a nice picnic to follow, well..."

"Yeah," said Sergeant Ross, who seemed to have calmed down and was now casually propping himself against one of the work surfaces. "You remember we got invited on that trip down the city sewers a few years ago? It was only the promise of a free quarter-pounder at Bexxy's afterwards, that convinced anyone to go."

"I remember that," said Tupper. "We were surprised they let us in. We must've stunk."

"They didn't let Francis in," said Chalk.

"Oh, yeah," said Tupper, grinning as he tipped his head back. "He fell over down there didn't he?"

"Yep," said Chalk, "and Jacobs swears he saw him swallow a lump of poop."

Scowling at the three law enforcement officers and the crazed killer who had all begun giggling like children at the last comment, Karen cleared her throat loudly. "It's unbelievable that anyone could do something like that."

"I don't think he meant to do it," said Chalk, still snickering.

"I meant: it's unbelievable that anyone could do something like your saying, Howard here, did with his gerbils."

"Oh, that..."

"Unfortunately," said Sergeant Ross, struggling with his words a little as the others' sniggering became more and more infectious, "that's what the allegations stated."

"Unfortunately for the gerbils," said Chalk, gasping a little as he spoke. "Imagine those poor little bastards trying to clean their fur afterwards."

"Ugh," said Karen. "That really is gross."

"Yeah," said Officer Tupper, spluttering out his words. "They wash with their tongues."

"Ha," said the Professor, snorting in the process. "You'd want a lot of extra tangy pickle on your quarter-pounder before that taste's going anywhere."

Chalk spat. "That's what Francis could've done with."

"Unfortunately again," said Sergeant Ross, holding his diaphragm in an attempt to regulate himself, "unlike what was on the gerbil fur, and Francis' uniform, and possibly the roof of his mouth...We couldn't make any of the charges stick."

In their own individual and quite unique ways, the four collapsed, howling with laughter.

"Huh?" said the Sergeant, after a prolonged period of being bent over holding his stomach. "What's that?" He wiped away the tears so he could attempt to read the translator message inches from his face. "Yeah, yeah, of course. He's right boys"—he fell about again as he caught sight of Chalk who was now squatted down with his forearms clamped to the sides of his lowered head and visibly vibrating with laughter—"we really should get back to doing our job."

"Yeah," said the Professor, infected by another burst of giggles as he looked at Tupper, whose juddering head was now rested against the bottom of an extremely large mixing bowl, "we've all got stuff to get on with. I better go."

"Oh, do you have to?" echoed Tupper from inside his bowl. "This is great."

Shaking her head as she contemplated the scene around her, Karen checked her watch. "I better go too. I'm late."

"You won't get far," said the Sergeant, rubbing his open hands down his wet cheeks.

"You can't stop me," said Karen, sharply.

"No, no, I meant him," said the Sergeant, pointing his wavering finger at the Professor as he began giggling again. "Very good though... That was a joke wasn't it?"

"Oh," said the Professor, not waiting to find out if any response might ever be forthcoming from the bemused Karen. "I'll get far enough, Sergeant."

Finally managing to raise himself from the floor, Chalk squinted slightly as he observed the Professor attaching several, less than every-day, objects to his head. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, man," said Tupper with a renewed fit of giggles as he lifted his head out of the bowl, "this guy's too much. He's only doing impressions now."

In a combined response to the howls from the three officers and catching sight of his own reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall, the Professor's hand suddenly flew to his diaphragm while he emitted a muted snort and his recently positioned eye protection suddenly misted on the inside—mostly likely due to the realization that, in the combination of the full-face gas mask and the ear defenders he had just that moment put on, he did indeed look a little bit like a gerbil. "Ha," he said with a muffled voice while shaking his head and waving at the officers with one hand while holding up the remote control with the other. "See you, guys. This really has been great."

"Yeah," said Tupper. "We must do it aga—"

As the Professor's thumb squeezed against the trigger, several inconspicuous devices, stuffed between the bags of powdered ingredients behind the corpse of Crispin Howard, briefly flashed red.

## ***

Convulsing violently, Sergeant Ross awoke to his ringing left ear briefly skidding across the cold quarry tiles as his body further compressed itself into the fetal position it had so instinctively assumed after collapsing to the floor as a result of smashing his temple into the side-handle of the ill-placed cast iron kitchen pot he had been unfortunate enough to be stood beside at the point the explosion had taken place.

Sneezing several more times, he awkwardly began to haul himself up onto all fours, sneezed yet again, and bashed his head painfully into a table leg he had not seen on account of the blizzard of fine dust shrouding absolutely everything that surrounded him from his view. "Hello," he said, sneezing. "Hello. Is anybody there?"

Finally on his feet, he sneezed in violent succession while he put his hands out in an attempt to feel his way around any objects he might come across in the room. "Hello. It's Sergeant Ross"—he sneezed—"Hello"—he sneezed—"Are any of my team still here? Hello."

Staggering about for a few moments, his hands finally found something—something soft and squishy with a shiny cold exterior. "Eeeeeoooow," he screamed, with a sneeze, as he realized he had just been groping the back of Howard's rubber pants.

"Sergeant," came a muted shout from an adjacent room. "Sergeant."

Pointing himself in the direction of the voice, the Sergeant gingerly edged forward with his hands out, sneezing violently along the way, until he came to what was presumably the double doors leading to the main dining area of the restaurant. Gently, he pushed them open and entered the slightly less dusty room. "Hello."

"Sergeant," came the voice again, about three quarters of the way across the large space. "It's Chalk. I'm over here. Officer down. Officer down."

After another rapid succession of sneezes, which doubled him over, the Sergeant called back. "What's the sitrep Chalk?"

"It's Tupper, sir. He sneezed real hard. I think he's got whiplash."

"I'm out of tissues too," shouted Tupper, before producing a sneeze—so piercing—the sound seemed to bounce off every wall. "Aghhh, my neck. That really hurt."

"It's ok, I'm with you, buddy. I'm with you," said Chalk. "There you go. Wipe it on my sleeve, partner."

From inside the Sergeant's jacket pocket, his cell phone began to chime with the theme tune from a 1970's cop show about two Southern California police officers who rode around on rather functional looking Kawasaki motorcycles catching bad guys. Pulling it out, he fumbled with the front until he found the appropriate button, and accepting there was no way he was going to be able to read the screen, answered it blind. "Ross..." He sneezed again. "Hello, Mayor."

"No, things are going"—he sneezed twice in rapid succession—"badly. Very badly.

"The Professor got to Howard"—he sneezed—"and blew up his"—he sneezed—"ass" —he sneezed—"followed by all his flour and spices.

"No"—he sneezed—"I don't suppose he will miss them now." He sneezed.

"Yes"—he sneezed—"his ass.

"Yes, of course he's dead." He sneezed.

"Yes"—he sneezed twice—"I'm sneezing because of the spices." He sneezed.

"No,"—he sneezed—"the Professor came prepared"—he sneezed—"He had a gas mask."

"No, the damage"—he sneezed twice in rapid succession—"was all contained this time" —he sneezed—"He'd put these rubber pants on Howard." He sneezed.

"I don't know where he got them from"—he sneezed and listened for a moment.

"Well, there's a shop over on Sunset"—he sneezed—"that has that kind of weird stuff in the window"—he sneezed—"Whips and chains and all that." He sneezed.

"No"—he sneezed—"I've no idea how much they might've cost"—he sneezed—"I've never been in.

"Yes"—he sneezed—"I'd think they probably do sell online." He sneezed twice.

"No"—he sneezed—"I've no idea if the packaging's discreet"—he sneezed—"You'd really have to ask them.

"Yes"—he sneezed—"You probably could get a gas mask from there as well"—he sneezed—"Look"—he sneezed—"I've got an officer down without any tissues"—he sneezed—"and I can only assume the Professor's got away.

"Yes, yes"—he sneezed—"I'll get over as soon as I can—"Yes, over on Sunset." He sneezed.

"I don't know the name"—he sneezed—"but I'm sure you can Google it."

As Sergeant Ross hung up his cell phone, and sneezed, a tall hairy figure—not to dissimilar to what most people might envisage a yeti in the mist might look like—crept up behind him and placed its hand firmly on his shoulder.

"Aghhh, what the—" said Sergeant Ross, sneezing in the process.

Pulling the Sergeant towards him, the individual spoke in whisper. "Sergeant, it is alright. It is me."

"Bjorn?"—he sneezed—"Is that you? You do speak English."

"Shhh. Keep your voice down. It is me: Dr Ramus."

"Dr, what are you doing here?"—the Sergeant sneezed—"You know, in all this dust"—he sneezed—"you're a ringer for that Bjorn guy."

Dr Ramus groaned. "I am that Bjorn guy," he said, rolling his eyes—albeit imperceivably on account of all the dust. "Come along and just keep it to yourself will you? I shall explain everything once we are in private."

# Chapter 13

With his flabby buttock cheeks straining the latex of the deluxe hemorrhoid cushion, the Mayor sat slightly reclined on his executive leather chair, staring in stony-faced silence at the two men before him—one of whom resembled a bearded gorilla and both bizarrely caked from head to foot in an assortment of flour and spices.

Still prone to the odd bout of uncontrollable sneezing, the Sergeant waved his hand towards Dr Ramus. "This is... Sorry, I forget your full name."

Pulling the translator from his pocket, and pausing briefly to thumb some of the dust from its screen, Dr Ramus tapped out a message and showed it to the Mayor. _'Bjorn Nödtveidt from Stockholm University.'_

"He understands English but can't pronounce it," said Sergeant Ross.

Foregoing any opportunity to strengthen international relations, the Mayor simply sneered at Dr Ramus and turned his attention back to the Sergeant. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"He's a colleague of Karen Smythe," said the Sergeant, pausing to sneeze. "Another criminal psychologist."

"If he's a colleague of Ms Smythe, why on earth is he with you and not with her?"

Sergeant Ross sneezed twice. "Well, to be honest, we've lost her, sir, and I can't raise her on her cell at the moment." He sneezed again.

"Lost?"

"Yeah," said the Sergeant, awkwardly scratching the side of his head, "but she had a lecture to attend, so I'm hoping she went straight there. Officers are on their way to check."

"Well, that aside, I'm not at all happy about the involvement of yet another individual who isn't city police."

"His input, so far," said the Sergeant, sneezing, "has been very useful, Your Honor."

"Your reliance on others causes me great concern, Sergeant. Something I shall be relaying to the Captain if I can ever get hold of him. I just hope this one isn't charging the city like that self-absorbed, bastard of a man, Ramus did."

Wrestling to confine his involuntary scowl to the absolute minimum he could reasonably manage, Dr Ramus stepped forward to the edge of the desk, tapped out a message, and showed it to the Mayor. _'We should confirm the whereabouts of Ms Smythe.'_ He quickly typed another. _'There is no time.'_

Squinting at Dr Ramus, the Mayor paused for a moment as if trying to place him, but then, waving a hand to one side, his facial expression retreated from sneering enquiry and settled back to its more familiar state of simple sneering contempt. "Sergeant Ross' officers must, at very least, be capable of locating a lone lecturer who's probably got lost in traffic. I require an urgent status update," he said, sounding full of self-importance and baring his teeth slightly as he began to utter his next words, "as to how the Professor has managed to, yet again, get past police officers and leave, yet another, dead chef on our hands. If you would, please, Sergeant?"

Sergeant Ross lent in to speak. "Of course, Your—" He sneezed.

"For God's sake, man," said the Mayor, grimacing as he drew his hands to his face and began to frantically wipe his eyes, nose, and mouth with the ends of his fingers.

"Oh, sir, I'm terribly sorry," said the Sergeant, sneezing at him again.

"Ugh."

Noticing a box of tissues at the end of the Mayor's desk, Dr Ramus reached out to pick them up and offer one to the Mayor followed by the Sergeant, but then, as he brought them back to put down in front of him, he cack-handedly let slip of the box, briefly juggling with it with both hands before losing hold completely and knocking it to the floor.

"Give me strength," said the Mayor, still wiping his face while watching the man he believed to be Bjorn—whatever the surname was he couldn't possibly remember—bend down and disappear out of view.

After a short interval, and some faint commotion that suggested he was having as much trouble picking up the box as he'd had holding on to it, Dr Ramus emerged back from under the desk and placed the tissues back on the surface. Awkwardly, he nodded at the Mayor and then the Sergeant.

Nodding in reply, and turning his attention back towards the Mayor, Sergeant Ross sneezed again.

Bracing himself for another coating of spray, but realizing the Sergeant had managed to cover his nose and mouth with the tissue he had just been supplied, The Mayor let out a sigh of relief and began to relax back into his chair, only to be confronted by the second man feigning a particularly violent sneeze of his own and hawking a large glob of phlegm straight into the center of his face.

Dr Ramus typed out a message and showed it to his reeling victim: _'Sorry.'_ He showed him another: _'Would you care for another tissue?'_

"Get out and find Ms Smythe," screamed the Mayor while a large green globule slid between his eyes, down his nose, and plopped onto his formerly pristine leather desktop.

## ***

With the passing pedestrians offering the two men the strangest of looks, and even the inebriated vagrants, appearing more confused than usual—one of them going as far as to conclude that, just maybe, he'd had a little too much to drink—the flour and spice caked Dr Ramus stood staring at the similarly garnished police sergeant while he spoke into his cell at the bottom of the grand steps to City Hall.

"Ok, let me know just as soon as you've located her." said Sergeant Ross, hanging up and turning to his companion. "Well, she's not at her home, and the other officers are still on their way to the lecture, but someone'll phone me as soon as there's any news."

"Good," said Dr Ramus, his emotions—on account of his powder coated wig and beard—even trickier to decipher than normal. "I am concerned about her safety."

"Well, they shouldn't be long now, but I'm sure it's fine." The Sergeant paused to sneeze, but it came to nothing. "After all, she's not a celebrity. Talking of which, who do you think's next?"

Dr Ramus hesitated, rubbing his bearded chin. "Crispin Howard was the last major celebrity chef living in this city, so it's possible the Professor may move on somewhere else. However, I suspect he will simply target a new kind of celebrity, right here."

"What kind do you think?"

"I do not know, Sergeant. Sadly, I fear we will have to wait for another incident before we can pick up the trail again."

"Yeah, well, us picking up the trail won't be too easy with you off the case. The Mayor's bound to keep close tabs on me and the people I associate with."

"Yes, I shall have to remain as Bjorn Nödtveidt, but that could actually be quite useful.

"You think?" said the Sergeant, curling one of his nostrils slightly as he regarded Dr Ramus' unorthodox appearance.

"Yes, I think. After all, it appeared the Professor did not suspect that I was me."

"That you were you?" said Sergeant Ross, screwing up his face for a moment. "Oh, I see. Trouble is, I'm not so sure the Mayor's anymore keen on the new you than the old one. Not since new-you hawked that greeny into his face."

"Yes, well... Under the circumstances, that 'greeny' was an utter necessity."

"What? With him being a prick?"

"Aside from that. You were about to have to explain how the Professor got past your officers again."

"Yeah, that was gonna be a bit tricky, I must admit, but at least—even the Mayor—couldn't possibly argue against the fact the man's a master of disguise."

"Hmmm," said Dr Ramus, scowling slightly under his own powder coated disguise. "I am not convinced that wearing a teddy bear suit, followed by hiding in a giant false cake, quite elevates him to the level of master, but just going along with the idea for a moment, that in itself was surely about to prompt the next awkward question."

"It was?"

"Yes, I would say it was."

"Err... Could you give me a clue what it was gonna be?"

"Yes, I could. Given the Professor is in the habit of employing disguises—"

"Uh-huh."

"Why on earth did you let me pass through your police cordon?"

The Sergeant stared blankly at him. "I didn't know you were in disguise then."

"Yes, but you also did not know who I was either."

"You were Bjorn whatsit from whatsit university."

"Only because someone else—who was not even police—told you I was."

Taking a sharp intake of breath, Sergeant Ross put his hand to his mouth. "Oh, my God. You could've been—"

"Yes, I could."

"Oh, no... If the Mayor thinks about that—once he's has had chance to properly clear away all the snot from his face—he's bound to call me and have a rant."

"Yes, you could be right. Hopefully, however, he will be so preoccupied with his next distraction, he might forget about it completely."

"What next distraction?"

"Oh, just some small gifts I left for him, courtesy of the late Crispin Howard."

## ***

Having made the painfully slow—and simply painful—return journey across his office floor from his bathroom and back to his executive leather chair, the Mayor turned himself around and gently began the process of easing himself down towards the latex ring cushion which, although only a few days old, had already distorted considerably from its original pre-deployed shape. However, upon receipt of the sensation of the freshly applied, and still cold, hemorrhoid cream squelching deep between the cheeks of his flabby buttocks, he paused mid-squat, placed his palms on his desk, and slowly eased himself upright again—retching as he caught sight of the screwed up, slimy green tinged, tissues piled in his waste paper bin, but resigning himself to the fact that he was neither sitting down nor going anywhere else anytime particularly soon.

Meanwhile, beneath the Mayor's desk, the lid of a small take-away box slowly pushed open and the furry inmates—who, on account of having devoured the snack that had been left for them, were no longer interested in remaining inside—peered out and surveyed the unfamiliar terrain of their new location, with all three of them spotting what their tiny minds recognized as their next meal ticket.

Out of their temporary conveyance and onto the carpet, the three small creatures scurried across the floor towards the pair of shoes that were about to serve as perfect steps to the legs of a pair of trousers that, due to the owner's current affliction, just happened to be an extra baggy cut that would prove to be simplicity itself to scamper up the inside of.

## ***

"My God," said Sergeant Ross as an agonizing scream echoed from the office several floors above the sidewalk. "Is that the Mayor again?"

"My word," said Dr Ramus, looking genuinely surprised under his fake hair and beard. "I only thought he was going to have to chase them around his office for a bit."

The Sergeant narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about, Dr?"

"Well, if I am correct, the Mayor has just received one of his gifts. And I truly mean: received it." A massive smile formed beneath his beard as two more screams echoed in close succession. "And by the sound of that, he has just received the other two."

Staring at him bewildered, but interrupted by his ringtone, Sergeant Ross scooped his cell from his inside pocket. "Ross.

"She didn't?

"Ok, keep me posted."

"No sign of her?" said Dr Ramus while the Sergeant lowered his cell down to his side.

"No. She didn't show at all. Where the hell do you think she is?"

Before Dr Ramus could answer, the Sergeant's cell began to ring again. Hastily, he checked the screen and smiled. "Well speak of the devil... Ms Smythe, we were worried. Where are you?"

His smile gradually vacating his face, Sergeant Ross stood rubbing his chin with his freehand while he listened intently but did not reply. Finally, he lowered the phone again. "She hung up."

"What did she say?"

"Well," said the Sergeant, his eyes shooting to the upper-left as he attempted to recall the conversation, "she started by telling me that I needed to listen but shouldn't worry. And that was weird 'cos she sounded nervous. Real nervous. Then, she told me that she was going to be ok, just as long as I brought along my famous colleague to come looking for her. I guess that meant you?"

"Yes, I suppose I am rather well celebrated," said Dr Ramus, absentmindedly grinning smugly to himself before he realized quite how inappropriate that must have looked and set about appearing fretful again. "Go on. What else?"

"Then it got even weirder. She said she'd been a silly Billy, a very silly Billy. And she seemed to be emphasizing the word 'Billy'. What the hell did she mean by that?"

"Billy... Billy..." said Dr Ramus, his eyes darting from left to right. "Old Billy... Old Billy's Farm."

Shaking his head, Sergeant Ross stared blankly back.

"I hate to admit it, Sergeant, but I think we are going to need to request some urgent assistance with this."

## ***

With the sweat pouring from his brow, the deeply traumatized Mayor sat with his trembling hands clamped to the sides of the toilet bowl beneath his flabby white buttocks. Bracing himself, he gritted his teeth and strained with all the determination he could muster until a single high-pitched squeak emanated from between his legs, followed by a gentle splash into the water below.

Letting out a piercing squeal of his own, he took a short break before repeating the process—strain, squeak, splash, squeal.

Another short break and one final recital—strain, squeak, splash, squeal.

Close to blacking out, his head wavered from side-to-side, but as his cell phone began to ring, he somehow managed to pick it up and robotically place it to the side of his deathly white face.

## ***

Having been sat in the reception area for some time, Sergeant Ross wandered back over to the Mayor's extremely embarrassed looking personal assistant who seemed no keener to acknowledge him now than when they had first arrived. "Err," he said as politely as he could manage, "do you think we might be able to go in now?"

Staring rigidly down at the exact same piece of paperwork she had been fixated on—but clearly not reading a word from—the whole time they had been there, she failed to reply verbally, simply offering a vague shake of her head before she was faintly distracted by the Mayor's door opening to reveal a very confused looking janitor, holding a shallow bowl containing three drenched, but seemingly healthy, rodents.

Dr Ramus tapped out a quick message on his translator and showed it to his companion. _'Those gerbils look thoroughly sodden!'_

Clearly not understanding his humor, Sergeant Ross briefly narrowed his eyes at Dr Ramus, shook his head, and continued with the PA. "Err... How about now?"

Concluding the woman's murmur, and almost imperceptible nod, could be interpreted as a 'yes', the pair entered the Mayor's office where they found its occupant sat behind the desk, rocking erratically back and forth while staring straight ahead but evidently focusing on absolutely nothing at all.

## ***

"So, you see, Your Honor, Ms Smythe's message was almost certainly prepared for her by the Professor, and in it, she mentioned the name 'Billy' several times. Now, before Dr Ramus—"

"That bastard," said the Mayor, vacantly, while the cup of exceptionally sweet tea, which Sergeant Ross had recently fetched for him, still trembled in his hand.

"Well, err... Anyway," said the Sergeant, casting the disguised Dr Ramus a cautionary glance, "before he left our services, he interviewed a young lady—"

Another cautionary glance was forthcoming as he noticed Dr Ramus looking a little glazed over, and worse still, beginning to gyrate his pelvis—something he, thankfully, ceased immediately.

"Err... Where was I? He interviewed a young lady who he believes sold the Professor some syringes. Now, she apparently told him about a customer of hers called Billy—known as Old Billy—and we... I mean I, think that Ms Smythe might be being held at this Billy's farm."

## ***

With the harsh light illuminating their securely bound bodies in the otherwise near darkness of the gloomy surroundings, the two women sat back to back on the dusty concrete floor, almost thankful for its coldness and the fact their tormentor had deprived them of all but their underwear before he had left them there to slowly bake under the uncomfortable heat of the blazing halogen lamp.

"I can't believe you colluded with that evil man," said Karen, craning her neck around as best she could.

"Colluded?"

"Helped."

"Look," said Ginette, her Deep Southern accent rasping with the dryness of her throat, "I'm sorry, honey pie, I really am. But not long before it happened, he'd tricked me and managed to get my momma back to his place. I didn't know what he was gonna do. He's one devious son o' a bitch that's for sure."

Karen paused for a moment's deliberation before softening her voice. "Sorry... That must have been difficult."

"Uh, huh. It was."

"And, I guess you only slept with Dr Ramus because you thought it would help keep your mother safe?"

Ginette pulled an awkward face she was pleased her new companion couldn't see. "Well..."

"And, I suppose Dr Ramus only slept with you so he could get the information he needed to help him track the Professor."

"Yeah, anything you like, sugar cheeks. He didn't do much sleeping though."

There was a brief pause while the two women sat in silence.

"Look," said Ginette, "I'm real sorry about everything that's happened, and if we get out of here, I promise I'll make it up to the both of you."

"What is this place anyway?"

"It's a grain bin, pumpkin, and if it starts filling up, we're history."

## ***

"So you see, sir," said Sergeant Ross, "we... I mean I, have a strong suspicion Ms Smythe is being deliberately used as bait."

"So, what exactly," said the Mayor, who seemed to have recovered a little from his recent trauma, "is it you want from me?"

"Well, Your Honor, in the message from Ms Smythe, she also said that she would be fine, just as long as I brought along my famous colleague to come looking for her—"

"You're not having that swine Ramus back," said the Mayor through his tightly gritted teeth.

"No, sir," said the Sergeant, casting Dr Ramus another cautionary glance, "I didn't think you'd agree to that, but since The Professor clearly has an ego that needs massaging, I do think we're gonna need a suitable replacement."

"Who? Him?" The Mayor sneered at Dr Ramus' alter ego. "We barely know anything about him. Other than he has overactive snot glands that go off at a moment's notice."

Attempting to maintain the most soothing voice he could manage, Sergeant Ross continued. "No. I have asked Bjorn to attend, disguised as a police officer, since he knows Ms Smythe and has been very useful, but he wouldn't be any use taking Dr Ramus' old slot. He's not a celebrity."

"Well, who then?"

"Well... You, sir."

The Mayor's mouth fell open for second. "Me? I'm not sure this is such a good idea. After all, I'm no detective."

"Really? I did once hear you say you were highly experienced in these kinds of matters, Your Honor."

# Chapter 14

Having snaked its way around the pot holes and deep trenches littering the track leading to the front of a dilapidated old farm house and the several other outbuildings beside it, the dust coated city police cruiser drew gently to a halt and cut its engines.

From the driver's side, Officer Chalk stepped out from the front, swiftly followed by Sergeant Ross from the back while, from the passenger side, the slightly less sprightly Officer Tupper began maneuvering himself and his braced neck from the front while the Mayor began a similar operation with his hemorrhoid addled ass from the back.

Finally out and apprehensively surveying his surroundings in all directions, the Mayor waddled as briskly as he could manage to the Sergeant. "Where's everyone else?"

"Who do you mean, sir?"

"The other officers, ambulance crews, helicopters, SWAT teams..."

Sergeant Ross stared at him blankly.

"When I saw no other vehicles were following us, I assumed it was because they were already here. Where the hell are they all?"

"Oh, no, sir, there's only the four of us here"—he lowered his voice—"and two others observing from a distance."

The Mayor's jaw dropped.

"Obviously, I have officers on standby, close to hand," said the Sergeant before the Mayor could even begin to protest, "but it's far too delicate to show too much presence. I even made a point of using officers that are already familiar to the Professor. That's why Tupper's here and not rested up."

Turning his head towards them as best as his neck-brace would allow, Tupper simply glared at his two superiors.

"Besides," said Sergeant Ross, "just think how impressed the electorate will be when they read about this in the news. You'll be re-elected in a flash."

Snorting like a disgruntled pig—which most definitely snort differently to contented ones—the Mayor looked around at the various farm buildings. "So, where are we headed?"

"Good question," said the Sergeant, vaguely contemplating his surroundings.

"The cattle shed," said the voice over the Sergeant's discreet earpiece. "The building at two o'clock."

Behind a bush, about one hundred yards behind them, crouched Dr Ramus and Officer Penny, observing the team through binoculars. The former remaining disguised as Bjorn Nödtveidt but with his fake hair and beard now trimmed and having donned a pair of sunglasses and a standard police officer's uniform.

"How do you know?" said the Sergeant, attempting to speak discreetly into the microphone secreted behind his lapel.

"Well," said Dr Ramus, sighing as he placed his hand on his forehead, "unless the Professor is holding a children's party in there, I think that is the building he has attempted to draw your attention to."

Realizing that the entrance to the cattle shed had a mass of brightly colored assorted balloons tied above it, Sergeant Ross turned to the Mayor and whispered to him. "Sir, I think she's in the building over there. The one with the multi-colored balloons. You need to make it look as if you're leading us. Like we discussed on the way here."

Composing himself until he appeared as confident as he was likely to manage, the Mayor addressed his three companions with an overly exaggerated raised voice. "Attention everyone. I have deduced that Ms Smythe is being held in that building over there. The one with the colored balloons. This way. We must make haste."

Cringing at the Mayor's attempt at rhetoric, Dr Ramus allowed his bearded face to fall into his hands.

Officer Penny lowered her binoculars and lent over to whisper into his ear. "Hey, Bjorn, chill out. Wanna come give me a Swedish massage?"

"Very amusing, Officer, but please will you adopt the habit of referring to me as Officer Swan."

"Oh, yeah, Officer Swan the mute policeman," said Penny, rolling her eyes. "Not Bjorn—whatever his last name is—the criminal psychologist who doesn't speak any English?"

"Look, if I come into contact with the Professor, the pretense to him will have to be that I am Officer Swan because the pretense to everyone else—except you, Ms Smythe, and the Sergeant—is that I am Bjorn Nödtveidt, the Swedish criminal psychologist and colleague of Karen Smythe, who is unable to pronounce English, disguised as a city law enforcement officer. Simple really."

Groaning under her breath, Officer Penny returned her binoculars to her face and watched the Mayor gingerly leading Sergeant Ross, Officer Chalk, and Officer Tupper into the cattle shed.

"Sergeant," said Dr Ramus, "now you are inside, I cannot see you. Speak quietly about anything that you think is important, but otherwise, just keep going until you find something."

Inside the considerably lengthy shed, the group found a single track, wide enough for a vehicle and leading to what appeared to be a large upright metal slab at the end. On either side of the track were fenced off pens, each containing a solitary animal facing away from them.

"It stinks to high heaven in here, and the whole place is covered in shi—"

"Like I said, Sergeant, speak quietly about anything that you think is important."

"All I can see clearly at the moment are bulls' asses," said Sergeant Ross, stopping to read a placard on the gate of the first pen on his left. "Subject 11, fertility compound B1303a." He turned to the pen on the right. "Subject 12, fertility compound B1303b... Wonder what that means?"

Pausing for a moment's consideration, Dr Ramus pressed the button on his headset and spoke into his microphone. "It sounds as though each animal is some kind of test subject. Maybe the Professor really is a professor after all."

"Look," said Officer Tupper, smiling like a smutty teenager as he noticed that the bull to the right of them was shuddering erratically. "I think this one's shooting his load."

"Yeah, and look at that," said Chalk. "He's got a pipe connected to his John Thomas. In fact... They all have. They seem to lead to that metal thing at the end."

"The one on the other side's going for it now," said Tupper. "And, look... Past their heads. What's that hanging in-front of them? Are they... Are they little TVs?"

Leaning over one of the gates, Chalk squinted for a moment. "Yeah, they're small flat screens. And you're not gonna believe this..."

"What?" said Tupper.

Turning to address all three of his colleagues, Chalk's facial expression betrayed the fact he did not know whether to be amused or utterly confused. "They're playing cow porn."

Tupper frowned at him. "Get out of town."

"No, for real," said Chalk. "If you look, there's a cow being drilled by a big bull, and look at that. The bull over there that only just shot its load; it looks like he's going for it again."

Staring up the track at the succession of bulls either side of it, the team observed that never more than a few moments passed before one of the bulls appeared to have an orgasm, and more remarkable still, it would not be long before the same bull would start all over again—seemingly every bit as ardently as the time before.

"These fellas are constantly jizzing their nuts off," said Tupper. "How the hell are they managing it?"

"Dunno," said Chalk, "but I'd need a cigarette."

"I'd need a sleep," said the Sergeant.

"From everything I have heard," said Dr Ramus to Sergeant Ross over the earpiece, "it sounds as though this is a trial of a drug that vastly increases the harvest of bull semen. Probably slightly different versions in each animal, judging by the codes you read out to me earlier. If it can be made commercially viable, it will be very lucrative I would think."

"Well, it sure looks like it's working," said Sergeant Ross in a whisper as he stared gob smacked at the nodding bulls. "Wonder where their pee goes?"

"If they are constantly aroused then I would suggest they are not so inclined to do that," said Dr Ramus.

"Good point. I guess someone probably comes and disconnects them when the porno finishes and they go then. A bit like the intermission at the cinema when everyone rushes to the John."

"Yes, I should imagine it is just like that, Sergeant."

Clearly proud of his impromptu analogy, the Sergeant smiled to himself. "We'll keep heading towards the end."

As the group continued their journey past the bovine porn addled juddering bulls, Chalk raised his hand to signal they should halt. "Listen," he said, narrowing his eyes as he stared ahead, "and look; I think there might be someone lying in-front of that metal thing."

Pausing for closer inspection, a dingy old blanket could be made out on the ground covering something that, unless it was a trick of the light and the gentle breeze, was quite possibly a struggling human being.

As the group cautiously moved closer, it was now also possible to determine that, what had appeared from further away to be a large silver slab, was in fact a row of tall steel cylinders stood side-by-side. Squinting in an effort to read the writing down the length of each cylinder, Tupper snagged his foot in a tarpaulin that had been left in a bundle on one side of the track. "Aghhh, my neck," he said as he staggered forward.

"Shhh," said Sergeant Ross, focusing on the blanket dead ahead.

"Do you think it's Ms Smythe?" said the Mayor in a whisper."

"I think it's very likely," said Sergeant Ross to the Mayor who had already relinquished his position as lead man. "Now, remember, Your Honor, when we get there, you need to be seen to be the one who finds her. Best you get back up front."

Reluctantly, the Mayor eased himself to the front of the group, and after passing two more juddering bulls on either side of them, they reached their destination.

With the Mayor stood staring hesitantly at the blanket which, although no-one could be certain covered Karen Smythe, appeared to definitely have a female whimpering and writhing beneath it, Sergeant Ross nudged him whilst nodding urgently towards it.

Readying himself as best he could, the Mayor grudgingly bent down and grasped the end of the grubby material in each of his sweaty hands. "Gentlemen, beneath this blanket, I can reveal—"

Standing up as fast as he could manage, which—on account of his flabby frame and the bulbous pile in his backside—wasn't very fast at all, the Mayor pulled away the grimy covering and jerked his head back in disbelief at the sight before him: on the ground laid a contraption that formed the most rudimentary approximation of a human being—with small electric motors gently whirring as they moved the makeshift arms, legs, and neck very slightly back and forth while a small speaker, taped to what was supposed to be the head, supplied the whimpering noises.

About to spin around and consult with his companions, the Mayor was distracted by a small chorus of simultaneous beeps emanating from in-front of him. Raising his gaze up from the humanoid contraption on the floor, he saw that—at the base of each cylinder—there was a pipe and what he recognized as an electric pump, and the pipes were the same color and thickness as the ones connected to the male organs of each of the bulls. As he continued up the objects, he came to the writing on the sides, which was now easily readable; on each it said **BULL SEMEN** followed by the subject number of the bull each one was obviously connected to. Continuing past the text, he swallowed hard in horror. On every cylinder, at about head height, was a radio device that even he could ascertain was an explosive, and most disturbing of all, they were all now blinking an angry red. "Oh, my..."

Turning to foster urgent support from his colleagues, he found none. Instead, he found that they were no longer behind him at all but were back down the track and about to complete the task of covering of themselves with the tarpaulin that Tupper had accidently tripped on only a minute ago.

Open mouthed, the Mayor turned back to face the cylinders—just as every device detonated.

Bowled over in what must have felt like a rampaging tidal wave of semen, the Mayor barrel rolled backwards several times before sliding to a halt on the slimy floor.

Covered in the thick white goo, he hauled himself up from the slippery surface and gagged profusely as he evacuated a mouthful with his tongue.

Making a futile attempt to shake the semen from his body, he turned angrily to call for assistance, but in the process, was greeted by a far more pressing development.

In the pen to the right, the occupying bull had begun mooing most uncomfortably, had appeared to have lost all interest in its personal bovine porn show, and of most concern, had raised its tail to reveal a puckered anus—clearly swollen by the pressure building from within.

Lifted off his feet by the extraordinary barrage of liquid excrement, the Mayor was propelled across and to the other side of the track—landing his back hard against the gate of the pen and hitting his head forcefully against one of its bars.

Sat motionless for a moment, the dazed official turned his gaze in a response to a new moo, and to his dismay, another tail rising.

Struggling to his feet as fast as he could possibly manage and beginning to move back the way he and the others had come in, he was immediately sent tumbling by an explosive tirade of so much bovine liquid feces, it was a wonder the animal hadn't turned itself inside-out in the process.

Flat on his face in the middle of the track, the Mayor performed the feeblest of press-ups, began to crawl along the ground, and gradually raise himself to his feet—not realizing that he had now passed the tarpaulin that was performing a sterling job of sheltering the three snug police officers from the carnage outside.

With his eyes too clogged—and his desire to leave too strong—to time his escape sensibly, the Mayor passed another bull to his left, just as its rear end exploded—knocking him across the track and into the bars of the gate on the other side which, this time, he managed to catch without falling over.

Gasping for breath and abruptly spitting out as much as possible of the pebbly brown goo he had inadvertently taken a mouthful of, he was immediately blown to the opposite side by yet another coffee colored eruption from the nearest beast.

With only four pens to pass—two on each side—and realizing that the exit was within his reach, the Mayor urgently waddled towards it, exhibiting a total disregard for the heightened aggravation he was inflicting upon his furious sphincter.

In a fashion that would have been predictable to a casual onlooker—but not to the befuddled Mayor—the bull to his left blew yet more foulness at him, knocking him violently and diagonally to the right. However, this time, before he had chance to hit the opposite gate, the bull on the right did the same—thrusting him further forward in the other direction.

With only two bulls to pass—one on each side—he dashed to the doorway while the two animals simultaneously lifted their tails and expelled so powerfully, the force cancelled each other out—pinning the Mayor to the center of the track for the entire duration of the chunky brown liquid tempest.

## ***

Amid the thick multi-colored mist, spiraling in the breeze as it escaped the cattle shed, the Mayor staggered out from the entrance, layered from head to toe in prize bull excrement and semen—seemingly not in the slightest bit appreciative that at least one of the ingredients could apparently benefit his complexion.

"Mayor Pecker-Fudger," said the individual stood waiting outside in a half-face mask and long black leather coat, "you can take that as a warning if you like?" He ran the fingers of his left hand down his goatee, snapping them together once they reached the end of his chin. "You must have realized it was Dr Ramus I requested? Where is he?"

"It's pronounced 'Peeker-Foodger,'" said the Mayor, stood stooped with his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath. "You must be the Professor?"

"That's correct."

"Stupid name. We're not in a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel you know?"

"No, we most certainly aren't," said the Professor, his nostrils flaring—possibly as a result of his frustration when it came to that last detail, "but if you knew anything about me, and what I'm capable of, then you would appreciate it is still a fitting title."

"Well, that aside, Ramus isn't here," said the Mayor, his words becoming slightly more slurred—possibly on account of him still being in a state of shock, but in reality because a lump of previously lodged sticky substance had just that moment come lose in his mouth. He gagged a little and spat it out. "He doesn't work for the police department anymore."

Tutting, the Professor shook his head. "Of course he's here, and if he values Ms Smythe's life, I suggest he reveals himself."

Before the Mayor could respond, the pair was interrupted by a shuffling noise coming from the cattle shed. Resembling an extremely budget conscious Chinese ceremonial dragon, or a six-legged mutant pantomime horse, a tarpaulin with a small opening at the front for a pair of eyes to see out of, and three pairs of feet in a row underneath it, came trotting out of the entrance where the mist had begun to abate a little. Casting their protective covering aside, the three absolutely unscathed officers emerged with Chalk and Tupper immediately raising their side-arms at the evil villain. "Hi, Professor," shouted Tupper."

"Hi, Officers," said the Professor, matching Tupper's cheery tone but then shaking his head as he showed them the remote control secreted in his right hand. "Oh really, guys... Do you honestly think I wouldn't have—"

"Made contingency plans?" came the voice of the man emerging from a clump of bushes behind.

"Ah, Dr Ramus," said the Professor without turning to face him. "Judging by the fact you're speaking, you must've finally dispensed with that ridiculous Bjorn Nödtveidt charade?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have," said Dr Ramus—his police hat, sunglasses, wig, and beard now removed. "It has served its purpose."

"It had a purpose?" said the Professor, turning to his side and stepping back in order that he now had everyone in view. "I knew who you were the moment you walked into Crispin Howard's kitchen. I can't think, for the life of me, anyone would've been stupid enough not to have recognized you."

Awkwardly, the three officers allowed their gazes to drop to the floor while the Mayor scowled at Dr Ramus.

"Anyway," said the Professor, "where were we?"

Attempting to shrug off the Professor's quite hurtful remarks about a disguise that had taken the duration of three or four large glasses of red and several cognacs to devise and assemble, Dr Ramus continued. "You were about to avail everyone with a little knowledge of your contingency plans."

"Ah, yeah—"

"Well, allow me. Since you knew very well this could have turned out several ways, you placed booby traps in strategic locations, and the Sergeant and his officers are stood on one right now—"

"Oh, what," said Chalk and Tupper in unison as they simultaneously surveyed the ground beneath them.

"Believe me," said Dr Ramus, "you are."

Tipping his head back dejectedly, Sergeant Ross sighed. "Lower your weapons, boys."

"As," said Dr Ramus, continuing from where he left off but now sounding a whole lot more positive, "is the Mayor."

His face turning crimson red—although no-one would have known it under his gooey outer coatings—the Mayor glared at Sergeant Ross. "Sergeant, did you know Ramus was here?"

With his mind racing to find an answer, the Sergeant began to move his lips in the hope that an acceptable and credible explanation would somehow automatically issue forth. "Yeah, I admit, I did. We arranged this between us."

"What?" said the Mayor, spitting as he spoke. "I've been put in grave danger and am in considerable distress. If you knew you were bringing him, you must have realized that he'd show himself eventually. He's got far too big an ego to do anything else."

"Yeah," said the Sergeant, nodding in agreement—much to Dr Ramus' displeasure. "I guess that's probably true."

"Then why," said the Mayor, holding his arms out to his sides with his palms facing the sky, "did you ever invite me in the first place and expose me to so much risk?"

Expressionless, the Sergeant flicked his eyes from left to right. "I... I—"

"I can field that one, Mayor," said Dr Ramus. "It was my idea to invite you and expose you to this much risk. And I did so, purely because, I—like everyone else—think you are a prick."

Wide eyed and baring his mostly brown teeth, the Mayor spat out his words—along with a little excrement and semen. "Listen, Ramus, you're not even on the case. I personally pulled you off—"

"Ha," cried Tupper, throwing his head back. "The Mayor just said he pulled off Dr Ramus."

"Shhh," said Sergeant Ross, trying to stifle a giggle and most certainly not looking at Chalk who was holding his diaphragm and bending towards the ground.

Attempting to ignore the errant policemen, the Mayor maintained his focus on Dr Ramus. "And, if anything goes wrong now, I'll personally have the city sue you for everything you've got. Damn it; it's gone wrong already. I am going to have the city sue you."

"It's a good thing he did come, Mayor," said the Professor, sniggering along with the three officers. "You can't possibly think I wanted a sniveling runt like you when I had Karen Smythe request the Sergeant brought along a famous colleague?"

Successfully reading his body language and determining that the Mayor was about to furiously waddle over to the Professor and not know what to do once he got there, the Sergeant urgently raised his right hand. "Careful, Mayor." he said, still snickering slightly. "Remember the booby traps."

In the background, Tupper's giggling intensified. "Booby..."

Allowing his stance to soften, the Mayor stopped before he had even started and simply stared inquiringly at the Sergeant as if waiting for him to take some action.

The Sergeant shrugged back at him. "We can't move either."

"Oh," said Dr Ramus, "do not fear the booby trap, Sergeant—"

Tupper sniggered again.

"—In all the commotion, and with the Professor being so engrossed with the fruits of his labor, I was able to disable it."

"But, he was here?" said the Sergeant, appearing puzzled as he motioned towards the Professor.

"Yes, but he was over there somewhere while you were in the cattle shed."

"Oh..." The Sergeant glanced at his two officers and nodded towards their lowered weapons.

"You sure you want to take the risk, boys?" said the Professor as Chalk and Tupper hesitantly began raising their side-arms again. "It's gonna be pretty unpleasant for you when you find out the Dr is wrong."

"Oh, but I am not wrong, Professor," said Dr Ramus waving his hands encouragingly towards the three officers. "Please, try to activate it."

As the Professor's finger wavered over one of the buttons, the three officers flinched, but instead of pressing it, he simply stared indecisively at Dr Ramus.

"Oh come, Professor," said Dr Ramus, noticing the fingers of his adversary's free hand had become slightly fidgety, "are you really that easily vanquished?

"What does vanquished mean?" whispered Tupper to his two fellow officers.

The Professor's finger wavered again, but rather than press the button, he continued to stare uncertainly at Dr Ramus.

"For God's sake, man, you may as well try. Maybe this villainous persona is all a front? Maybe you do not have it in you?"

Gritting his teeth, the Professor began to squeeze his finger against the button. "Sorry, boys."

Unconsciously crouching towards the ground—as if that was going to somehow help protect them from something likely to explode directly beneath them—Sergeant Ross and Officer Chalk squeezed their eyes tightly together. Meanwhile, Tupper beamed at a couple of baby raccoons he had just that moment noticed playing in a nearby tree.

After a few moments without calamity, Chalk released the pressure on his eyelids and allowed them to open. Several elevated heartbeats later, the Sergeant followed suit. Tupper, however, remained transfixed by the raccoons.

"And," said Dr Ramus, turning his attention away from the officers, "as for the trap under the May—"

Red faced, the Professor brought his finger down hard on another button and immediately recoiled in response to the unexpected loud bang and puff of smoke from beneath the Mayor's feet as he was ejected into the air in a long, low, arc—the trajectory of which ended with him landing with a loud plop, face first, into an open topped slurry tank about one hundred feet away.

"—I did not get around to disabling that one."

"You did that on purpose," said the Professor, staring across to witness the Mayor's feet slowly disappear beneath the surface of the slurry tank. He turned back. "I've always thought you were no less ruthless than I am. Seems I was right."

"You will very soon learn just how ruthless I can be, Professor. The girl; where is she?"

"Do I detect a hint of passion, Dr? Now, that, I hadn't credited you with."

"Answer the question, man."

"She's close. Very close in fact, but if you want to see her again, you are going to have to complete a few challenges first."

"Challenges? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Err, excuse me," said Officer Chalk, apologetically, "but now we know there's no booby trap under us, and the Mayor's has gone off anyways, why don't I just shoot him?"

Immediately ceasing his sniggering at yet another utterance of the word 'booby', Tupper's mouth fell open. "Hey, how could you even think of doing that? Don't you remember all the good times? The laughs? That gerbil impression?"

Chalk's face flushed red. "Jeez, yeah. I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't beat yourself up," said the Professor. "You're only doing your job. And look, my finger's on another button, and that one makes the whole place go boom, so you couldn't risk shooting me if you wanted to."

"Aw, thanks, Professor. I feel way better now."

"Could we get back to these challenges please?" said Dr Ramus, his tone as patient as he could manage.

"Yes. No-one else might see through you, Dr, but I do. You're nothing more than a self-serving coward, and by the end of today, I'm going to be in a position to prove that to everyone in the world who's misguided enough to think otherwise."

"A Coward? You clearly did not read about my recent exploits with your four hundred pound Sumo wrestler?"

"Oh, come on. The paper didn't report that properly, and you know it. It was the Sergeant who tried to pull him off." The Professor immediately paused, slapped himself on the head, and began to giggle along with the three police officers—all chortling at the latest instance of the 'pulling him off' gaffe. "Oh... You lot."

"Alright," said Dr Ramus, scratching his cheek whilst failing miserably to join in with the fun, "I chased a dangerous killer—namely you—across town with no back up."

"You did that for the publicity. Besides, I was dressed as a teddy bear. Young children wanted to chase me that day."

"Ok..." Dr Ramus hesitated as he bit his lip and peered up towards his own skull as if searching his brain for his next response. "Moving on from the coward thing, you say that I am self-serving, and you want to prove that because no-one sees through it. Yes?"

"Yeah. Damn right I do."

"Well, if you had read the newspaper article about me, after I chased you in your teddy bear suit, then you would know that—whilst I whole heartedly disagree with it—I was slated precisely for being self-serving. How can you possibly say that no-one sees through it? Apparently most of the city agrees with you right now, and so will everyone else once it hits the nationals."

"Yes... Well... That's as maybe, but I already had all this setup by then. It took ages to think up and prepare. And, it was quite expensive. We're going ahead. If you complete the challenges, you get to save the girl, Ok?"

Dr Ramus rubbed his chin a moment. "Well..."

"OK?"

"Oh... Alright then."

"Good. Meet me in that building over there. The one without any balloons. And be sure to come alone."

"But—"

With a press of another button on his radio controller, a circle of explosions erupted outward from around where the Professor was standing—bowling Dr Ramus and the three officers over whilst leaving a thick shroud of white smoke in the air.

After several dazed moments, Dr Ramus hauled himself back up onto his feet. "Hello, is anybody there?"

"I'm here, Dr," said Sergeant Ross, sneezing loudly.

"Now you can stop that. We have all had quite enough of that nonsense."

"Ok, I'll see what I can do. Shame you didn't have time to disable the booby trap he just set off."

In the background, Tupper sniggered again.

"I did not disable any, Sergeant."

"Apart from the one we were stood on of course?"

"Oh, no. To be honest, I did not know for sure that there even were any booby traps outside. I was bluffing completely."

"What?"

"Yes, I noticed—quite by chance—that when you came out of the cattle shed covered in the tarpaulin, Tupper caught his foot on something near the entrance and dislodged it from its hiding place. I was not sure, but it looked like a radio device, and that is how I came to speculate that there were probably booby traps outside in a number of strategic locations."

The pitch of the Sergeant's voice rose by an octave. "So, you guessed there was one under us?"

"Yes, pure deduction," said Dr Ramus, smugly.

"But... How could you be sure it wasn't going to work?"

"I could not be sure, Sergeant. But it looked like Tupper might have broken something, so it seemed like a reasonably safe bet."

"Safe, if you weren't one of the people stood over it?"

"Yes, I suppose, now you come to mention it..." Dr Ramus began chucking a little. "That is probably true."

"Wha—"

"Look, Sergeant, perhaps we could discuss this later? Killer on the loose. Girl in danger and all that. Maybe—right now—I should be following the Professor's instructions. What do you think?"

"Ok," said the Sergeant, sounding extremely unsatisfied. "Me and the boys better go and see if there's any chance of saving the Mayor."

"Must you?" said Dr Ramus, squinting through the dissipating fog until he located the building without the balloons and setting off towards it.

The Sergeant sneezed.

"Now, Sergeant, what did we just agree?"

## ***

Cautiously creeping through the timber doorframe, Dr Ramus shuffled gently forward several feet before pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the light—thankful, at very least, that little of the white smoke had actually reached the building.

"Hello, Dr," came the voice of the Professor over a loudspeaker. "I'm down here at the end."

Looking straight ahead, Dr Ramus could make out a doorway, backlit with daylight, containing the silhouette of the Professor waving mockingly at him.

"Now, remember, time is running out for Ms Smythe, Dr. Are you ready to commence?"

Taking a deep breath, he shouted back. "Yes, of course."

The silhouette put its hand to its ear. "I can't hear you."

"Yes," shouted Dr Ramus, even louder.

The silhouette put its open arms out either side. "I still can't hear you."

"Abso—"

"Hold on, this is going to be a problem. Wait there, will you?"

Dr Ramus shouted back as loudly as he could. "Ok."

Disappearing from the doorway for a moment, the Professor quickly appeared back in view. "Or, I kill Ms Smythe."

"I gathered that," shouted Dr Ramus.

"What?" said the Professor, putting his hand to his ear again.

"I—" Dr Ramus waved his hands in front of his body as if to say 'not to worry' and the Professor disappeared again.

As the minutes passed, Dr Ramus occupied himself by staring at some of the unlikely items cluttering up the shed until he was finally interrupted by a breathless voice behind him: "Here you go."

Spinning around, he found the Professor leaning forward, panting, and holding something out in one hand while he held his abdomen with the other. "What on earth is the matter with you, man?"

"I've got a stitch," said the Professor. "I only ate half an hour ago, and I just ran from the doorway up there, all the way to my car and then back here."

Taking the device that was being presented to him, Dr Ramus immediately realized it was a radio microphone that would attach to the lapel of a jacket or the front of a shirt. "You spent all that time getting this?"

"Yeah," said the Professor, gulping in the air. "I completely forgot about it, but we're gonna need it for the things I've got coming up. Can't have any delays if you want to save Ms Smythe. You know, what with the clock already ticking."

"Of course."

"Hope you didn't get too bored waiting?"

"No. Obviously, I was eager to crack on, but I was fine."

"Still," said the Professor, motioning to the items strewn around the shed, "plenty to look at in here anyway."

"Yes, I suppose there is."

"I expect there's quite a bit you'd be interested in actually."

"Possibly, but I really think now is perhaps not the time—"

"No, of course. What am I thinking? I mean, for instance, that South American Vicuña overcoat over there is very nice, but, as you say—"

Dr Ramus' eyes widened. "Did you say Vicuña?"

"Yeah, I did," said the Professor, suddenly appearing quite thoughtful. "Thinking about it, you actually probably couldn't see it all that well because it's got polythene over it, but it's on that mannequin."

"And, you are sure it is genuine South American Vicuña wool?"

"Yep, I know for a fact, it was taken from Vicuña caught in the high alpines of the Andes before they were released back into the wild for another three years until they'll be ready to be shorn again." He paused a moment. "Say... Wanna take a quick look?"

"Well..."

"Come on," said the Professor, already wandering towards the mannequin. "Trust me, it's way too impressive not to take a peek at. And, it was made by, arguably, the finest tailor in Savile Row."

"Savile Row?" said Dr Ramus, following him immediately. "I probably know the man."

Arriving close to their destination, the Professor walked to the end of a small table with a crate on top of it that was preventing easy access to the mannequin. "Could you just grab the other end of this and help me move it out the way?"

"Of course," said Dr Ramus, not taking his eyes from the overcoat, or at least, what he could make of it through the thick polythene.

"Sorry, this is a little bit heavy. Must be the bottles of Vosne-Romanée I've got in the crate."

Turning his attention immediately to the crate, Dr Ramus' eyes widened again as he took the other end of the table and began lifting it in unison with his evil adversary. "Vosne-Romanée? Now that really is a most exquisite red."

"Yeah, it's pretty good I have to say."

Having moved the table a few feet to the right, the Professor appeared thoughtful again. "You know, there happens to be some glasses in that box just there. Why don't we have a glass?"

"Well, I am—"

"Yeah, come on. It'll be perfect for while you try on the Vicuña coat."

"Oh, yes, the Vicuña," said Dr Ramus, nodding enthusiastically as he turned his attention back to the mannequin.

"You go take the polythene off while I pour. There's a peg over there. Feel free to hang up your jacket if you like."

One minute later, and the Professor wandered over holding out a particularly large glass of red wine. "Here you go."

"Mmmm, thank you," said Dr Ramus, taking the glass without taking his eyes from the flowing contours of the coat as it clung to his body.

"Yeah, that really does fit you beautifully you know?"

"You think?"

"Oh, yeah. Like a glove. It's great to see it looking that good."

Pursing his lips in order to suppress a rapidly forming smile, Dr Ramus shook his head in an attempt to feign some modesty. "Oh, really..."

"No, I mean it. And, it just happens, I've got a full length mirror just over there. You should go take a look at yourself."

"Do you think?"

"Yeah, I think. Really, it looks so great on you... In fact... Do you mind if I capture this on my phone, so I can share it with a few people I know would be real interested?"

"Well," said Dr Ramus, grinning as he playfully rolled his eyes up, "I suppose I cannot really stop you can I?"

"No," said the Professor, his voice as equally light-hearted while he pulled out his cell phone and aimed its lens towards his pursuer. "Come on. The mirror's just over here. "We'll worry about the fate of Ms Smythe in a bit, ay?"

"Whatever you say," said Dr Ramus, cheerfully preoccupied with the coat as it swished its way behind his adversary.

"So, what do you think?" said the Professor, viewing Dr Ramus via the screen of his phone as he preened himself in the mirror with a large glass of red wine in his hand. "Oh... Quail egg?"

"Mmmm, that would be lovely," said Dr Ramus, absentmindedly picking at one of the eggs that had just been thrust at him on a silver platter and popping it into his mouth.

"Shame really."

"What?" said Dr Ramus, not taking his eyes from the mirror.

"Oh, shame that time's ticking away for Ms Smythe, cos I happen to have this selection of silk scarves. Just in that old cupboard next to you actually. And I'm sure at least one of them would look fabulous with that coat. Made by the same guy in Savile Row, you know?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. More wine?"

"Yes, please. That would be wonderful." Dr Ramus extended his nearly spent glass towards the Professor.

"And, perhaps, another quail egg?"

"That would be wonderful too."

"Here, have some pepper. I completely forgot last time. Then I'll get you the first scarf to try."

A few minutes passed.

"Oh, yeah," said the Professor, approvingly, as Dr Ramus patted down the second of the scarves and examined his appearance in the mirror, "I'll drink to that. And, on that subject, there's plenty more of the Vosne-Romanée, but I took the liberty of pouring you this rather nice Otard Dupuy I'd like you to try."

"Ooh, lovely," said Dr Ramus, putting down his nearly finished glass of red wine and taking the new vessel. "You obviously know your cognac, Professor?"

"Well, I'm sure I'm nowhere near as refined as you, Dr, but I like to try and keep some perspective towards the important things in life. Foie Gras?"

"Oh, Professor," said Dr Ramus, necking his cognac before taking the small plate of specially fattened goose liver that had just been presented to him along with a small silver fork. "Now, you really are spoiling me."

"Oh, it's nothing, really. Finish the rest of your wine, and I'll pour you another. Then we should press on with trying the rest of these scarves. What with Ms Smythe running out of time to live and all that."

"Absolutely," said the very relaxed looking Dr Ramus as he knocked back the remainder of the wine and nodded merrily into the lens of the Professor's cell phone.

"Thing is," said the Professor, rolling his eyes back whimsically, "everything's looking so fabulous on you—"

"Oh, you." said Dr Ramus, his manner as playful as that of his enemy.

"No, really, credit where it's due. What was I saying? Oh, yeah; everything's looking so fabulous on you that... Well... To be honest, I've got some other stuff I'd really love you to try. You know? If you think we've got time?"

## ***

Having finally made it to the other end of the building, Dr Ramus emerged from the doorway clutching a collection of shopping bags that the Professor just happened to have lying around, all brimming with the lavish clothing that had been neatly folded and placed inside of them.

"So, Dr, how do you think you're doing with the challenges so far?"

"Huh?" said Dr Ramus, looking more than a little intoxicated as he stared into the lens of the cell phone that had been trained on him the whole time. "We have not started yet... Have we?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, we have. And that particular challenge was all about proving you would put personal gain before the needs of another. That other, being Ms Smythe. Who is in mortal danger as we speak."

Staggering slightly backwards, Dr Ramus attempted to focus on his foe. "You devious bastard... Does that mean?"

"What?"

Dr Ramus hiccupped. "Does that mean... I do not get to keep the clothes?"

"Priceless," said the Professor, moving in to get a closer shot of Dr Ramus' tormented face. "I'm sure we can arrange something, but for now, just pop the bags around the corner behind the door, and maybe you can get them later. We really should press on."

"Ok," said Dr Ramus, looking cautiously at the not terribly secure looking area where he was to leave the bags.

"Good. Make your way to the front of that shed over there, and wait outside until you hear my call."

## ***

Stood swaying at the front of the next shed, Dr Ramus's eyes snapped abruptly open as the Professor's voice bellowed from the other side of the door. "Come in, Dr."

"Coming," said Dr Ramus with a slight slur as he opened the door and squinted at the unexpected scene inside: low lighting illuminating the dry ice cascading down the walls and across the floor to the accompaniment of ambient music that had just that moment began to play. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Your next challenge, Dr," said the Professor over another loudspeaker—this time able to hear him perfectly on account of the recently fitted microphone. "You'll see that there are video cameras overhead that'll track your progress. And, your inevitable failure."

"Oh, you will not be able to dupe me again, Professor, I can assure you of that."

"Yeah, we'll see. Come this way will you?"

Peering cautiously left and right, Dr Ramus began to venture forward.

"Subject number one, if you would, please?"

From out of the dry ice on the right, emerged a woman who—as she tottered gracelessly towards him—Dr Ramus could observe had ginger pigtails with complementary freckled face, was crammed into a tiny red crop top that only just managed to contain her ample bust, and was wearing a pair of denim shorts, so small, that her abundance of midriff spilled over the waist whilst her plump thighs only just squeezed out of the leg holes which had been cut into a steep V—barely managing to cover her bloated crotch. Arriving in-front of him and brushing his left shoulder—not particularly delicately—with the calloused fingertips of her right hand, she stared deep into his eyes with her slightly boss ones. "Hello, Dr, my name's Baylee. Anything I can do for you?"

Examining her up and down, Dr Ramus, paused for thought. He paused a little longer. Then a little longer still. Finally, he looked past her. "I think you will find I am made of sturdier stuff than that, Professor."

"Subject number two, please."

With Dr Ramus about to continue forward—albeit slightly hesitantly as he gave Baylee what was supposed to be a final examination—another woman stepped from out of the dry ice to his left.

"Hello, Dr," said the second woman—who was identical in every way to the first—as she ran her cracked fingertips and chewed fingernails down his other shoulder. "I'm Bambi. Baylee's twin sis. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Is there anything we can do for you?" said the twins in unison.

After some delay, followed by a little more, followed by yet more, Dr Ramus stared resolutely towards the end of the shed and spoke as convincingly as he could manage. "As I said, Professor, I am"—his voice wobbled slightly as Bambi ran her fingernails down the inside of his thigh—"made of sturdier stuff than that."

"Hmmm. Really? If you would, please, Baylee?"

About to lift his right foot to begin moving forwards again, Dr Ramus halted abruptly as the first twin swiftly raised a small canister in front of his face and sprayed him with a fine mist. Throwing his hands up as the vapor landed, he immediately experienced an acute stinging sensation in both of his eyes, followed by a caustic burning sensation in his nostrils, mouth, and the back of his throat. "Aghhh, what the—"

"Don't worry, Dr," said the Professor, jovially, "it won't trouble you for long."

Crouched forward with his body almost parallel to the floor, Dr Ramus's eyes streamed into his palms, and his airways burned, for what seemed to him to be an eternity until, finally, the discomfort began to abate. Slowly, he lowered his hands, and through his blurred vision, found the ground to be gently rising toward him and back again as a warm, not unpleasant, sensation began to engulf his body. "Wha... What have you done to me?"

"That? Oh, one of my many creations. A little something to make everything a little more... Desirable."

"More desirable?" said Dr Ramus. "I thought that was the idea of getting me drunk?"

"Err... Well, yeah, but this works even better. Take a look."

Lifting his head, Dr Ramus found he still had twins stood in front of him but paused for deliberation as he regarded them through narrowed eyes. "Have you swapped them? I mean, for two different ones?"

"No. They're the same two girls."

"But, they have lost about twenty pounds each."

"In your eyes they have, Dr. Are you perhaps a little more tempted now?"

Wobbling to his feet, Dr Ramus remained silent for a moment while he assessed the revised situation. "Well," he said with not only an alcohol, but now also a chemically, induced slur, "it is all a bit more tempting, I have to agree."

Smiling broadly, the twins began stroking his shoulders again.

"I mean... They are still not exactly oil paintings—"

With the shoulder stroking immediately terminated, left and right palms landed hard on each of Dr Ramus' cheeks before the pair stormed away.

"I think," he said, rubbing his smarting face, "I shall pass."

The Professor growled across the speaker. "Continue this way please."

His head swimming from the alcohol, unknown chemicals, and two hefty palm strikes he had just received across each side of his face, Dr Ramus hauled himself forward again.

"Subject number three, please."

Having only managed several more paces, Dr Ramus paused to hazily examine the new figure arriving in-front of him. "Hoshiko? Is that you?"

Hoshiko stared back at him as vacantly as the day they had first met.

"You are not going to assault me are you?" said Dr Ramus, his voice not only slurred but quivering as he contemplated the man's bare chest and the probability of him being there on deadly Japanese Sumo wrestler henchman business. Then, as his eyes scanned warily downwards, he stumbled back with a gasp as his gaze fell on something far more disturbing. "Oh, my God, man... What have you done with your Mawashi?"

"Anything I can do for you, Dr?" said the heavily sedated giant as he placed his hands on his hips and shook the junk he had encased in a garment even more distressing than a Sumo's sweaty loincloth: a pair of figure hugging—albeit enormous—black, with pink edging, panties framed between the bottom of a black suspender belt and the tops of a pair of black fishnets.

"For the love of God, no," cried Dr Ramus. "There really is not a single thing you can do for me. Other, perhaps, than going and getting changed."

The Professor howled into his microphone. "Oh, I wish the police boys were here to see this. Chalk & Tupper would love it."

"What the hell?"

"Not your kind of thing, Dr?"

"No, not my kind of thing, Professor. Not my kind of thing at all. What on earth were you thinking?"

"Oh, I dunno. I just couldn't resist it."

"Where did you find anything to fit him? Even those twins could not have donated underwear that large."

From the distance, two shrill cries could be made out, followed by a couple of items whistling past Dr Ramus' head which, even in his delirious state, he quickly concluded was probably a pair of half-eaten pies.

"That's the funny thing," said the Professor, struggling to compose a sentence. "I found it in his apartment."

"What? The outfit is his?"

"Yes," said the Professor, gasping for breath as he continued to screech with laughter. "I think it must be. I mean, what with it being so big and all, I guess it has to be. Unless he has an extremely large girlfriend of course, but I couldn't get any sense out of him once he was sedated". He paused to laugh some more. "He probably wouldn't've admitted to it anyway."

"What? Being a cross-dresser or having a girlfriend the size of a blue whale?"

The Professor howled again. "Either."

"Yes, yes," said Dr Ramus, tipping his head slightly to one side. "I suppose the whole thing is quite funny actually."

"Isn't it? Isn't it?"

"But what was the point of employing this here?"

"I dunno, Dr," said the Professor, snorting. "I guess there're just some things too good to let go. Besides, just imagine if I did get you on video taking the bait."

"Yes, well, that was never going to happen," said Dr Ramus, finding himself strangely fascinated by Hoshiko's attempts at seductive gyrations—an experience not to dissimilar to staring at a lava lamp while feeling the effects of a recently smoked reefer.

"So," said the cackling Professor as Dr Ramus hastily continued forward, circumnavigating the cross-dressing colossus in the process, "giving that one a miss then?"

"Most definitely," said Dr Ramus, looking over his shoulder to find Hoshiko stood, now with his back to him and with his head cranked over his own shoulder, winking while rubbing and patting his bare buttocks as alluringly as a spaced-out, four hundred pound, sissified, Sumo wrestler could be reasonably expected to accomplish. "Oh, that really is disgust—" With the hallucinogenic effects of the drug suddenly hitting him much harder, Dr Ramus' vision blurred violently in and out several time before calming again and causing his focus to rest upon a tall, athletic, handsome, Japanese man posing in the same style—but significantly slinkier—underwear whilst patting a considerably firmer pair of butt cheeks. "Still not my kind of thing, Professor," he said in a low voice as he propelled himself forward as swiftly as he could possibly manage, "and you are wasting your time with all this anyway."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You could put the most beautiful individual in the world in front of me right now and still be bitterly disappointed with my reaction."

With angel like grace, the tall, slender, female figure stepped out through the dry ice, delicately brushing aside the silky strands of her luscious long jet-black hair as she pursed the soft glossy lips adorning her flawlessly smooth, olive skinned, face. "Hello, Dr. Is there anything I can do for you?"

# Chapter 15

"So you see, after the absolute fiasco of the first challenge, we entered into the next one, and only the third temptress... Well, the forth if you include Hoshiko—"

The Professor swiftly raised his hand to his face, fearing the sudden involuntary snort of laughter up through his nose may have ejected something unpleasant from his nostrils. He spun away, took out a tissue, checked, and rectified the situation. "Where was I?" he said, turning back to his captives. "Oh, yeah, only the third female temptation I placed in front of him was enough to entirely lure him away from saving you."

"I don't believe you."

"Really?" said Ginette, cranking her head around towards Karen as best she could. "I'm surprised he managed to turn down the first one."

"Technically, I'm not too sure he did," said the Professor in a matter-of-fact tone. "Not after her twin sister turned up anyway. But he was quite tactless, upset them both, and they stormed off."

"See?" said Ginette. "Damn, I wouldn't be falling over if I found out the TVSW got some action."

"TVSW?" said the Professor, squinting at her.

"Transvestite Sumo Wrestler."

Quickly turning away, the Professor snorted into his hand again. "Oh, very good. Although... TVS—as in Transvestite Sumo—might be a bit catchier?"

Karen stared misty eyed into the gloom ahead of her. "I guess you're right—"

"TVS it is then," said the Professor, an air of triumphant satisfaction resonating in his cheery voice.

"No, not that," said Karen. "I'm a fool. I was actually starting to believe there was another side to Dr Ramus." She stared back into the darkness. "So? What now?"

"Well, he failed the second challenge, so resoundingly, I'm afraid he completely forgoes the opportunity to take the third and final challenge and save both of you."

"And what was the final challenge?" said Ginette.

"The chance to prove he wasn't a coward and that he was willing to put the welfare of others in-front of his relentless quest for self-gratification."

"And that chance was?"

"He could have swapped with both of you, knowing he would die in your place."

Tipping her head back, Ginette released a tortured groan. "Yeah, and I bet he didn't know that before he set off."

"Oh, no," said the Professor, his tone matter-of-fact again. "I very much doubt he would have bothered coming at all if I'd told him that part. And then I wouldn't've got any of the video footage demonstrating his shallowness."

"So," said Karen, "now you've got that, surely you can just let us go?"

"No, sorry, you're both still going to perish."

"But why? It's not like we're celebrities. You won't achieve anything by killing us."

"Oh, but I will. The world is going to see that two innocent, normal, people died purely because Dr Ramus was more interested in getting some new clothes, filling his belly with nice food and alcohol, and ultimately going off with one of the women I put in-front of him."

"Yeah, well, seeing as you're already so sure you've ruined his career anyways," said Ginette, "don't you think he'll get over that? I sure do."

"He would if it wasn't for the fact that, now, I'm going to execute him alongside you."

"But, he's not coming. He's banging that piece of eye candy you distracted him with. I bet he's as happy as a pig in shit right now."

"Actually," said the Professor, looking slightly distracted, "the last pig I saw today didn't look very happy at all. In fact..."

"Could you get to the point please?" said Karen.

"Err, yeah... That's by-the-bye. It was a trap. 'That piece of eye candy' was under strict instructions to immediately sedate him once he'd fully taken the bait. He should be delivered here any moment."

## ***

In a murky corner of the dingy hay barn, long jet-black hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

"Oh my God... Oh my God... I'm doing it with someone off of the TV," cried the sultry seductress as the long forgotten loaded syringe began to slip from between the limp fingers of her right hand.

## ***

"So..." said Karen, her eyes gliding from left to right, and back again, as they followed the Professor pacing up and down the dusty floor of the grain bin. "How you going to do it?"

"Do what?" he said, curtly, as he tossed his wrist in front of his face and narrowed his eyes at his watch.

"You know?"

"She's asking how you gonna finish us off," said Ginette, before craning her head as best she could to Karen's. "I told you before, sugar plum, this is a grain bin. He fills it up with grain and we suffocate. It'll be a bit like drowning."

"Oh, I'm not going to fill the place with grain," said the Professor, stamping one of his feet and twisting sharply on its heel. "That would be far too conventional for a man with my imagination."

Ginette frowned. "What then? Oh, God, you're not gonna fill it with slurry are you?" Her face turned grey. "I really don't wanna drown in shit."

As he rubbed his chin and pondered for a moment, the Professor's frustration seemed to ease a little. "You know, I didn't plan to, but... It's an interesting idea."

"You might want to let me do the talking here," said Karen, sharply, as she craned her head back around as best she could to Ginette's.

"You're the one who wanted to know how we're gonna die, honey pie. Ooh, that rhymed..." Ginette composed herself. "No way's gonna be good you know?"

Swallowing hard, Karen turned her attention back to their captor. "So... How then?"

A long loud creak echoed from across the way, followed by shards of daylight piercing the gloom. In the doorway—and filling most of it—stood a gigantic Japanese Sumo wrestler with his shoulders effortlessly supporting the limp body of an unconscious man who was near naked, all bar a pair of custom tailored silk boxer shorts.

"Hoshiko. At last," said the Professor. "Where's the girl?"

The colossus stared blankly back at him.

"The lady who—" His mood immediately lightening, the Professor sniggered into his hand. "The lady—" The sniggering became a loud snort. "—who was with him." He pointed at the considerably more slender male draped around his neck. "But was dressed a bit like you."

"Lady very tired," said Hoshiko, oblivious to the Professor's mocking of his feminine attire. "She sleep."

"Oh, well," said the Professor, casually waving his had in front of his body. "She's of no concern to me now. Put him over here with these ladies."

Hoshiko continued to stare blankly.

"The ones—" The Professor snorted again. "—over here, also dressed a bit like you."

While his laughing master bent forward with both arms wrapped across his abdomen, Hoshiko wandered over to Karen and Ginette and deposited the motionless body onto the floor so that its back was rested against one of each of their shoulders. Aside from the short bouts of intermittent snorting from the host, the room remained silent for a while.

"He should come around soon," said the Professor—eventually—having battled to stifle another errant batch of giggles, "but only enough to join the conversation. The special sedative will paralyze him for hours. Far longer than this will take."

"You didn't finish telling us what this is," said Karen.

"Hmmm?"

Glaring up at him, Ginette let out another elongated groan. "How are we going to die?"

"Oh, yeah... Before you arrived, I had the very reluctant—but very compliant—Billy, install your fate. It's above where you're sitting right now."

The pair peered up into the murky darkness above them, but unable to see anything, returned their puzzled faces back to meet the Professor's. "What?" said Karen, shaking her head vaguely.

Adopting a more sinister air, the Professor narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and allowed the corners of his mouth to turn faintly upwards. "This really is the Grand Finale, ladies. What hangs above you has the capacity to strip the flesh from your bones, and after I've recorded exactly that for prosperity, the whole world will be able to see that—rather than save you—Dr Ramus died pitifully alongside you."

"Oh, sweet Lord," said Ginette, "it's not acid is it?"

"Why not see for yourselves?" said the Professor, an evil cackle oozing from his lips as he swaggered over to a set of switches attached to the end of a cable dangling from out of the gloom. Staring intently at his captives, he flicked one of the switches and a previously unlit, upturned, halogen lamp on a tripod flared into life.

The pair looked up again, paused for a moment, and stared back at him. Then Ginette's previously grey face turned pink, her lips trembled, and she burst into laughter.

"What?" said the Professor, staring rigidly at her with his mouth ajar. "What?"

"Oh, sugar pie, you really shouldn't have asked Ol' Billy to make the arrangements. He's sweet an' all, but he really can't be trusted to do anything right."

Violently swinging his head back, the Professor looked up at the barrel suspended above the two women, bathed in the light from the halogen. Written across it in large black letters were the words: **PEANUT BUTTER** and beneath that, in slightly smaller letters, was the statement: **CAUTION – MAY CONTAIN NUTS**.

"My Granma," said Ginette, struggling to spit out her words in conjunction with the fit of giggles she was unable to regulate, "used to use peanut butter as a face mask." She giggled. "Hell"—she giggled—"my Aunt Delia"—she giggled—"used to smear it on the cheeks of her butt"—she giggled—"just so she'd look good in a swim suit." She roared. "Obviously"—she roared some more—"she washed it off before she put the swimsuit on."

An involuntary jet of air escaped from Karen's lips as even she began to snicker. "I have to admit, I'm kind of glad you stripped us down to our underwear now. At least we'll get the full benefit of the treatment."

"Yeah," said Ginette. "Here was me thinking you were just an old pervert."

While the two women collapsed their faces towards their laps, a wry smile crept across the Professor's. "You're very funny ladies, but I simply forgot to turn the other lights on."

Sampling the audible click of another switch and observing some additional light now reflecting from the floor, the two women turned their attention back towards the ceiling—their mirth gently petering away until it was nothing.

"What are squirls?" said Karen, turning her screwed up face back to the Professor.

He looked up at the four boxes suspended in the shape of a cross around the barrel and squinted momentarily at the writing on the sides of them. "Oh, that damned Billy."

"Is 'Squirls' a make of jelly?" said Ginette, starting to snigger again. "It's just, if I remember right, peanut butter and jelly is Billy's favorite, so maybe, that's why he put it there."

With an unintentional snort, Karen joined Ginette and soon they were guffawing uncontrollably again.

"Unfortunately, I think it might be a little more serious than that."

The pair composed themselves and turned their attention to the man sat in between them. "Oh, you're awake," said Karen, more than a little curtly. "What do you mean?"

"Well," said Dr Ramus, managing to move his lips just enough for words to pass between them, "for one, if you remember back to the fate of the chefs, you will recall that this man has a history of mercilessly slaughtering people via exceptionally unpleasant methods. Not causing them to become a little bit miffed after they have been drenched in popular sandwich fillings."

"Oh, yeah," said Karen, staring awkwardly at the floor as the tips of her ears turned pink, "that kind of slipped my mind over the last few minutes. I'm probably in shock or something."

Ginette's mouth fell open. "He does?"

"Yeah," said Karen. "He does actually. Kind of surprised you haven't heard about it. Anyway, I didn't mention it earlier because, well... It's kind of depressing. So... Dr, where were you?"

"I was about to go on to say that, secondly, if you listen carefully, you will notice there is a faint, but nonetheless distinct, sound of scampering and chattering coming from not that far above us."

"You're right," said Ginette. "It's coming from the boxes he's just lit up."

"I will have to take your word for that," said Dr Ramus—his paralyzed body position unchanged from when Hoshiko had dumped him on the floor.

Ginette sighed. "Aw, shoot. Squirls. They're not those damned squirrels are they?"

The Professor smiled conceitedly. "Yep, they're 'those damned squirrels'. Or, we can continue to refer to them as 'squirls' if you think you might find that more amusing?"

"Why in God's name," said Karen, her face knotted as she stared in confusion at the Professor, "would there be squirrels in those boxes?"

Sighing some more, Ginette answered on his behalf. "He was doing some research with animal products. Squirrels—ground squirrels to be exact—were one of the test subject groups."

"So," said Dr Ramus, "I was correct in my assumption earlier, that the bulls that the others—in particular the Mayor—encountered, were test subjects too?"

Once again, Ginette spoke before the Professor could answer. "Well, obviously, I didn't see them first hand, but he's been doing experiments with a few different kinds of animal products, including ones for bulls, so, yeah, if they were behaving a little oddly then they probably were."

"They were cumming and crapping like they were possessed by Satan."

"Yep, sounds like you saw some of his."

"The accelerated rate at which those bulls produce semen is nothing short of a miraculous," said the Professor, proudly.

"Yeah," said Ginette, "but it's a shame their cum is no better quality than the crap they're firing out in the other direction."

"There have been some teething problems, yes, but—"

"Teething problems my ass. Bull-A-GoGo—"

"Bull-A-GoGo?" said Karen, deliberately spacing out her words and exhibiting an expression so contorted it would be difficult to find a suitable metaphor with which to describe it.

"Yeah," said Ginette, "stupid name, huh?" She turned her attention back to the Professor. "Bull-A-GoGo is nearly as big a disaster as everything else you've come up with. It's certainly no better than Fowl Force and Power Pig."

Karen's facial expression remained contorted. "Eh?"

"Now look," said the Professor, "this is the breakthrough product. I just need to solve a few of its issues—"

"Issues? It costs a fortune to make—"

"Obviously, that'll come down."

"—and the semen is useless from the get go. Then they crap so hard it costs more to keep them fed than you'd ever get from selling their jizz anyways... Even if it was working. And God only knows what it must cost to clean up behind them all."

Red faced, the Professor motioned to speak.

"Then, too much of the stuff and they become impotent anyway."

"So," said Dr Ramus, "where exactly do the squirrels fit into all this?"

"Ah, the squirrels," said Ginette, "they were given the 'revolutionary' Varmint Vanquish X. The one product he's come up with that is supposed to harm an animal, and it ends up doing the complete opposite."

"Harm them?" said Karen.

"Err... It's supposed to wipe them out, sweetie. Kill them. You really are a city girl aren't you?"

"Now look..." said the Professor, now turning crimson as he made balls of his fists.

Raising her voice, Ginette spoke over him again, "When the 'revolutionary' Varmint Vanquish X—aka Critter Crusher Deluxe—was tested on the bane of famers around here—ground squirrels—all it did was: a) make them breed like crazy, b) make them actually go a little crazy, and c) make them so ravenous that—and get this—not only would they have ended up destroying way more crops than they could've ever gotten through before, but they also developed a taste for fresh meat. And I mean fresh."

"What?" said Karen, visibly questioning herself about what she was about to say next. "You mean... They became carnivorous squirrels?"

"Yeah," said Ginette, "like I said, ones that eat meat. One time, just two of them escaped, and one of the farm hands found them attacking Billy's dog. He had to go to hospital with real serious injuries after he finished pulling them off."

Immediately snorting again, the Professor recalled the 'pulling them off' joke he had shared with the officers earlier. However, unfortunately for him, no-one else got it and he simply appeared as even more of a monster than he had previously—which is probably testament to the sad fact that the police never seem to be around when you really need them.

"You're not telling me the squirrels were actually eating the dog?" said Karen.

"Yep," said Ginette.

"Did the dog make it?"

"Yeah, he made it, but Bouncer, well let's just say, he don't bounce no more."

"Yes, well," said the Professor, fidgeting with the ends of his fingers, "there were a few problems with that product too, but—"

"How come you know so much about him anyway?" said Karen, continuing the practice of completely disregarding their captor.

"We used to stock some of his father's company's products in the store before it went tits to the sky. Had a working relationship with them. Used to do market research with the local farmers in return for better wholesale terms. Then we started working as a go between for them and local farmers to do some onsite testing to try and speed up their product development. 'The Professor' here used to come in from time to time. I think, when he wanted to get out of the office."

"It was a lab, not an office," said the Professor, pounding his fists against his thighs. "I was chief biochemist."

"Yeah," said Ginette. "Truth is his daddy had a very successful company but promoted Junior here far too quick. That's when it all started going pear shaped. The old products were still good, but they blew a fortune on new ones that never made it to market. That's the garbage he invented."

"They're not garbage..." The Professor stopped to wince while rubbing the bruises he had just inflicted upon himself. "They just need more time."

"They need a miracle more like. Nothing this man has ever come up with is good for anything."

"That isn't true," he screamed. "Look at the evidence. Only earlier, the Dr here, was sprayed with an isolation of the compound that I used in the products to accelerate breeding by stimulating wanton desire. After that, he struggled to resist a single woman I put in front of him."

Ginette tilted back her head and howled at the ceiling. "Sorry to break this to you, honey cakes, but I'm pretty damned sure that would have happened regardless."

Still unable to move, Dr Ramus responded as vigorously as he could manage. "Now, just a—"

"The compound you gave him?" said Karen, the tone of her voice leaning more in the direction of enquiry as opposed to concern. "I don't suppose it includes the problem that causes the bowel movements and the impotence does it?"

"Impotence?" said Dr Ramus, his voice lacking its usual depth.

"Hmmm," said the Professor, running his fingers down his chin. "Not really sure."

"Huh?" said Dr Ramus.

Failing to answer, the Professor continued to speak to no-one in particular—apart from, probably, himself. "I suppose it might be worth keeping him alive for a while to find out actually."

"What?" said Ginette, "and have him crapping all over the place? No thank you, sweet cheeks. I'd sooner you get on with it and just kill us all now."

"No, you're right, we must stick to the program." He checked his watch. "Oh, yeah, we really must. I've got an appointment to go to. Right, gonna have to hurry this along. Back to your final demise..." The Professor wandered over to a tripod next to a length of rope hanging from the ceiling. Pressing the button on the camcorder with his left hand, he grasped the rope with his right. "Ladies, Dr, just so you know what's in store, when I pull this rope, the barrel above you will tip over and hatches will open on each of the boxes. Within moments, a hoard of the insanely ravenous squirrels—which we've already discussed at considerable length—will scamper down to feed on the peanut butter, but as you are also already aware, they won't be stopping there."

"Stop," cried Ginette as the Professor's grip tightened on the rope. "What about my momma?"

"What on earth has your mother got to do with anything?" said Dr Ramus.

"Oh, yes," said Karen with a compassionate tone. "You missed that bit. The Professor took her. That's why Ginette helped lure you here. Not really her fault as it turns out."

Turning to Ginette, the Professor smiled kindly at her. "Don't worry. I put her back on the mantelpiece."

Ginette smiled appreciatively back. "Aw thanks, sugar."

"Ay?" said Karen. "The mantelpiece? What is she, a Russian Doll?"

A delicate groan emanated from Dr Ramus' lips. "I think you may find that her mother is already dead."

"Oh, yeah," said Ginette, sounding particularly matter-of-fact. "Going on fifteen years now. This devious son of a bitch managed to trick me into using her urn—which of course had her in it—as a stake in a late night poker game with me an Ol' Billy. You know how it is? You do some damn stupid things after a few too many of the good stuff. He managed to get a hold over Billy too, but I don't want to go into how he did that."

"So," said Dr Ramus, his voice an exasperated whisper, "what you are telling us is that you risked our lives for your mother's ashes?"

"Well, yeah," said Ginette. "What you all expect? It's my momma." She paused. "Or, at least, I think it is. Kind of difficult to say for sure. What with Cousin Eugene having the job of collecting up the ashes down at the crem and him having a habit of getting things in a bit of a muddle. You know, on account of always being three sheets to the wind. And a moron."

"Unbelievable," said Dr Ramus.

"I know," said Ginette, shaking her head as she stared with incredulity into the distance. "You'd think they'd vet their staff a bit better."

"Enough," shouted the Professor, beginning to exert a downward pressure on the rope. "Prepare to die."

A loud bang filled the room.

His mouth agape, and a short length of severed rope dangling uselessly in his hand, the Professor turned to face the equally agape doorway—courtesy of Hoshiko's earlier entrance—which now contained within its frame, the far more feminine—albeit less so attired than the Sumo currently was—figure of a sultry female police officer stood legs apart with her firearm expertly clasped in both hands, poised to reel off another shot.

"Officer Penny," said Karen, who had the advantage of being the one captive facing the doorway. "Thank goodness you're here. Where's everyone else?"

"Still trying to get past the booby traps I guess. We had more back up arrive, but last I saw, they were having the same problems."

In desperation, the Professor leapt up in the air in an effort to grab the remainder of the rope dangling above him, but another loud bang thwarted his plan.

"Well done," cried Karen. "You hit that incy bit of rope again. How did you learn to shoot like that?"

Penny smiled proudly. "Well, you know, I go down to the range—"

"Officer," said Dr Ramus, his tone decidedly impatient, "as impressive as I am sure all this is, could you put a bullet somewhere in him, please?"

"He's just crabby because he can't move at the moment," said Karen. "Some floozy he was making out with injected him with some stuff that's temporarily paralyzed him."

"Oh," said Officer Penny, pausing for thought. "So... If he was making out and he had... You know... A stiffy. Would that stay in place until the stuff wore off?"

"I don't know," said Karen, suddenly similarly perplexed. "Professor?"

Twitching several more of his facial muscles than he had previously managed, Dr Ramus spoke loudly. "Officer, would you please just shoot him, and then, once we can all relax a little, I will be happy to answer any questions pertaining to my 'stiffy' and any effect the paralytic agent may have had upon it."

"Ok," said Officer Penny, merrily re-aiming her weapon at one of the Professor's legs and squeezing the trigger. "Damn it," she said, following the rather unremarkable click of the pistol's hammer against an empty chamber. "I used all my ammo on projectile booby traps." Holstering her weapon, she began to reach for her nightstick, but with a show of skill at least as impressive as her display of marksmanship, the Professor reached inside his coat and plucked out something long, metallic, and shiny before launching it directly into her right forearm, just as her fingers began to grip the baton.

"Ooh," said Karen, "that was pretty nifty too. Where did you learn to throw a knife like that, Professor?"

"Whose side are you on?" shouted Officer Penny, switching between staring disbelievingly at Karen and the puddle of fresh blood accumulating on the floor.

"What's going on?" said Ginette. "I can't turn my head around far enough to see."

"Well," said Karen, a little sheepishly after her dressing down, "Officer Penny just shot through a piece of rope twice—which was very impressive—but then the Professor pulled out a knife and threw it straight into her arm—" She gasped. "Oh Lord. He's pulled out another one. Why does he carry so many?"

"Ha," cried Ginette, "that 'appointment' you got tonight, 'Professor'? You having to pay the bills again, huh?"

"What are you talking about?" said Karen.

"Quiet," yelled the Professor, raising the second dagger up beside his head in readiness to finish Penny. "Sorry, Officer, but I really can't allow you to get in the way, and I simply don't have time to tie you up with the others."

"No, he's got punters he can't let down."

"Now look," said the Professor, lowering the knife, and turning his glowering face towards Ginette.

Swept a few inches from the ground, the Professor immediately forgot all about the rebuke he was about to issue, and instead, busied himself with trying to comprehend what was happening, and who was the assailant, now barreling him into the wall. "You're supposed to be sedated."

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, "sorry about that, but there was a change of plan. The syringe you intended for me found its way into the extremely shapely backside of the final temptress."

"Dr?" cried Karen as he became completely inactive and pre-occupied—presumably recalling the extremely shapely backside of the final temptress. "Dr? Concentrate will you?"

"Err... Yes," he said, reluctantly snapping himself out of his daydream and reasserting his efforts to overpower the crazed madman he was still wrestling with.

Karen frowned at him. "You really do need to take stock of your priorities you know?"

"Yeah," said Officer Penny as she struggled over to help, "if you weren't really paralyzed, then why the hell didn't you jump up earlier? Before I got a knife in the arm?"

"I thought you had it covered," he said, mid-grapple. "Besides, my neck had gone to sleep."

"Hoshiko," shouted the Professor to the sissified Sumo staring vacantly into the distance. "Help me will you?"

Lumbering over to the source of the commotion, Hoshiko first addressed Officer Penny by casually placing one of his palms on her forehead and propelling her across the floor until she clattered into the wall. He then grabbed Dr Ramus by his back and effortlessly held his kicking body in the air.

Hauling himself up, the Professor immediately ran into the gloom outside of the illuminated central area and came back carrying a step ladder. Placing it under the rope, he climbed up it, gripped the cord, and tugged it.

With an unmistakable aversion to the viscous cold mass that splattered onto their semi-naked bodies, the two women screeched unharmoniously while the patter of squirrel feet intensified in the boxes as the aroma of peanut butter flooded the building. "Oh, God" said Karen, her face caked in the popular sandwich spread normally associated with less traumatic occasions—aside, of course, from poor people's funeral wakes. "Are they coming?"

"I don't know," said Ginette. "I can't see a thing through all this peanut butter."

"I don't think they are," said Karen after sufficient enough delay for even the most mobility impaired of hungry squirrels to have made it down to them. "Maybe they don't like peanuts anymore."

"Or," said Dr Ramus, still suspended in the air by Hoshiko's massive hands, "the infamous Billy did not hook up the pulley mechanisms properly."

The Professor glared up at the boxes. "Oh, that fu—"

From outside the building, a high-pitched whine suddenly pierced the relative peace and quiet of the grain bin as something, very mechanical sounding, swept down in a rapid steep angle to somewhere around twenty five feet from the ground. As everything inside began to vibrate in an unruly harmony with the low thumping noise of air being beaten into submission by heavy steel blades, a shrill voice came from above. "Attention, this is state police. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up."

"Someone," said Ginette, gleefully, "is definitely not gonna make their appointment,"

Swearing profusely under his breath, the Professor walked towards the door, fishing something from his pocket. "Hoshiko, throw Dr Ramus over there. Hard. Then follow me." He swung his head around. "Dr Ramus, when you are ready, meet me outside. I have another way we can finish this. Ladies, consider yourselves spared."

As instructed, Hoshiko threw Dr Ramus hard onto the floor and followed the Professor as swiftly as his lumbering, sedated, body—and slightly chafing panties that might have been better one size up, were such a thing available—would allow.

Extending his arm in order that its occupants could see what he was brandishing in his right-hand, the Professor walked out of the door, shouting up towards the police helicopter above. "Back off, or I'll blow the whole place."

## ***

"Dr? Dr? Can you hear me?"

With his back to the wall and his eyelids gently fluttering open, Dr Ramus' blurry vision gradually focused on the individual kneeling about six feet in-front of him. "What happened?"

"You hit your head when Hoshiko threw you down," said Karen. "You've been out for a good four or five minutes."

With a pained expression, he gingerly lifted his hand towards his forehead but froze mid-movement as an unexpected, and most certainly uninvited, sound of chattering entered his left ear, promptly followed by some from the right. "What the—" Through the outer corner of each eye, he nervously surveyed the unlikely new residents on each of his shoulders before looking back to Karen.

"Yeah, that," she said. "Those two escaped. That's why I'm not too close."

Staring at her wide eyed, he spoke in a whisper. "You've got to get them off."

"I would, but they absolutely hate the rest of us. Seem to adore you though."

"Yeah," said Ginette, who was now at the top of the step ladder, "but don't let it go to your head. Pretty sure that stuff the Professor had the floozy spray in your face is giving off some kind of pheromone they like."

"I can assure you," said Dr Ramus, "this is not going to my head, and what are you doing? There really is no need to bring down any more of them."

"We've got to get them down," said Officer Penny, at the bottom of the ladder, awkwardly taking hold of one of the noisy squirrel boxes that Ginette had just passed to her. "The rope mechanism worked a bit and caused a gap between the boxes and the lids. That's how your two new friends got out. We've got to get the others so they can't escape into the wild and eat any other animals."

"Or us," said Ginette. "They're vicious little suckers."

Cautiously, Dr Ramus eyed his two shoulder tenants again.

"You'll be fine," said Karen. "We'll deal with those two just as soon as all the boxes are down safely."

About to reply, he winced as one of the squirrels nuzzled his ear.

"Aw, that's quite cute," said Karen, leaning in to take a closer look but recoiling swiftly as the rodents turned and hissed at her ferociously.

"Yes," said Dr Ramus, looking quite terrified, "maybe you should keep your distance until we can move these things. Where is the Professor?"

"He went outside and is apparently waiting for you to come out. The police can't do anything. He says he doesn't care what happens to him now, and he'll blow the whole farm if he has to."

"Surely, they must have a marksman in that helicopter we heard?"

"You would think so," said Officer Penny, wincing at the pain in her injured arm as she struggled to lower the last of the boxes to the floor, "but it went away. Reckon he's convinced them something bad will happen if they shoot him."

Dr Ramus pondered for a moment. "Yes, I have heard of situations where people rig devices that will detonate if their heart stops beating. He may have done the same." He paused some more. "I suppose I have no other choice than to go out and find out what he wants."

"Err, I don't think he's inviting you out there for a picnic," said Ginette, who was now down from the step ladder and leaning against the doorframe, peering out with one eye. "That's an awful lot of knives he has there, I can tell you."

Karen screwed up her face and looked over to Ginette. "What's with all that anyway?"

"Ah, yeah," said Ginette, smiling mischievously back. "It's kind of funny. Very funny, in fact. Is all to do with the part time job I was ribbing him about— Uh, hold on... He's holding up a megaphone."

"Hurry up, Dr," came the Professor's amplified voice. "If you aren't out here in two minutes, I'm gonna blow up the farm and everyone on it."

Carefully placing his hands on the floor, so as not to disturb the squirrels, Dr Ramus began to ease himself up. "Well I suppose this is it then."

"What are you doing?" said Karen.

"I have to go and find out what he wants."

"But, he has knives," said Officer Penny. "Lots of them. And you saw how good he is throwing the damned things. You don't have a chance. You're unarmed."

"Yes," said Dr Ramus with a sigh, "it is a little unfair, I grant you, but there really is no alternative. I wish there was, believe me."

"We do," said all three women in unison.

Scowling slightly, he turned his attention back to Karen. "Well, I am afraid this is probably goodbye."

"Yes, well..." Her face flushed. "I'm still mad at you for having sex with that other floozy instead of coming to our rescue. Is that all you think about?"

Pausing for a moment, he stared deep into her eyes. "Look, Karen, I was under the influence of a hallucinogenic against my will and on top of alcohol—"

"Was the alcohol against your will?"

"Err... Anyway, the state I was in, I knew that progressing here would be nigh on impossible without removing it from my system. Then it dawned on me. I needed to elevate my heartbeat to help purge the narcotic, so I seized upon the only opportunity I had to do so. Sex. Please, you must believe me. Sex was the only way out. Unemotional, meaningless, rampant, fant—"

"Oh," said Karen, suddenly taken aback by the deep and seemingly meaningful look in this man's eyes which, unbeknown to her, was purely on account of him daydreaming about his recent sexual encounter, but had been somehow camouflaged by the unlikely presence of a pair of ground squirrels serenely sat like two furry angels upon his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I never even thought of that." Oblivious to the groans from the two other women, she waited patiently for an answer but soon realized that, while he continued to possess the same look in his eyes, their angle was now slightly different. "Dr? DR?"

"What?" he said as he tore his gaze away from her peanut butter smeared cleavage.

"A little focus, please?"

"Well, I think I was... Oh, yes, of course," he said, composing himself before beginning to make his way to the access door. Cautiously, he leant out and shouted at his adversary. "Professor, if I come out, do you guarantee the safety of the women?"

"What about us?" said Officer Tupper, to his two colleagues who, covered in slurry and a few chicken feathers, stood not too far away from the Professor and his cross-dressed colossus but were helplessly powerless, now that their side-arms laid surrendered on the ground, far too close to Hoshiko to even consider retrieving.

Raising the megaphone to his mouth, the Professor looked to Dr Ramus. "Let me start by reminding you: I know I'm done for now whatever I do, so if you don't come out, I'm gonna blow the whole farm and kill everyone and everything on it. Including," he said slowly as he squinted slightly bewildered, "those two squirrels on your shoulders... But, you have my word, I won't harm the women, just as long as you come out here and face me like a man."

"Oh, good," said Dr Ramus, grimacing as he regarded his adversary's setup: a body harness worn over the top of his rather flamboyant silk shirt and cravat, bristling with throwing knives. And next to him: a large open case on an easel that was brimming with yet more knives. "I don't suppose you have a set of those for me to use do you?"

"Nope. Afraid not. This part wasn't planned."

"A little unfair do you not think?"

"Nope. You'll have to improvise."

"Alright, give me a moment." Dejectedly, Dr Ramus turned back inside and faced Karen. "I am a dead man."

With her eyes moistening, Karen bit her bottom lip and said nothing.

Dr Ramus—and his two squirrels—stared silently back.

Releasing her lip from her teeth, Karen's face suddenly became more animated. "Improvise," she said—so enthusiastically, she might have been about to hug him but likely thought better of it on account of the crazed, flesh eating, rodents sat either side of his head.

"What?"

"There is an alternative to you being unarmed... Dr? DR? Will you stop staring at my breasts and focus?"

"Oh... Yes... Sorry... I, err, really like peanut butter that is all."

"Really? Well please will you look at the copious amounts of it smeared around my eyes and listen. You don't have any weapons, and he has knives, but you can improvise.

"I can?"

"Keep your eyes on mine. Yes, you can. Remember that night we had dinner at the Ritz-Carlton?"

He scowled at her. "Yes, you left and I ended up having sex with that woman from the bar."

Her mouth fallen open, Karen scowled back. "I didn't realize that, and I was talking about earlier in the evening. You know, while I was still there?"

"Oh..."

"You improvised then."

"I absolutely did not have sex with anyone before you left. How could I? I did not even go to the bathroom. So, unless some midget secretly crawled under the table and—"

"Enough with the midgets. No. Before that. Out on the pavement. Before we even went into the damned hotel."

"Huh?"

"I'm not talking about you having sex with anyone."

"Oh..." He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment.

She stared impatiently back.

"Of course," he cried, his expression portraying his enlightenment and allowing him to sneak another quick glimpse of her cleavage. "Quickly, everyone, there is no time."

# Chapter 16

Clad in nothing more protective than his tailor made silk boxer shorts, but perhaps able to take some small comfort from the pair of loyal, insanity stricken, carnivorous ground squirrels brandished decoratively upon his shoulders, Dr Ramus emerged from the grain bin ready to confront his foe. Following him was his slightly less devoted backup team consisting of Karen and Ginette—wearing nothing but their bras, panties, and a generous smearing of peanut butter—followed by Officer Penny, positively overdressed in her disheveled police uniform. Outside, the male police officers reacted predictably to the sight of the two women in their underwear, apart maybe from Sergeant Ross who the jury is frankly still out on.

Halting approximately fifteen feet in-front of the Professor, Dr Ramus stood as rigid as he was silent and began staring down his adversary while the three women awkwardly maneuvered themselves around him.

"Why the hell couldn't he carry something?" said Ginette, huffing from the load she was hauling. "Dr, I'm gonna put my box right in front of you here, so you get real easy access. I hope you appreciate it."

"Shush. He's psyching himself up," said Karen, also short of breath. "Dr, my box is right here next to Ginette's, so it should be pretty easy for you to get at, once you've finished with hers."

Officer Penny shuffled up beside Karen and released a sharp exhale of breath from between her pursed lips. "Will you stop making excuses for him. Dr, my box is on the other side here, and I hope you appreciate it the most, considering I'm the one who also has a throbbing knife wound."

For reasons best known to himself, Dr Ramus had already entered into another one of his daydreams.

"Dr?" said the Professor as he stared quizzically at his opponent. "DR?"

"Huh?"

"Why in God's name have you brought those boxes?"

Dr Ramus glazed over again.

"Dr? DR?"

"Uh? Sorry. Could you repeat the question?"

"Why on earth have you brought those..." Although his conscious mind was not completely clear as to why, the Professor somehow figured that proceedings might progress a little faster if he refrained from using any form of the word 'box'. "Why are those there?"

"Ah, yes, you are not having this all on your own terms, Professor."

"But?"

"Shall we finish this?" said Dr Ramus, seemingly eager to not get distracted again.

Twitching a nostril and faintly shaking his head, the Professor held his hands out like an old fashioned Wild West gun fighter. "Ok then."

Dr Ramus held his hands out in a similar fashion. "Do it."

In the blink of an eye, the Professor had skilfully retrieved a knife with each hand, from his harness, and launched them at Dr Ramus, but with a display of speed and dexterity to match his enemy, Dr Ramus had tossed his hands up to his shoulders, grabbed a fluffy rodent in each, and launched them back.

One squirrel brushed past the Professor's cheek while two knives skimmed past Dr Ramus'. Disturbingly, one of those knives appeared to be considerably furrier than when it had left the hand of its dispatcher.

With a delicate, yet perceivable, shudder, Dr Ramus reluctantly turned his head around in order that, through the corner of one eye, he could survey the timber post behind him that he had heard the fluffier of the two blades plunge into. He paused for a moment before furiously raising his fists to the sky and screaming out with all of the breath in his lungs. "Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops... Why?"

"My God," said Ginette, under her breath. "He actually cares about something."

Karen glared at her. "Shush. This isn't the time. He's clearly in mourning."

Wincing, Officer Penny simply shook her head at Dr Ramus incredulously. "Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops?"

"Hold on," said Ginette, narrowing her eyes at the post. "That's not Mrs... What was it?"

"Chittery Chattery Chops," said Dr Ramus, in a low, almost tearful, voice—still unable to bring himself to look properly behind.

"Yeah, Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops. Look, she's over there looking insane and running through that hedge with the other one you just chucked at the Professor."

"Wha—"

"That furry thing on the post, it's... It's a fur mitten."

"Huh?" he said, turning to view the fluffy glove with a knife straight through the center of it. "Where the hell did that come from? Professor?"

"Wasn't me. You had my stock of spare clothing earlier—over wine and quail eggs."

Unified in their disapproval, Karen and Ginette glared at Dr Ramus.

"I might be able to help here," said Officer Chalk, eagerly stepping forward. "I recognized one of the officers leaning out of the helicopter earlier—"

"And?" said the Sergeant, squinting at him.

"And, I know she quite often wears fake fur mittens that look a lot like that one."

"Uh?"

"I guess the chopper has gone over there somewhere, she's accidently dropped one out the window, and it's gotten carried here on the wind."

"And," said Karen, clearly speaking in step with her mind as it worked its way through the likely course of events leading up to the incident in question, "it—quite coincidentally—fell into the path of the knife, just as Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops was safely travelling by."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Makes perfect sense to me," said Officer Tupper, nodding his head.

Tipping his head back, Dr Ramus stared at the sky for a moment. "Thank God. Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops is ok."

Both Officer Penny and Ginette simply stared at him in disbelief again.

"You know the best thing about all this?" said Sergeant Ross, to the two officers stood beside him.

"What, Sergeant?" said Tupper.

"Well, just supposing I'm in my local bar later with the guys, telling them about what happened today—"

"To be honest," said Tupper, "they'd probably think you were just making the whole thing up,"

"Yeah," said Chalk. "Like it was a work of fiction."

"You're right, they probably would treat it like it was a work of fiction, but even then, if I got to the bit where, what we thought at first was the squirrel—"

"Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops," said Tupper, helpfully.

"Yeah—Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops—if I got to that bit and it sounded like she hit the post with a knife through her, and then I and some of the other guys laughed at that—"

"The others would probably sit there thinking you were sick bastard," said Tupper, clearly still eager to be of assistance.

"Yeah," said the Sergeant, furrowing his eyebrows slightly, "you're right. Some of them might think we were sick bastards, but the rest of us would know that we laughed purely because of the shock comedy impact of the whole thing, and hopefully, even most of the ones who didn't laugh, would get that."

"You mean," said Chalk, gradually nodding his head as he slowly began to make sense of what his superior officer was saying, "they wouldn't think you actually found the idea of Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops coming to any harm funny, but you were simply laughing at what was really, harmless—"

"Shock comedy impact," said Tupper, his mouth falling slightly open as, even he, began to comprehend.

"That's right," said the Sergeant, "but here's the beautiful thing: the ones who didn't get that, and started moaning about us making fun of the fate of Mrs Chittery Chattery Chops—"

"Would have to shut the hell up," said Tupper, beaming enthusiastically, "because it turns out it actually only happened to an inanimate, fake fur, mitten."

Having been engrossed by this conversation, the others looked on in silence as they too made sense of what had just been said, and most of all, wondered where the hell Tupper had learned the word 'inanimate'.

"Of course," said Chalk, now beaming as heartily as his partner, "there's nothing to really complain about."

"No," said Tupper. "Not a single thing."

"Like some people do when joke stuff, like that, happens in adult fiction and that."

"Yeah, like some members of the public sometimes complain about adult cartoons on TV and some of the stuff in them, even though the writers are clearly only dicking around and going for—"

"Shock comedy impact," said Sergeant Ross, nodding his head encouragingly at his two subordinates—clearly proud of the fact that he had just bestowed what he considered to be enlightenment upon these two, most unlikely of, pupils.

"You know, I've often wondered," said Chalk, "what would happen if rather than spending time writing letter of complaint and the like—"

"Go on," said the Sergeant, like he were some wise sage patiently listening to the ideas of a lesser mortal.

"—those same people spent that time doing something that might actually be of real benefit. You know? Really make a difference."

"What? Like spending an hour doing something for charity, or going round to help out a disadvantaged neighbor, rather than writing a shitty letter?" said Tupper.

"Yeah," said Chalk, "although, obviously, that's only my opinion."

"Of course. After all, who are we to judge."

"No-one, that's who."

Having been following the conversation intently, Karen stepped forward. "It's all very well what you said just now, Sergeant—and you're right, anyone would look like a complete dick making a fuss about what turned out to be a knife through a furry glove—but what about when you tell the bit before that, when two squirrels are thrown at the Professor? Bearing in-mind, I suspect there's gonna be more once we've got this out of the way. Even if they do think it's just a made up story, I reckon you might get a few people who have a problem with that concept."

"Yeah, well," said the Sergeant, "I will then just have to point out that, yes, normally they might have a case, but in this instance, these particular squirrels are—for whatever weird and hard to believe reason—clearly eager to be of service and it's therefore not a 'normal' situation where it would, of course, be completely unacceptable."

"You know what I think?" said the Professor, evidently extremely impatient with how this conversation was beginning to drag out and become, just maybe, a little tedious. "I think people who complain about stuff like this are just a bunch of self-righteous losers who should get a life."

"Well," said Dr Ramus, staring him resolutely in the eye, "that is your opinion, Professor, because you are a very bad person."

"Oh, for God's sake. We're talking about a story that, it's already been established, people are gonna think is made up, and on top of that, we're talking about rodents. Who cares?"

His eyes suddenly brimming with unfettered hatred, Dr Ramus glared at his adversary. "I do."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. That was not a wise thing to say, Professor. I have rather a penchant for furry little things."

"Uh, huh," said Ginette, impulsively. "He sure has."

"Eeow," said Officer Penny, looking at her disgusted. "Get a wax."

Before Ginette could respond with a speech about simple, and perfectly acceptable, differences between country folk and city dwellers, they were interrupted by the eruption of a sudden clattering. Dr Ramus had kicked the lid off of the box in-front of him, managed to suppress the pain in the toe he had just stubbed, and swooped down to grab two more squirrels. "Fly my pretties, fly."

"Finally," said Officer Penny. "Back to some action."

In mid-flight, the two rodents—that had been positively endearing whilst in the presence of their beloved master—had transformed into snarling, drug fuelled, mini-monsters intent of ripping to pieces anything that was in-front of them.

Meanwhile, the two throwing knives coming in the other direction were pretty much the same as they were when they had left the hands of the Professor—pointy and sharp.

Skilfully dipping his body, Dr Ramus avoided the pointy and sharp projectiles and they flew harmlessly over his head. With equal dexterity, the Professor avoided the two gnashy and snarly projectiles which sailed into a hedge behind him before being heard chattering ferociously as they scampered away.

With her face a little contorted, Officer Penny scanned back and forth between her two companions. "Err, wasn't the idea, earlier, to stop the squirrels from getting back into the wild?"

"He'd have nothing to defend himself with if we did that," said Karen, rolling her eyes as she shook her head. "Besides, I'm sure they're not that dangerous."

About to provide her input, Ginette was interrupted by a distressed mooing noise sounding out from somewhere on the other side of the hedge, followed by the thump of a heavy body collapsing to the ground, followed by the barbarous sound of tiny chomping teeth.

Casting his hands across himself, the Professor grabbed a knife in each, from the opposite sides of his body harness, and hurled them at his opponent before he had even had the chance to arm himself with a fresh pair of squirrels.

"Where did you get so good with those knives?" said Dr Ramus, landing awkwardly on the ground after having to, not only duck the knife that had been travelling straight towards his head, but also jump up and spread his legs in order to avoid the one that had been aimed at his groin.

"Oh, just something I picked up," said the Professor, casually launching two more knives—this time clearly intended to intimidate rather than maim or kill his disadvantaged opponent—before sauntering over to his easel to casually re-fill his harness.

A shrill hoot of laughter erupted from the side-line. "Yeah, but tell him why you just picked that up," said Ginette.

The Professor's face reddened a little. "I think there's more important—"

"He learned to do it as part of his dance act," said Ginette, gleefully cutting the Professor short and providing Dr Ramus with the opportunity to load up with two more squirrels without the danger of having to dodge any blades.

"Dance act?" said Dr Ramus, lovingly snuggling the squirrels to his face and uttering something under his breath before explosively casting out both hands and firing them at the Professor.

"Look," said the Professor, gracefully spinning on the spot to avoid the incoming squirrels, as if performing a choreographed display of bullet time fighting—all the while effortlessly retrieving two more knives, and then pitching them back at Dr Ramus, "I was good at dance and that at school, and I've got a pretty good physique. It made perfect sense to do it."

Officer Penny tipped her head to one side while running her eyes up and down the contours of the Professor's body. "Hmmm. Nothing wrong with that."

"No, I suppose," said Ginette, looking less impressed. "It's just that the act is, well... It's a little depraved if you know what I mean?"

"Still nothing wrong with that," said Officer Penny, nodding appreciatively at the ease and grace with which the Professor directed his athletic form.

"I mean depraved, a bit like the grubby old men he does it for."

"Eeow," said Officer Penny, ceasing her nodding and directing her gaze firmly towards the ground.

"He learned to use the knives here on the farm when he wanted a break from the crappy research he's been carrying on with. Thought it would make the act more of a draw."

"I had to do something," said the Professor, performing another elaborate move before hurling two more knives. "My research isn't cheap you know? I've been going through my savings like nobody's business. Then I had all the implementation costs related to those new and exciting ways of killing people—"

"He did do quite a good job there," said Sergeant Ross quietly to Chalk and Tupper.

"Especially if he was on a tight budget," said Tupper as the three of them firmly nodded their heads and muttered in agreement.

"—and then, I had the costs of setting up everything that's happened here on the farm today. You haven't even seen all of it either. I've gotta tell you, I had a pretty interesting thing going on, if the Mayor had carried on past the semen tanks, involving some pig's bladders and a midget cannon."

Despite being pre-loaded with two more squirrels—and all checks being complete—Dr Ramus aborted the launch and froze rigid. "Did you say midget cannon?"

"Oh, God," said Karen, in a low voice as she put her hand to her face. "Please, not the damned midgets again."

"You have no idea how sordid this man's act gets," said Ginette.

Karen whispered back to her. "Dr Ramus' family had a bad experience with midgets." She stopped and pondered for a moment. "Although, he didn't seem that bothered when he told me about it."

Officer Penny lent in, also whispering. "Was he trying to get into your panties at the time?"

"Can't say for sure, but I think it's a possibility."

"There you go then. Case closed. Not that I can honestly believe he gives that much of a shit about his family anyway."

"What involvement do you have with midgets?" said Dr Ramus, narrowing his eyes at the Professor and somehow managing to blank from his mind any images that may have formed as a result of overhearing the word 'panties'.

"Well," said the Professor, unconsciously adopting Dr Ramus' temporary non-combative position, and instead of throwing his knives, mindlessly tossing the one in his left hand up in the air so that it performed a full revolution before he caught it by its blade again. And then repeating the process with his right. "My act is a little on the exotic side, and I do happen to have this regular slot with some small performers, and they got me a good price on a midget cannon."

"Are you aware of a midget by the name of Little Lawrence the Lobiathon?" said Dr Ramus, mindlessly tossing the squirrel in his left hand up in the air so that it completed a full somersault before landing on its belly with a playful squeak. And then repeating the performance with his right.

"Little Lawrence the Lobiathon, Little Lawrence the Lobiathon... Ah, yeah, Little Lawrence the Lobiathon. I overheard some of my smaller associates—I think they might prefer that to 'midgets'—talking about him once. A legend apparently. Has rather a large... You know?" The Professor coughed awkwardly. "Much bigger than you'd expect on, well... Anyone really, but especially someone so small. Funny though. They stopped talking about him when they realized I was there. Didn't seem to want to mention him again."

"Yes, Little Lawrence went into hiding some years ago. When this is all over, I shall be speaking to your 'smaller associates' about him. What is your stage name?"

The Professor's face reddened again. "Err... That's irrelevant, and besides, you won't be here when this is all over. You'll be dead."

"The Bawdy Bladed Beefcake," shouted Ginette. "He goes by the name of The Bawdy Bladed Beefcake."

"Ah, The Bawdy Bladed Beefcake," said Sergeant Ross. "I knew I recognized him from somewh—" Without explanation, Sergeant Ross stopped speaking and immediately stared directly down at his own feet.

Officer's Chalk and Tupper both exploded with laughter. "The Bawdy Bladed Beefcake?"

"That's even worse than 'the Professor'," said Chalk.

His facial expression an assorted mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and rage, the Professor—AKA 'Bawdy'—turned towards the two astonished police officers with his daggers raised to the sides of his head.

With a firm stamp of his right foot onto the hard dusty ground—and a slight whimper and a grimace on account of his not having the protection afforded by the sole of a shoe—Dr Ramus shouted across to his opponent. "Professor, you gave me your word that, if I came out and faced you, you would not harm anyone else."

"My God," said Officer Penny with a gasp. "Did you hear that? He's just put two other people's wellbeing ahead of his own."

Overhearing Penny's comment, Dr Ramus grimaced again, but this time, not at any pain he was experiencing, but most likely instead, at his own stupidity. However, rather than dwell on it, he managed to focus on the fact that his adversary was already training the knives back on him.

"I actually said I wouldn't harm the women, but since my beef is with you,"—dismissing with the finesse he had displayed up until now, the furious Professor haphazardly hurled his weapons—"face this."

Finding it an actually rather trivial task to avoid the chaotically thrown knives, Dr Ramus began tensing the muscles in his arms in readiness to retaliate, but then—as if he was receiving a message from some higher-power like a guardian angel or spirit guide or some other delusional crap that doesn't really exist—he unexpectedly paused for a moment's reflection. Much to everyone's surprise—not least the Professor's—his face relaxed, his body unstiffened, and he stared compassionately into the eyes of his adversary while calmly passing the two playful rodents he was holding between his hands. "You know, you really should do something about your temper, Professor. Why are you so angry I wonder?"

Although his fingers were already wrapped around the handles of two more knives, the Professor paused, abstained from un-holstering them, and stood bizarrely motionless while his confused eyes flicked from left to right and back again.

"It is not good for anyone to get so angry you know?" said Dr Ramus, his voice now so gentle and kind that a third squirrel took it upon itself to haul itself out of the box and run up his leg, so eager it was to join him—perhaps for a rendition of Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah or something else as equally nauseating.

"No, I suppose you're right," said the Professor, mesmerized by Dr Ramus and the three squirrels who were now merrily scampering—one-by-one—up his right arm, across his shoulders, and back down his left before repeating the whole performance in a carefree endless circuit. "Perhaps all this has been one big mistake."

Her mouth slightly ajar, the corners of her lips turned slightly upwards, and her eyes more than slightly misty, Karen whispered to her two companions. "Look at that. I've never seen Dr Ramus so compassionate before. I think he might getting somewhere. The Professor seems to be calming down."

"Got you," yelled Dr Ramus, triumphantly, at the screaming Professor as he urgently raked his hands across the front of his head in a desperate bid to remove the gnashing rodents that had just landed there in quick succession and were now trying to gnaw chunks out of his face. All the while, the three despairing female observers groaned as they dropped their heads into their hands, and the three male observers whooped as they joyfully punched the air.

As they lowered their fists, and watched the stricken Professor thrashing around in-front of them, Officers Chalk and Tupper made the decision that, despite the potential risks, now was their moment to shine. They rushed over to Dr Ramus and began to congratulate him as enthusiastically as they might have congratulated Babe Ruth after pitching his twenty ninth scoreless innings in a World Series. Conscious of being seen to do the right thing, they were swiftly followed by a gushing Sergeant Ross.

"Nice trick, Dr," said the Professor—eventually—but not before he had fully utilized the extended period of male high-fiving, and female refusal to so much as look up at the male high-fiving, to not only rid himself of the squirrels—who, fortunately for him, had smelt the unfortunate cow on the other side of the hedge and concluded it was more appealing—but to also stroll over to his knife case and casually replenish his harness. "You got me there, I've got to admit it, but you should be careful. You're not the only one who can distract their audience you know?"

Unaware he was being addressed, Dr Ramus continued entertaining the three engrossed officers with an elaborate mime of the actions he had taken right up to the point he had thrown the squirrels.

The Professor cleared his throat loudly. "I said: you're not the only one who can distract their audience you know?"

"What?" said Dr Ramus, turning his body so he half faced the Professor but still barely engaging with him.

"I said: you're not the only one who can distract their audience."

"Oh, really?"

In a flash, the Professor ripped two knives from his harness as savagely as the suffering he intended to inflict upon his foe. "Yes, really."

Several glints of cold spinning sunlit steel later, an involuntary release of air whistled through the narrow gap that it had forced between Dr Ramus' otherwise tightly clamped lips while his shuddering body and bulging eyes perfectly described, to anyone who cared to look, the agony he was now experiencing.

The problem was that nobody did care to look. Their attention had been drawn to the Professor who had, not only tossed the knives he was holding high into the air, but had also withdrawn two more, tossed them into the mix, then yet another two, and was now juggling with them in a performance—so exceptional—that it by far and away out shone any other performance that any of them could remember witnessing anytime in recent history, including—much to the irritation that only he was now aware of—that of Dr Ramus. "You absolute—"

"Yeah, good huh, Dr?" said the Professor.

Having already relegated Dr Ramus to the position of yesterday's hero, the opened mouthed Officer Tupper closed that opening just enough to allow him to interrupt with the utterance of three simple, albeit not terribly profound, words. "That is amazing."

Gritting his teeth, Dr Ramus held himself rigid while the eyelids of his right eye involuntarily fluttered between being slightly open and slightly closed. "I would say mediocre at best."

"I'd like to see you do better," said the Professor while the three awestruck officers shuffled back to the side-line.

Failing to provide an immediate retort, Dr Ramus focused, instead, on clumsily avoiding the two knives that the Professor had slyly launched at him and directing the entirety of his current efforts towards not falling head first into the squirrel box. However—whilst his instinctively thrown out hand was in the vicinity—he did manage to grab a rodent and simply hoped the whole episode appeared like that was exactly what he intended to do. "Well... You better get ready then," he said as he awkwardly regained his balance.

Casually re-holstering his remaining knives, a derisive laugh escaped the Professor's lips. "You've only taken out one. You're not gonna put on much of a show with one, Dr."

"I only wanted one," said Dr Ramus, sheepishly avoiding eye contact.

"I'd be surprised."

"Well... Get ready to be surprised then."

"Ok."

Pausing for a moment, Dr Ramus tapped his foot uneasily while he puzzled over just what exactly that surprise was going to be. The pause went on a bit longer. Then a bit longer still.

Slowly, the Professor began to bring his hands in towards two of his knives until he could delicately stroke their handles with the tips of his fingers. "You're running out of time, Dr."

With a thin bead of sweat running down the center of his brow, Dr Ramus gazed at the furry rodent in his hands, desperately hoping for an answer which, obviously, he did not get as he was, after all, looking at a squirrel, and it should be remembered that they are an animal with a brain the size of a walnut, and that aside, ill-equipped to speak—even in the unlikely event that they did have something worth saying.

But then, something did happen. Suddenly, it was as if both man and Otospermophilus beecheyi—as they say in Latin—knew precisely what it was Dr Ramus needed to do—which was, actually, by far and away the most impressive thing that had happened all day when remembering the things that have just been pointed out regarding the squirrel element of the situation.

Running the fingers of his left hand delicately across its scalp, Dr Ramus gripped the loyally compliant animal firmly by its skull before running the fingers of his right hand along the top of its tail until he was able to grip that in a similar way to its head. Then, lifting his hands up towards his face, he briefly utilized his furry friend to mop the perspiration from his brow and extended both of his hands out in-front of him until his arms were parallel with the ground beneath.

"What do you think he's gonna do?" said Officer Tupper, in a low whisper to Chalk as Dr Ramus stood silently rigid.

"Not sure," said Chalk.

Extending the fingers of his left hand, Dr Ramus let go of the squirrel's head whilst simultaneously flicking it, so abruptly, by its tail that it immediately disappeared over his right shoulder, down behind his back, and out from the left-hand-side of his waist.

"Wow, would you look at that," said Tupper, gawping through bug eyes as Dr Ramus re-engaged the squirrel's head with his left hand and whipped it back in-front of his body. "He's like... Like Bruce Lee with those sticks on a chain things."

"Nunchucks," said Officer Chalk, his head twitching left to right, up and down, as he battled to focus on the fast, furious, furry blur that crossed in every direction in-front and behind of Dr Ramus' torso.

Overhearing her colleague, Officer Penny released an over-emphasized tut. "It's Nunchaku."

Ginette cast her head sideways and rolled up her eyes. "I bet you've got some haven't you?"

Before Officer Penny could reply with a speech about how city girls should learn how to defend themselves with a variety of weapons—including the more unusual ones that even Japanese peasants from the seventeenth century probably didn't really want—she gasped and put a hand to her mouth as Dr Ramus released the squirrel from his grip and it thundered across one side of the Professor's face.

"Ha," cried Officer Tupper, clearly now in no doubt again as to just who his hero was. "Beat that, Bawdy Beefcake."

"It's The Bawdy Bladed Beefcake," screamed the Professor, nursing the claw marks in his cheek, "and if you saw him then your Dr Ramus really wouldn't stand a chance."

"Yeah?" said Chalk, tipping his head back and cackling in the most mocking manner he could muster. "Let's see him then."

Baring his teeth, the Professor spat out his words. "You really wanna see him?"

"Yeah, I really wanna see him," said Chalk, dispensing with his joviality and fixing the Professor hard in the eyes. "I wanna see what he's got."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright then..."

"Oh..."

"Hoshiko. Hit the music."

As the four hundred pound Sumo, with suspected gender identity issues, lumbered over to the easel, and much to every observer's disgust, began to bend down to a portable sound system on the ground beneath the knife case, the Professor put one hand behind his back, and the other up through the front of his body harness. With the hand in view, he grabbed a handful of shirt material and waited until Hoshiko's finger was close to pressing the play button.

Ginette bit her lip, looked across to Chalk, and winced. "He's gonna regret this. They all are."

"Right," said the Professor, retracting his gaze from Chalk and focusing back on Dr Ramus. "Here he comes."

"Ooh," cried Officer Penny as the Professor's shirt ripped apart at the side-seams and effortlessly passed through the harness to reveal—below the line of his cravat and through the gaps between the knives—a toned torso glistening with baby oil.

"How did he get that off so easily?" said Karen.

"Velcro, honey," said Ginette. "Remember I told you he's supposed to being going to a gig straight from here? What did you think was with the cravat?"

"Oh," said Karen. "I thought it was just meant to be professorish. Hey, I don't see any sign of any heartbeat type thingy that might set off the explosives."

"Ooh," cried Officer Penny, even more enthusiastically, as the Professor explosively tore apart his trousers from the back and the front to reveal a thin piece of material around his waist, holding up a glitter encrusted Napa leather pouch, straining under the outward pressure of his bulging genitalia. "Yeah, well, we can't be too sure. Better let this thing run its course."

Putting a hand in-front of his eyes—partly in revulsion and partly to shield them from the shards of sunlight that were reflecting off of the Professor's groin like a high-powered light shone at a disco glitter ball—Officer Chalk turned away muttering words of disgust.

"I said he'd regret it," said Ginette, shaking her head.

"I don't," said Officer Penny, staring squarely at the crazed killer's posing pouch which was already gyrating back and forth in time with the beat of the fast techno blaring out of the sound system. "You think he's got a couple of socks in there, or is that all him?"

"Now you've got problems, Dr," said the Professor, lifting his right leg like he was about to perform a pirouette, and affording a view of his posing pouch, more explicit than most individuals would likely care to ever witness—barring, of course, Officer Penny and possibly Sergeant Ross.

"You are not wrong," said Dr Ramus, scowling in revulsion to both the vision ahead of him, and to a lesser degree, the deep slice he had just received in his right forearm courtesy of the dagger the Professor had slyly released from beneath his raised thigh.

Ginette stepped forward and cried out, her voice brimming with urgency. "Dr, he's in character now—performance mode. You don't have a chance unless you start to fight like he does."

"She's right, Dr," said the Professor, offering him a self-assured grin as he repeated his last move—only this time lifting his left leg and following it with the campest of performance winks accompanied by another well-aimed dagger, "but I don't fancy your chances much."

Narrowly avoiding a wound to the opposite arm, Dr Ramus kicked the lid off of the second box and frantically loaded up with more squirrels. "Tell me something, Professor. Why do you desire to disgrace and kill me particularly? I am not a typical celebrity after all."

"You might not be typical, Dr," said the Professor, easily timing the tossing of each of the three knives he was now juggling with, with an outward thrust of his scarcely covered groin, before hurling one at his opponent, "but the public's obsession for you still sickens me."

"I catch criminals, Professor," said Dr Ramus, scarcely timing the tossing of each of the three squirrels he was now juggling with, with an outward thrust of his slightly more modestly covered groin, before hurling one back. "I cannot help the fact that the public shows an interest. You must realize that? Surely, I am, at very least, no worse than any of the other celebrities you claim to detest so much?"

"You publicize your exploits solely for your own personal gains, Dr," said the Professor, attempting to conceal his anger while thrusting out his chest and wiggling it in time with left to right turns of his head in order that his protruding nipples bobbed back and forth towards his opponent—several times each—before he launched himself from the ground and threw two daggers from beneath his perfectly executed mid-air splits. "Your only motivations are increasing your wealth and bedding women. Women so misguidedly infatuated with you."

"And your problem with that is?" said Dr Ramus, thrusting out his own chest and wiggling it so that his protruding nipples bobbed back and forth towards his foe, before slumping himself towards the ground and throwing two squirrels from between his badly bowed out legs.

While the Professor completed one fluid dance move that transported him over to his easel in order that he could replenish his knife harness in-time with the beat of the music, Officer Chalk and Officer Tupper observed him and his not so well-choreographed, but also nearly naked, opponent with uncomfortable expressions upon their faces. Meanwhile, Sergeant Ross grinned and rocked from side to side as if standing on the side-line at a particularly riotous gay carnival.

Allowing the handles to slip down until they were held by the tips of his fingers, the Professor turned the two daggers until they faced his chest and were parallel to the ground. "My problem with that, Dr," he said as he theatrically turned side-on, pressed the points into his nipples, and began feigning expressions of sexual fulfilment whilst twisting the handles clockwise then anticlockwise, "is that you are a relationship wrecker."

Stooping to avoid the pair of slyly flicked out daggers—and wrenching more ammunition from the box—Dr Ramus stood back up and held up the two animals so that they horizontally faced his chest. "Do I detect that we may have finally arrived upon the true source of the problem, Professor?" he said with a quizzical tone as he too turned theatrically side-on and began simulating a sexual response to the two squirrels he was jolting back and forth in the pretense that they were sucking upon his stimulated nipples. "Would I be right in thinking that you might have a failed relationship of your own that you hold me personally responsible for?"

"Responsible for," screamed the Professor, ducking the two—now thrown—squirrels and hastily attaching a pair of nipple tassels he had grabbed from his easel. "You stole the only woman I ever loved," he said as he bounced at his knees while gyrating each of his pectoral muscles until the tassels gathered pace and began spinning inwards at an extraordinarily rapid rate.

"Really? I was not aware of this," said Dr Ramus, dodging two more craftily thrown knives before admirably mirroring the Professor's performance with a pair of squirrels held by the tips of their tails. "What was she to you? Your girlfriend? Your Fiancée? Your Wife?"

"She should have been," cried the Professor, avoiding the squirrels, reaching two daggers behind his back, turning around, bending forwards, and provocatively wiggling his backside from side-to-side while employing the points of the blades to score a particularly symmetrically crafted love heart into the well-oiled skin of his bare butt cheeks.

"She should have been which exactly?" said Dr Ramus, dodging the blades the Professor had thrown over his shoulders, reaching two squirrels behind his back, turning around, bending forwards, and revealing the creatures with their teeth clamped to the waist band of his boxer shorts as he tugged them side-to-side, feigning the intention to seductively pull them down.

Spinning back around, while ducking the two squirrels that had been flicked out towards his face, the Professor wrenched his cravat away from his neck, held one end of it between the fingers of his right hand, spun it several time, and turned to his side while flicking it up between his legs. "All of those things," he said as he grabbed the flicked up end with his left hand and began to pull the cravat back and forth against the underside of his groin, and between his butt cheeks, as though he was flirtatiously drying himself with a coiled up towel.

"All of those things?" said Dr Ramus, mirroring the Professor's performance with a squirrel retrieved from the final box. "Do you mean to tell me she was not even your girlfriend?"

Dispensing with the cravat, the Professor took out a knife, dangled it by its handle against his groin, and began licking his lips and pouting at Dr Ramus. "We hadn't reached that stage," he said, struggling to mask the anger in his voice as he gently twisted his wrist and turned the knife skyward as if it were a glorious erection brought on by the sight of his nemesis employing his furry towel to dry his nethers.

"You had not reached that stage?" said Dr Ramus with an astonished—and somewhat sarcastic—air, as he sidestepped the spinning blade and dangled the squirrel from his crotch in readiness to once again mirror the Professor's previous actions. But then he paused—his squirrel remaining flaccid. "If you had not reached that stage, then I hardly stole her away from you did I? Did you even know this woman?"

Almost immediately, the Professor's voice became as unexpectedly soft as his body had become unexpectedly limp. "I was getting to know her..."

"Ugh," said Officer Penny, rolling up her eyes and groaning as she glanced between her two female companions. "I think he's about to go into one."

"She was working as a receptionist in my family's company," said the Professor, aimlessly wandering over to his easel in order that he could reload his knife harness—like he was now on some kind of autopilot—his eyes as sad as they were distant.

"Here we go," said Officer Penny.

"I used to see her every day when I arrived at work. She used to call me the Professor... On account of my job."

"That explains the stupid name," said Karen, her voice kept so low that only the two females stood beside her could possibly hear.

"Duh," said Officer Penny, louder than Karen, but still only enough for her and Ginette to notice.

"That's why I chose 'the Professor' as the name I'm using now," said the Professor, oblivious to the fact that Karen or Officer Penny had even so much as opened their mouths, let alone spoken out of them. "I'd always talk to her, and I think she liked me, but it was never easy. She was always so preoccupied."

"Aw," said Karen, compassionately but with her voice still at a whisper, "wonder what she was so preoccupied with?"

"My father allowed her a small TV behind the desk. She was always distracted by that. Always watching the same kind of show."

"Wonder what kind?" said Ginette, maintaining the low volume instigated by Karen.

"Those damned cooking shows that are on every hour of the day," said the Professor, gritting his teeth slightly, but so lost in his own thoughts, he now seemed completely unaware that anyone else was even anywhere near him.

"That explains why he killed the chefs," said Karen as quietly as before.

"But, even though it used to get to me, and had started affecting my work because I used to think about it so much, it's not like I could hold it against the chefs who presented the shows. Not like I wanted to kill them or anything."

"Oh," said Karen, almost inaudibly as she tipped her scrunched face to one side.

"In fact, I used to try and joke about it. Used to say to her: 'Well, better go now. While you're sat there watching whoever it is today, cooking with whatever ingredients it is that anyone can go get from the supermarket, I'll be in my lab, cooking with the building blocks of life, and not so many people can do that'. But, looking back, I'm not sure she ever really got it."

"She probably did," said Officer Penny quietly to Karen and Ginette, "it was just a shit joke."

"Maybe, it just wasn't a very good joke," said the Professor, looking even more solemn than before, "but then, one day, I said it and she just went crazy."

"So would I if I kept hearing it," said Penny to the other two.

"She said she was watching someone called James Frankley, and that, he could do more with a single baguette than I could ever do with anything in my lab—building blocks of life or whatever fancy name I had for them."

"Ah," said Karen very quietly, "that's when he got to wanting to kill the chefs. And why he started with James Frankley."

"And," said Officer Penny, leaning over to Karen and whispering in her ear, "it probably explains why he stuffed a baguette up Frankley's ass."

"But, despite all that, I still couldn't really blame the chefs... Would have liked to though. Felt like taking a baguette and stuffing it straight up James Frankley's ass."

Shrugging their shoulders, Karen and Officer Penny just looked at each other, shaking their heads.

"Anyhow, things got real awkward and we didn't talk for a few days. Decided I had to do something. So, I took her some flowers and told her I'd like to invite her to dinner. Dinner at mine. And, I told her, not only was I cooking, I was gonna serve her whatever her favorite kind of food was. No building blocks of life on the menu."

"Ugh," said Officer Penny, quietly, "he did the shit joke again."

"Wonder what her favorite kind of food was?" whispered Ginette.

"Turns out her favorite food was Japanese," said the Professor, tipping his head back. "Of all the things I didn't have a clue about. But, I decided I wouldn't be beat, so went looking for a book and really thought my luck was in when I found one by someone I'd heard of. A guy called Amos Finch. Not a real Japanese person, obviously, but I was getting to know who she watched, and he was one of them, so it seemed perfect. The recipes looked doable, so I bought it, planned what I was gonna cook, and invited her round."

"Wonder how it went?" said Ginette, in another whisper to her two companions.

Albeit no less vacant, the Professor appeared slightly more cheerful. "Turns out it went ok. Nothing spectacular, but she ate the food, drank a little wine, and asked about what I'd prepared. Plus, I'd managed to do a little reading from the other chefs she liked, so we had some other stuff to talk about. Even cracked a little joke that made her laugh one time.

"Can't think it was the 'building blocks of life' one," whispered Officer Penny.

"Wonder if she stayed the night?" said Ginette as quietly as before.

"She didn't stay the night or anything like that, but she seemed quite happy when she left, so I felt good about that. Funny, I was awake half the night, wondering how things would be when I bumped into her at work the next day."

"Wonder how they were?" whispered Ginette.

"Turns out they weren't so good," said the Professor, running his fingers against his forehead as he stared blankly at the ground. "Not what I'd hoped for at all."

"Wonder why?" said Ginette quietly.

"She shit herself at her desk," said the Professor, shaking his head somberly.

Ginette didn't say anything—nor did anyone else.

"Amos Finch's cookery book had a typo in it, and I'd left the sushi out of the refrigerator way too long. Since I don't eat fish, I didn't have any, and that meant I didn't suffer the explosive diarrhea." He paused for a moment, looking sad. "She, on the other hand... Well... Let's just leave it at: she had to go home in a cab with a blanket wrapped around her waist."

Karen went to whisper something to her two companions but was interrupted as the Professor continued his ramblings. "Didn't stop there either. She had another bout in the car..."

Not sure where to look, the three women grimaced.

"It was a real big one too. The cleaning bill from the taxi company was so huge, they attached photographic evidence to it. To this day I don't know how so much could come out of someone that small."

The grimacing continued.

"The guy from their office told us we should be grateful we only had to see it and not breathe it in. We challenged the bill, of course, but they had overwhelming—and I mean overwhelming—evidence that we were on the verge of having to buy them a new cab. This way was, at least, slightly cheaper. Then, of course, we had to make an out of court settlement with the driver to cover the costs of his therapy."

Staring into space for an extended period, the Professor had appeared to have finished.

"Ok," said Karen, quietly, "I think we now definitely know why he hates celebrity chefs. Especially Amos Finch."

Officer Penny leant over and whispered in her ear. "Probably also explains why the Sumo fed him that second-hand sushi or whatever it was he'd eaten."

"Thing is," said the Professor, resuming his ramblings, "although I thought Amos Finch was at least partly responsible, I still didn't hate him—"

The women looked at each other and shook their heads again.

"Not then. And, even after I did start to hate him, and had him killed... Well—when I found out exactly what happened—I felt bad for him. Hoshiko was only supposed to be suffocating him with his butt. That thing that actually happened, that's no way for anyone to die..."

"And I suppose gasping for air under a Sumo's sweaty ass crack is?" whispered Officer Penny to Karen and Ginette.

"What happened, well that was just sick. I couldn't get any satisfaction from that. You couldn't even laugh at that. I mean, what kind of sick bastard would laugh at something like that? You wouldn't laugh at that even if you read about it in a stupid made up book, let alone it happening in real life. You know? Like we're in. Anyway, it certainly wasn't planned, and I couldn't have guessed in a million years it was gonna happen. I didn't know Dr Ramus was gonna kick Hoshiko in the gut like that."

"Hey-ho," said Dr Ramus, quietly, as he awkwardly directed his gaze down towards the floor.

Leaning back, so that her lips were beside Karen and Officer Penny's ears, Ginette spoke softly. "I don't get it. I still don't understand why he hated those chefs or any other kind of celebrities or Dr Ramus."

"Anyhow, once she finally came back to work, well... Things were awkward. Real awkward. But, I was trying to patch them up. Trying real hard, until..." The Professor's face betrayed yet more sadness. "We had this problem in the company. We'd been hit by some internal fraud, so my father called in a private detective from the city. Turned out he was quite well known—had written quite a few books and been on TV."

"I think," said Officer Penny, in a low voice while shaking her head and rolling her eyes to the sky, "everything is about to all fall into place."

"Even before he'd arrived, she constantly had her nose in one of his books. Wasn't watching chefs on TV anymore. They were yesterday's news. Then he showed..."

The majority of the group—even the three dim-witted male police officers—bit their lips as they roughly predicted the flavor of what was about to come.

"Next time I went to the desk, she wasn't there. I needed an envelope, so I went to get one myself. That's when I saw it...

"In the dimly lit back of our shabby walk-in stationery cupboard, long copper hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

"I knew it was her—"

"That'd be on account of her being ginger," whispered Officer Penny.

"—and, although I couldn't see the face of the man underneath, I could see the expensive trousers and silk boxer shorts around his equally expensive socks. And those damned ostentatious loafers he hadn't even bothered to take off. Ostrich skin by the look of it. They even had his initials embossed in the soles. Who the hell does that?"

The majority of the group—including the three dim witted male police officers—released their bitten lips without any surprise whatsoever as to what had just passed.

"That... Well, that was the end of everything. When I lost her, I lost my focus, and with my focus gone, my work went bad, and my new products were just no good."

"And they're still crap now," whispered Ginette.

"After not too long, the company got into financial difficulties. Then—eventually—it went bust and I had nothing. No lucrative income and no girl of my dreams. Had to try and finish my work here on this damn farm, but things didn't go well." Although still in a trance like state, the Professor's eyes narrowed and his face reddened as he spoke through gritted teeth. "That's when I decided... Decided I wanted to kill them all... Starting with those damned chefs, who never deserved her adoration in the first place, and finishing with the loathsome detective who hammered her and hammered the final nail into the coffin of my life."

As he stared into space for another extended period, the Professor's anger appeared to slowly dissipate, leaving him stood motionless like a confused child.

Meanwhile, crumpling his forehead as a result of a period of serious contemplation, Dr Ramus looked up and—without prior consideration of the volume or the content of the words that were about to issue from it—opened his mouth. "I think I had a pair of ostrich skin loafers once."

The three women groaned while the three male police officers looked confused.

Crashing back to reality, the Professor rapidly un-holstered two more knives and hurled them at Dr Ramus. "They were yours for God's sake. Don't you even remember her?"

"I have worked on many fraud cases for many families and businesses," said Dr Ramus, awkwardly weaving his body to avoid the knives and—swiftly remembering where they had left off—looking down at the squirrel he was still dangling from his groin, simulating a lightning fast erection, and hurling it at the Professor. "I cannot possibly recall one particular incident in one particular stationery cupboard."

Avoiding the furry projectile and turning to his right in order to resume his performance, the Professor took a knife and held it in-front of his face. "Let me help remind you," he said, thrusting it in and out of his mouth several times as he were fellating it. "A few hours after defiling my beloved, you ploughed my youngest sister: Maggie."

Ducking the dagger, Dr Ramus adopted an identical pose to the Professor. "No, I am still not sure who you are referring to," he said, mid-way through realizing that there was no way a squirrel's head was going to fit in his mouth and that—however cute and loveable—it probably wasn't a very pleasant thing to be doing anyway, and therefore—in consideration of points one and two—the best thing to do was probably just chuck it.

Rotating ninety degrees to his right as the squirrel glanced past him, the Professor slightly bent his knees, leant forward with his butt pushed out behind him, and held a knife blade between the back of his legs—directly beneath his crotch. "Let me help you a little more," he said, jerking the weapon back and forth as if he were ramming it in and out of his backside. "The very next day, you romped with my elder twin sisters: Katie and Alexia."

Making a particularly concerted effort to avoid the dagger that he decided would be particularly unpleasant to be struck by, Dr Ramus adopted an identical pose to the Professor. "No, still no idea," he said, grimacing at the realization he was just about to simulate shoving a squirrel up his ass—and hurling it at his opponent instead.

Seething at Dr Ramus' insensitivity, but also seemingly delighted that—twice in a row—he had failed to mirror his moves, the Professor began upping the tempo and the ferocity of his groin pumps, in what could only be interpreted as an animalistic method of emphasizing his masculinity. With a knife in his right hand, he reached around his to his backside and then brought the same empty hand back to his front before retrieving two more knives and twirling them at his sides. Swiveling one hundred and eighty degrees, he revealed the dagger being gripped by its handle between his butt cheeks—swishing from side-to-side in the same way that a cat might employ its tail to convey an attitude of utter derision. "Then, the day after that," he said as he swiveled one hundred and eighty degrees back again and continued to thrust his noticeably swollen groin, mercilessly, at Dr Ramus, "you diddled my darling mother: Deirdre."

Stumbling to avoid the two knives that the Professor had flicked from his sides, and acutely aware that he needed to compete with his adversary's machismo, Dr Ramus quickly stuffed a squirrel down the front of his boxer shorts and began pumping his enhanced groin in and out with a matching vigor. Slowly, a look of realization spread across his face. "Oh, I remember them all now," he said, circling his hips several times before ripping open the front of his boxer shorts while his butt was thrust out behind him and suddenly jerking his hips forward in order that the squirrel exploded out of the front. "Is all this really about that lot?"

"That lot?" screamed the Professor, jumping to his side in order to avoid the thundering squirrel. "Since, I'm sure you would have been diddling her as well, I'm can honestly tell you I'm glad my grandmother, Daphne, had long since passed away."

"Good God, man..." said Dr Ramus, stopping dead in his tracks and appearing a little nauseous. "So, am I."

Eyeing Dr Ramus' hands as they dropped to his sides, the Professor spun another one hundred and eighty degrees to reveal the dagger still in position from before. Jerking his hips forwards, he then thrust them abruptly back, releasing the weapon—with an audible pop—out from between his butt cheeks and directly at his stunned adversary; passing directly through the skin and the gap between the Radius and Ulna bones of his right forearm.

Yelping like an injured puppy, Dr Ramus dropped to his knees.

Having depleted his harness, the Professor wandered over to his easel and grabbed a pair of daggers from the case. "And now, Dr," he said as he raised the blades beside his head, "to finish you."

Forlorn, Dr Ramus looked up at him. "Just before you do, Professor. There is something you should know."

"What?"

"Your darling mother..."

"Deirdre."

"Yes, probably."

"What about her?"

"She gave me the clap."

Nostrils flaring, and eyes like burning coals, the Professor raised his hands higher into the air and began to extend his reach further backwards than originally intended—clearly with the intention of hurling his daggers at maximum velocity into the heart of his opponent—but, recognizing this gap in his defenses and the very last opportunity he had to preserve his own life, Dr Ramus reached his uninjured arm blindly into the box where his hand found the tail of one of the last two remaining squirrels. Rolling onto his back, he hurled the creature as hard as he could at the preoccupied Professor—landing it squarely in his poorly protected crotch.

With the rodent gnawing through the front of his—now somewhat less swollen—Napa leather pouch, the Professor dropped his daggers and fell to his knees, followed by his back, as he urgently tried to remove the barbarous little creature—chomping on its newly discovered tasty meat treat.

Whimpering as he did so, Dr Ramus awkwardly hauled himself to his feet, trying desperately to not disturb the forearm that had the knife blade embedded in it. With his good—albeit, usually non-dominant, arm—he grabbed the last squirrel and prepared to hurl it at the Professor's face.

"Hoshiko," cried the Professor, still wrestling to remove the ravenous rodent. "Shield me, will you? And get me the radio controller."

Lumbering in-front of the Professor whilst stuffing his hand down the front of his female underwear, Hoshiko retrieved the device and passed it back to him.

"See," said Karen. "There never was a heartbeat monitor. How come we never noticed the controller in the front of that skimpy pair of panties?"

"Well, I don't know about you," said Officer Penny, clearly disappointed at the mound of flesh now blocking her view of the Professor's masculine chest, "but that's the last place most of us were looking."

"I think someone needs to concentrate on what he's gonna do with the remote," cried Ginette as the Professor began extending the arm he was holding it with and fumbled to release its trigger guard.

Desperate to act, but deprived of a clear shot at the Professor, Dr Ramus rapidly weighed up the odds and launched the last of his ammunition directly towards Hoshiko's head.

With the creature finding its target and gnawing at his cheek, the sedated Sumo staggered back several paces until, with his feet either side of the Professor's body, he stumbled and fell—landing his panty clad ass hard onto his master's face.

"Go, Dr," screamed the adoring Officer Chalk as he rushed to get a better view of the top of the Professor's head protruding from under the G-string and out between Hoshiko's hulking buttock flesh. "You did it."

"No, look," cried Karen. "He's still moving."

With the tip of the Professor's thumb having just located the slot underneath the remote control's trigger guard, Dr Ramus recalled an accidently learned trick from the past. Charging forward as quickly as he could possibly manage, he kicked Hoshiko with all the strength he could muster, square in the gut.

The guard just that moment released—and the Professor's thumb hovering dangerous above the remote control's trigger—the look of severe discomfort on Hoshiko's face could only be matched in intensity by the sound now issuing from beneath him: the sound of a massive fart rumbling like an enormous roll of thunder out from between the colossal cheeks of his vast ass. But, unlike that in nature, the sound of this thunder bore the signature of being distinctly wet and decidedly lumpy.

Holding their breath—for two equally valid reasons, and quite quickly followed by also holding their stomachs—everyone watched in horror as the Professor's thumb wavered over the button of the remote control until, after several seconds, his shuddering hand collapsed to the ground, and it fell harmlessly from his grip.

Joined at the superior vantage point by his partner—and a very queasy looking Sergeant Ross—a look of realization spread across Officer Chalk's face. "Now," he said to Tupper, "I understand why no-one wanted any of that Japanese creamy beef stew stuff you had before. What was it again?"

"Kurimu Shitu,"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Come to think of it," said Tupper, licking his lips, "I could eat some now actually."

His cheeks immediately bulging, like those of an over-zealous hamster attempting to carry too many provisions, Sergeant Ross projectile vomited in the direction of the Hoshiko's ass—adding a second topping to the crown of the Professor's already severely soiled head.

## ***

Inside the open back doors of the stationary ambulance, Hoshiko sat trembling beneath a dark grey blanket, timidly sipping water from a white plastic cup whilst receiving on-the-spot counselling from the two mystified crew members, presumably because—now more compos mentis than he had been only an hour before—he was coming to terms with either the fact that he had recently killed someone again or that he had just ruined a favorite pair of panties—quite possibly the latter when considering just how hard they must be to find in Sumo size, most likely requiring a special order, not to mention cast iron guarantees of particularly discreet packaging.

Meanwhile, a little further away, behind the open trunk of his sleek black limousine, sipping vintage Dom Pérignon from a crystal glass champagne flute under a dark green parasol sheltering an aluminum folding garden table, Dr Ramus sat resting his neatly bandaged right arm whilst chatting warmly with Sinclair; the latter of the two men being blissfully unaware of how tantalizingly close he had just come to finding out he was the sole beneficiary of the former's will.

To their immediate left, Sergeant Ross sat muttering to Chalk and Tupper while, a little further on, Karen and Ginette sat with blankets wrapped around them, huddled close to Officer Penny who was struggling to not disturb her, not quite so neatly, bandaged right arm as she sniggered with her two companions about something only known to them but most probably related to how incoherent Sergeant Ross had already become on so few glasses of Champagne.

In almost perfect harmony, silence suddenly fell upon the group as, further down-wind of them, a stretcher carrying a bright white body bag—albeit stained a curious shade of brown at the head—was lifted up and put into the back of another ambulance.

"Sergeant," said Dr Lance, the physician, arriving at the table. "I can confirm the cause of death was—"

"Thank you, Dr Lance," said Sergeant Ross with a slur whilst abruptly placing his wavering hand in the air. "I think we know."

Pausing for a moment, and appearing slightly disappointed, Dr Lance continued. "Well, on a lighter note, it looks as though the Mayor's going to pull through."

Dr Ramus released a heavy sigh. "Really? How fortunate."

"Yeah, he was extremely lucky. He swallowed an awful lot of excrement too."

"Oh, for the love of—" cried Tupper as he received a tube of projectile vomit into his lap which—small mercy though it was—seemed to be mostly champagne and not too much in the way of chunky bits.

"Yes, it must have been a close thing," said Dr Ramus. "After all, he was pretty full of the stuff in the first place."

"Huh?" said Dr Lance, distracted by Sergeant Ross and Officer Tupper being ushered away by Officer Chalk. "Full of what?"

"Excrement. He was pretty full of excrement."

In the background, Sergeant Ross could be heard hurling again.

"Dr," came an eager sounding voice from behind them.

Hurrying over to the table and making no effort whatsoever to cover the gaping top of her blouse as she knelt down beside him, Amanda Rose stared warmly into Dr Ramus' eyes. "Dr, what you did today was amazing." She paused to catch her breath. "You saved these people's lives, and who knows how many more, if the killer had been able to continue."

"Just doing my job," said Dr Ramus, regarding her as sneeringly as he could possibly manage whist simultaneously admiring her cleavage, "or, at least, what had been my job before the Mayor sacked me with the assistance of your venomous front-page article."

"Yes," said Amanda, biting her lip, "it seems the paper owes you an apology for that."

"The paper?" said Dr Ramus, raising an eyebrow.

"No, scrub that. You're right. It seems I owe you an apology. I'm truly sorry, and I promise— once I've got all the facts—the article I write, about what has just happened, will be sure to put you right back in the best light possible."

"Ah, so, your suddenly being so pleasant is all about getting your next story?"

Amanda looked away sheepishly.

"Well," said Dr Ramus, pondering for a moment—mostly on Amanda's chest while she wasn't looking, "I suppose, if you were to make sure that your newspaper writes something nice about me..."

"Yes," she said eagerly.

"And put it on the front page..."

"Yes."

"Your apology could be accepted."

"Yes. Yes. Of course," she said, a look of relief manifesting across her face.

"Well, that is that then," said Dr Ramus, turning back to Sinclair.

"Well, not quite," said Amanda. "I'd also like to take this opportunity to—on behalf of the city—show some gratitude for what you've done."

"Oh?"

Softening her voice, she cast him an alluring gaze. "Dr, how can I ever thank you?"

"Err... Excuse me," said Karen, who had got up from her chair and walked around the table to stand beside them. "Since one of the lives he saved today was mine, I think I'll be taking this one, thank you."

Pausing a moment to compose herself, Karen stared at Dr Ramus as beguilingly as she could manage. "Dr, how can I ever thank you?"

## ***

In the ornate master bedroom of the luxurious mansion house, long mousy-brown hair tumbled down the back of the unclothed female body that writhed up and down, back and forth, as its owner ardently straddled the man beneath her.

# Chapter 17

"Oh, Dr," said Karen, allowing herself to slump forward as she finally began to recover, "how did you make me cum like that?"

Contorting her face as she tried to interpret the muffled reply, she looked up. "What did he say?"

"I think he said 'Easily my dear', or at least, it felt like that's what he said. And now, I think he's saying something about the deep dorsal vein on his penis— And, I wish he'd stop— It kind of tickles."

"Oh..."

"Anyway, who cares what he said? Besides, you probably just came like that because you found it hot to do it with someone mildly famous. Which kind of means it was more you than him, but whatever, you obviously enjoyed it. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"Well, I suppose," said Karen, finding herself rapidly returning to being as close to as uncomfortable as she had been when this whole thing had begun, "although, I have to say, this isn't quite what I had in mind."

"Oh? What did you have in mind?"

"Well... For a start," she said, awkwardly regarded the nakedness of the woman sat facing her less than a foot away and straddling exactly the same man. "I was kind of hoping it would be just him and me rather than him, me, and—"

The bedroom door swung open to reveal two giggling women wearing luxurious white bath robes and carrying two heavily stacked silver platters.

"—you three."

"Oh, that," said Amanda, shrugging her shoulders as she turned her attention to the arrivals. "What took you two so long?"

Placing her tray on the top of a chest of drawers at the end of the room, Ginette turned back around, looking particularly pleased with herself. "Well, seeing as we're here to take advantage of the rich celebrity that wormed his way into our lives, that's gotta include taking advantage of everything he's got in his—particularly well-stocked—refrigerator."

"Damn straight," said Officer Penny, placing her tray in easier reach, right next to the bed. "Who wants some Champagne?"

"Thing is," said Karen, hastily grabbing her robe from beside her and wrapping it around herself, "I'm not overly sure he's the one being taken advantage of. Let's face it, he's got four women in his bedroom and all he's committing is some alcohol and a few oysters, most of which, he'll probably drink and eat anyway."

"Possibly," said Amanda, briefly lifting herself up in order that Dr Ramus could take a much needed gulp of air before plonking herself back down again, "but you shouldn't be too hard on him. After all, he did save your lives earlier."

"Think that might've been a by-product of saving himself," said Officer Penny, passing a Champagne flute to Karen but looking at Amanda. "Remember, the Professor was going to blow up the whole farm when lover boy here just happened to be on it."

"Yeah," said Karen, furrowing her eyebrows at what she could see of the man beneath her, "he didn't exactly rush to save us either. Right from the get-go, he spent over an hour trying on fancy clothes while eating and drinking with the Professor."

"Really?" said Amanda. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, that's what those bags were all about that Sinclair had to stop for and put in the trunk before we left."

"Anyhow," said Officer Penny, passing Amanda her Champagne, "you've changed your tune haven't you? You didn't have a good word to say about him up until about an hour ago. And you're clearly only here to get your story."

"Well, maybe..." said Amanda, looking down to between her legs and then back up at her glass. "The Champagne's good too though."

Taking a glass from Penny, Ginette sat down on the bed giggling. "So, what you gonna write anyways?"

"Well," said Amanda, "obviously, the bulk of it will be about the final show down with the Professor, but I guess I'll include a history of the events from when he was first brought onto the case, up to the conclusion."

"That'll be interesting," said Officer Penny, "you can explain how he got led everywhere the Professor wanted him to go and didn't manage to prevent a single chef from being murdered."

"Now hold a—" Having been briefly allowed another breath of air, Dr Ramus' voice became muffled again.

Taking a sip of her Champagne, Amanda frowned while she pondered for a moment. "Yeah, I'm gonna have to dress that up a bit aren't I? After all, I promised I'd write something nice about him this time, and that's what the public is gonna want anyway, so I don't have much choice."

"Could be worse, I suppose," said Karen.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it's only a newspaper article."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, no. Nothing bad. But... Well... Just imagine you had to write—I dunno—something like, say, a novel based on his exploits."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, you'd probably need to try and include some character growth at the end. You know, to make it any good."

"Oh, I see. Like have him end up a better person as a result of his experiences?"

"Yeah, that kind of stuff."

"Or, I guess, at least suffer some kind of lesson-to-be-learned misfortune if he didn't?"

"Yeah, I suppose, if you really couldn't manage the first one, that would work too."

"Hmmm," said Officer Penny. "Well, it's a good thing you're not writing a book about him because, if any of that is what it would take to make it any good, you'd be right out of luck. Let's face it, he's just as unbelievably lucky, arrogant, and self-serving as he's been from the outset, and the only misfortune he's suffering now is—while he frolics with four hot women—he's not currently drinking any of his Champagne and is struggling to breathe a little bit on account of one of them being sat directly on his face."

"True..." said Amanda, deliberating for a moment. "Although, I probably should have showered first."

"Oh, get out of here. You're just being over sensitive. Don't worry about it."

"No, I mean, I really probably should have... After I bumped into Sinclair downstairs, earlier."

"Oh, so that's where you were for so long."

From beneath Amanda, more muffled speech erupted, only now, it was distinctly louder than it had been the first time around, and although difficult to decipher, the topic had almost certainly shifted away from the deep dorsal vein adorning the speaker's manhood.

Meanwhile, the other occupants of the room sat in a silence a moment, sipping on the champagne provided by the wealthy personality who, as they pondered a little more on their current situation and their surroundings, and most of all, their reasons for being there—and without the slightest hint of a prompt from each other—they all began to secretly question whether, just maybe, they weren't too far removed from actually being just as shallow as.

## ***

Stood staring into the steamy full-length mirror on the wall of his spotlessly clean bathroom, the Mayor frowned as he compared the whiteness of his luxury bath robe to the mottled brownness of his heavily stained skin which had only been made worse by the accompanying redness from the repeated visits he had made to the shower cubicle and the furious scrubbing he had performed with his, now extremely worn down, nail brush.

With discontent and loathing written all over his shit stained face, he dejectedly stepped back and slumped himself down onto his toilet, howling as he slammed the hemorrhoid, he had temporarily forgotten about, against the unforgiving hardness of the closed lid.

As he awkwardly eased himself up, so that he could lift the lid and sit back down on the ringed seat, he caught sight the newspaper he had thrown in the waste bin several hours earlier—and having not even noticed the smaller front-page article about a plague of carnivorous squirrels that had been attacking live stock in out of town farms and were now finding their way into the city and trying to eat people's pets—he grimaced as, for at least the fifth time today, he read the main headline: **DR RAMUS \-- HERO OF THE CITY!**

Unable to take his eyes off of it, he sat staring at the words whilst attempting to cope with the throbbing of his pile which seemed to be coming in waves of extremely painful to some lighter relief and then, much to his displeasure, back again.

Weary from the mental anguish and entering a period of, at least a little respite from his pile, his eyelids became heavy, and finally, he began to drift into a much needed sleep—muttering tetchily to himself as he did so. "Dr Ramus, how can I ever thank you?"

## ***

In an ornate sleeping chamber—that was probably the master bedroom of some luxurious mansion house—a bald, shit stained, head bobbed back and forth as the body of its unclothed owner knelt on all fours whilst being ardently slammed into by the hazy figure of the man behind him.

" _How can I ever thank you?" said the man on all fours, now breathing so heavily he was panting._

" _I really do not know, Mayor," said the other man, whose voice had more than a passing resemblance to that of Dr Ramus, "but, by now, that hemorrhoid must be absolutely killing you."_

## ***

Out on the sidewalk, an agonizing scream echoed from the open window two floors above.

THE END

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Take care of yourself

Logan

LoganJudge.com
