you’re sorry.’ The universe was filled with strange, garbled laughter.
‘Wake me up!’ Charlie shouted, standing quickly.
The woman overturned the table and approached him. The whole crew began bearing down on him like dinner guests. And it was as Charlie burst through the doors into blinding sunlight, the denizens of Beerlight baying after him like leatherwinged demons from hell, that he remembered he was the Mayor.
DONUT THEORY
Henry Blince was the only guy I knew who grew himself as a hobby, and he was now so round he would have been perfect in a hologram. Presumably one of those chins belonged to his Inner Child. I know for a fact that as Blince outgrew his house he bought progressively smaller dogs to give the place some scale. And it was Blince’s responsibility to simulate law enforcement for the Beerlight area.
Whenever a crime was accomplished Blince’s men had to track him down at the Nimble Maniac, the Rainbow Takeaway or Eat the Menu over on Peejay and drag him like a reluctant cow to the scene of the inevitable. He would always be found frowning in the eatery, devoting his pre-Cambrian intellect to questions whose profundity were matched only by their acute irrelevance to the working man. If all roads lead to Rome , how can anyone who lives there ever leave? If music be the food of love, why haven’t birds got ears? Why didn’t dinosaurs put on any underwear? Were he and his dog co-dependent? This was the sort of thing that occupied Blince’s mind. When he heard that Jackson Pollock had suffered a fatal car smash, all he could think was that nobody was better qualified.
When Blince was hauled off to Deal Street in the middle of a meal his amorphous frame was filled with anticipation. For this man every breach of statute was a foodstuff opportunity. He had eaten Exhibit A at the Mirsky murder, released a contagion of armed robbers when they offered him a taco and in a moment of desperation last year had swallowed a victim’s wreath.
The murder scene at Deal Street contained all the features we have come to expect in such circumstances, including a sobbing spouse and the much-debated stench of death - even the splash of blood on the wall was not absent. Blince slowly thrust his way into the kitchen and surveyed the body and surroundings. ‘This the guy?’ he growled, gesturing with a cigar at the corpse.
‘You reckon it was murder, Chief?’ beamed a fidgeting cop.
‘I’d stake life and limb on it, Benny. Are we all made of meat, Benny - that’s what I ask myself over and again in the dark hours. My god it’s enough to dent your cerebellum.’
‘You sure are one sick son of a bitch, boss,’ Benny said cheerfully.
‘You bet your goddamn life I’m sick - sick of you casting asparagus at my authority. Where’s the goddamn wife?’
‘She’s here boss - she’s pretty upset.’
‘Your husband is dead, Mrs Devlin.’
Mrs Devlin blubbed like a seal. ‘It’s impossible, he can’t be.’
‘No? Well, then it’s a miracle he is. Gedder outta here, Benny.’
‘Right.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Blince abruptly, stopping everything. ‘Are those donuts on the counter, Mrs Devlin?’
‘Wh ... why yes, those are donuts - ‘
‘I thought so. Husband had a habit eh?’
Mrs Devlin was bewildered. ‘A ... a habit?’
‘There are three donuts in evidence, Mrs Devlin - nobody leaves three donuts uneaten. Not unless they’re cold-turkey. - Or gorged.’
‘My god, Mr Blince, my husband was shot. The last thing he’d be thinking about is donuts .’
‘Exactly - donuts. Sidder down, Benny - we’re gonna be here awhile.’
The scar tissue moon rose slowly over a city of echoing shots and bonfire cars. Throughout the night the two cops sat with seemingly infinite patience in the dead air which accompanies the stifling of fact - while Mrs Devlin was slowly crushed by its weight. ‘Let’s go over it again,’ rumbled Blince. ‘You created six donuts. Your doomed, misguided
‘Wake me up!’ Charlie shouted, standing quickly.
The woman overturned the table and approached him. The whole crew began bearing down on him like dinner guests. And it was as Charlie burst through the doors into blinding sunlight, the denizens of Beerlight baying after him like leatherwinged demons from hell, that he remembered he was the Mayor.
DONUT THEORY
Henry Blince was the only guy I knew who grew himself as a hobby, and he was now so round he would have been perfect in a hologram. Presumably one of those chins belonged to his Inner Child. I know for a fact that as Blince outgrew his house he bought progressively smaller dogs to give the place some scale. And it was Blince’s responsibility to simulate law enforcement for the Beerlight area.
Whenever a crime was accomplished Blince’s men had to track him down at the Nimble Maniac, the Rainbow Takeaway or Eat the Menu over on Peejay and drag him like a reluctant cow to the scene of the inevitable. He would always be found frowning in the eatery, devoting his pre-Cambrian intellect to questions whose profundity were matched only by their acute irrelevance to the working man. If all roads lead to Rome , how can anyone who lives there ever leave? If music be the food of love, why haven’t birds got ears? Why didn’t dinosaurs put on any underwear? Were he and his dog co-dependent? This was the sort of thing that occupied Blince’s mind. When he heard that Jackson Pollock had suffered a fatal car smash, all he could think was that nobody was better qualified.
When Blince was hauled off to Deal Street in the middle of a meal his amorphous frame was filled with anticipation. For this man every breach of statute was a foodstuff opportunity. He had eaten Exhibit A at the Mirsky murder, released a contagion of armed robbers when they offered him a taco and in a moment of desperation last year had swallowed a victim’s wreath.
The murder scene at Deal Street contained all the features we have come to expect in such circumstances, including a sobbing spouse and the much-debated stench of death - even the splash of blood on the wall was not absent. Blince slowly thrust his way into the kitchen and surveyed the body and surroundings. ‘This the guy?’ he growled, gesturing with a cigar at the corpse.
‘You reckon it was murder, Chief?’ beamed a fidgeting cop.
‘I’d stake life and limb on it, Benny. Are we all made of meat, Benny - that’s what I ask myself over and again in the dark hours. My god it’s enough to dent your cerebellum.’
‘You sure are one sick son of a bitch, boss,’ Benny said cheerfully.
‘You bet your goddamn life I’m sick - sick of you casting asparagus at my authority. Where’s the goddamn wife?’
‘She’s here boss - she’s pretty upset.’
‘Your husband is dead, Mrs Devlin.’
Mrs Devlin blubbed like a seal. ‘It’s impossible, he can’t be.’
‘No? Well, then it’s a miracle he is. Gedder outta here, Benny.’
‘Right.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Blince abruptly, stopping everything. ‘Are those donuts on the counter, Mrs Devlin?’
‘Wh ... why yes, those are donuts - ‘
‘I thought so. Husband had a habit eh?’
Mrs Devlin was bewildered. ‘A ... a habit?’
‘There are three donuts in evidence, Mrs Devlin - nobody leaves three donuts uneaten. Not unless they’re cold-turkey. - Or gorged.’
‘My god, Mr Blince, my husband was shot. The last thing he’d be thinking about is donuts .’
‘Exactly - donuts. Sidder down, Benny - we’re gonna be here awhile.’
The scar tissue moon rose slowly over a city of echoing shots and bonfire cars. Throughout the night the two cops sat with seemingly infinite patience in the dead air which accompanies the stifling of fact - while Mrs Devlin was slowly crushed by its weight. ‘Let’s go over it again,’ rumbled Blince. ‘You created six donuts. Your doomed, misguided
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