nasty man,’ shrieked Mrs Devlin suddenly.
‘Where? On the candy planet?’
‘Good one, Chief,’ sniggered Benny, flushed with hilarity.
Smirking despite himself, Blince took up the last donut. ‘The last possibility is the worst I’ve ever known.’ He became deadly serious again, biting the donut and using the crescent remainder to point at the sink. ‘Over there, Mrs Devlin, you and a passing vagrant were involved in a carnal assignation of the first order. Alerted by cries of animal lust, your sweet-tempered husband entered the room and interrupted your sin. Caught like a troglodyte in a spotlight, you pulled out an impressive Colt Python .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel - your husband screamed at a pitch only dogs could hear and you let him have it six times in the head, bang bang bang.’
There was a moment’s silence in the room, like the death of a mime but without the laughter. Benny coughed quietly. ‘Er ... what about the donut, Chief?’
‘Oh yeah, then I guess she sat and ate a donut. Anyway wadduz it matter - the bastard’s dead. Tell the boys they can take her to the overnight can.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s a bitter horsepill to swallow aint it Mrs Devlin? Bye bye.’ Mrs Devlin was cuffed and dragged weeping from the room. Blince leaned heavily against the counter and wiped the crumbs from his mouth with a gun rag. ‘There’s one thing that still bothers me, Benny - it’s been nagging me throughout these grotesque proceedings.’
‘What’s that Chief?’ smiled Benny in gleeful anticipation.
‘Are certain species of fish neofascist? I mean some of ’em conform to all the prerequisites.’
‘Oh, Chief, you’re missing the point,’ Benny laughed good-naturedly. ‘Don’t you understand that once again you have eaten the evidence? Because you are digesting the few remaining donuts here at the crime scene, you will not be able to prove even one of them finely-crafted tales in the perjury room.’
Blince frowned with this new knowledge, then began looking about him. He picked up the deep-pan and looked inside - six more donuts swam in the fat.
Benny snickered, gaped and started blinking too fast.
GEPPETTO
Leon Wardial was cheerfully ahead of his time - but it was a close call. As a student Leon had almost become English through bad illumination and lack of exercise. Noting that the precedent system in Western law bore an identical structure to that of mental neurosis, he had written a thesis on Crime as a Creative Medium and been kicked out bodily by a principal of such frail health Leon himself had had to support him during the procedure. He entered the world with an almost senatorial lack of practical knowledge, naively invigorated by the dismissive rage with which he was greeted at every turn. Like everyone in America he wanted to make a living by writing trash. Academe had taught him that if you leave the dishes for long enough they’ll get done by evolution. But Leon soon found that money had to be earned or stolen. Nobody wanted his thesis, which he had retitled Damn the Police . People told him the army built character, but fortunately he already had one. So he sought the traditional wisdom of Uncle Savage, respected thief and dagger artist.
Savage was stripping a chainsaw when Leon entered the basement seeking what he termed a ‘burglar’s wage’.
‘A burglar’s wage he says,’ muttered Savage, a vein in his temple throbbing audibly in the small room.
‘If you’ll teach me sir,’ said Leon brightly, tripping over coils of rope.
Savage looked as though he’d as soon shatter Leon ’s ribs as grace his ear with a verb.
‘Can you handle a grapple, boy?’
‘If you mean a grappling hook Uncle, no. Though I did on one occasion throw a net over a prairie dog. In New Brunswick .’
‘A net over a prairie dog he says - god almighty. On one occasion he says. I bet it’s an occasion you remember well eh boy? While I can barely sleep nights for all the
‘Where? On the candy planet?’
‘Good one, Chief,’ sniggered Benny, flushed with hilarity.
Smirking despite himself, Blince took up the last donut. ‘The last possibility is the worst I’ve ever known.’ He became deadly serious again, biting the donut and using the crescent remainder to point at the sink. ‘Over there, Mrs Devlin, you and a passing vagrant were involved in a carnal assignation of the first order. Alerted by cries of animal lust, your sweet-tempered husband entered the room and interrupted your sin. Caught like a troglodyte in a spotlight, you pulled out an impressive Colt Python .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel - your husband screamed at a pitch only dogs could hear and you let him have it six times in the head, bang bang bang.’
There was a moment’s silence in the room, like the death of a mime but without the laughter. Benny coughed quietly. ‘Er ... what about the donut, Chief?’
‘Oh yeah, then I guess she sat and ate a donut. Anyway wadduz it matter - the bastard’s dead. Tell the boys they can take her to the overnight can.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s a bitter horsepill to swallow aint it Mrs Devlin? Bye bye.’ Mrs Devlin was cuffed and dragged weeping from the room. Blince leaned heavily against the counter and wiped the crumbs from his mouth with a gun rag. ‘There’s one thing that still bothers me, Benny - it’s been nagging me throughout these grotesque proceedings.’
‘What’s that Chief?’ smiled Benny in gleeful anticipation.
‘Are certain species of fish neofascist? I mean some of ’em conform to all the prerequisites.’
‘Oh, Chief, you’re missing the point,’ Benny laughed good-naturedly. ‘Don’t you understand that once again you have eaten the evidence? Because you are digesting the few remaining donuts here at the crime scene, you will not be able to prove even one of them finely-crafted tales in the perjury room.’
Blince frowned with this new knowledge, then began looking about him. He picked up the deep-pan and looked inside - six more donuts swam in the fat.
Benny snickered, gaped and started blinking too fast.
GEPPETTO
Leon Wardial was cheerfully ahead of his time - but it was a close call. As a student Leon had almost become English through bad illumination and lack of exercise. Noting that the precedent system in Western law bore an identical structure to that of mental neurosis, he had written a thesis on Crime as a Creative Medium and been kicked out bodily by a principal of such frail health Leon himself had had to support him during the procedure. He entered the world with an almost senatorial lack of practical knowledge, naively invigorated by the dismissive rage with which he was greeted at every turn. Like everyone in America he wanted to make a living by writing trash. Academe had taught him that if you leave the dishes for long enough they’ll get done by evolution. But Leon soon found that money had to be earned or stolen. Nobody wanted his thesis, which he had retitled Damn the Police . People told him the army built character, but fortunately he already had one. So he sought the traditional wisdom of Uncle Savage, respected thief and dagger artist.
Savage was stripping a chainsaw when Leon entered the basement seeking what he termed a ‘burglar’s wage’.
‘A burglar’s wage he says,’ muttered Savage, a vein in his temple throbbing audibly in the small room.
‘If you’ll teach me sir,’ said Leon brightly, tripping over coils of rope.
Savage looked as though he’d as soon shatter Leon ’s ribs as grace his ear with a verb.
‘Can you handle a grapple, boy?’
‘If you mean a grappling hook Uncle, no. Though I did on one occasion throw a net over a prairie dog. In New Brunswick .’
‘A net over a prairie dog he says - god almighty. On one occasion he says. I bet it’s an occasion you remember well eh boy? While I can barely sleep nights for all the
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