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Too Many Cooks – Part 3

To Part 1…

As dawn’s first light stroked a sepia outline to London’s silhouette, for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself the slightest of smiles. As far as leads went it was a long shot but in a case like this where everything else had come up cold, a long shot was all I had.

I jumped into my car — a 1996 Ford Facial with a unhealthy thirst for oil — and headed downtown for HQ. I like to drive, it gives me time to think.

If my hunch was right, our perp had a real distaste for the direction food was heading in the UK. He was a dedicated meat man in an aspiring asparagus landscape. He had a problem digesting what the most visible advocates of Britain’s healthy eating revolution were serving up and he’d stop at nothing for a return to the lard-soaked simplicity of yesteryear.

I pushed through the revolving glass doors at HQ charging past chubby Miranda at reception. A man on a mission. “Can’t talk Miranda” I offered hurriedly as I broke into a jog nearing the lift. “My name’s not Miranda, ya fuckwit“, she spat in reply.

Our station’s Chief Superintendent, Roger Thatguy, was a nine iron of a man. All chip and no chop. He parted his brilliant thatch of silver hair to the left every day of the week with the exception of Friday. On Friday he went right. Without explanation, every Friday he went right.

I took a stool in Thatguy’s office adjacent to the coin wall next to a crate of Fijian whiskey. Roger followed me in and stood akimbo before a stack of rabbit traps.

So, what’ve we got Moocjheenie? Tell me we’ve got something. My ass is on the line here, I just got off the phone with…
…your stylist?
No, the mayor.
Ahhh, that was my next guess. To be honest, not a lot chief…” I was interrupted before I could elaborate.
The Beeb is thinking of shutting down production on all lifestyle programs until we’ve caught this maniac. Do you understand the consequences?
More vacuuming, less baking?“, I offered.
What? No, you imbecile! Hundreds of producers, cameramen, sound technicians and best boys all out of work.
Ahhh, that was my next guess.
Thatguy butted his cigarette into a Chairman Mao ashtray before lighting another.
You’ve got 48 hours Moocjheenie, then I’m turning this one over to the Yard.
The Yard? What…a field? What do you mean you’re turning this one over to the yard? Gardening?
Are you a fucking retard man? Scotland Yard.
Is that a real thing?
Get out of my office Moocjheenie and get me some results. You’ve got two days…and mind that dragon, it’s Komodon.

To be continued…

Cartwright P. Moocjheenie
dine@astraybuffet.com
1Comment
  • Mav Minnis
    Posted at 00:35h, 14 March Reply

    Well done……..you have a real flair for figurative language.

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