Let
me tell you about a turning point in my life. I was six years old
and spent five hours on a roundabout before collapsing in a state
of nervous exhaustion. Let me tell you about another turning
point in my life. It was an unspecified time ago, and as the
situation called for, I entered the bedroom. There on the bed was
one of the many (two, give or take one) women that I ever loved.
She was enveloped in pure clean white sheets. I think. It
wouldn't be sufficiently romantic for me to remember her in
grubby stained sheets. I think my subconscious may have warped
the facts.
She
was lying like an archer's bow, as opposed to an actor's bow. I
suppose if this was being spoken I would change it to Donatello
the Ninja Turtle's bo, but so few people know that a ninja's
stick is called a bo, so I may not be able to impart the kind of
knowledge that I intend to. I got into bed opposite her and
mirrored her position, gazing into her eyes all the time, as I
believe you are supposed to. I reached over to stroke her cheek
and it was cold.
I
moved her into the position of an actor's bow before having a
turn of conscience: if I took too long (hey, it might happen)
then rigor mortis would set in. How could I explain that to her
104 year old dead grandmother? Where would they find a suitably
shaped coffin? Did I really want to have sex with a dead body? In
such an impersonal position? I placed her in the position of
Donatello's bo, considered briefly having her blow me, but she
didn't look as if she'd really get into it. The time had come to
play detective. Someone (possibly her, definitely not me) had
spiked her gin and tonic with a substance we now know to be
lemon. The cruel, cruel bastards. Tears stream down my cheeks
every time I think of the pain she must have been in. Sparks are
shooting out of my keyboard now, even though I am writing this
first draft by hand on the train to London with two Daily
Mail-reading retards opposite me and a semi-ugly woman in a
leather jacket beside me. She's probably got low self-esteem.
Perhaps I should pretend to fall in love with her.
Later.
The
police said her death (not the woman in the leather jacket; they
haven't found her yet) was down to so called 'natural causes' and
that she died in her sleep. I knew otherwise: my deceased love
was an insomniac. Dun dun derrrr. Foul play had to be the answer.
Dun dun derrrr. The goddamn feds didn't listen to a word I had to
say. Dun dun derrrr. I rang them and rang them complaining that
they were doing nothing, before the costs of the international
phone calls to the Good Ol' USA of America mounted up and
penetrated me painfully. I would have to go it alone. Even my
trusty sidekick Tampon Girl (don't even ask what her special
powers were) would be unable to help me. I don't want to give
away her secret identity, but she 'too' was dead.
I
put on my crime-fighting costume, took off my glasses, let my
hair out of its pigtails and put on lipstick. It was just like
that episode of Saved By The Bell where Screech falls in love
with a geek who turns out to be gorgeous. Except I was no longer
in love, and in Saved By The Bell no-one wore crime-fighting
costumes. I did touch Kelly's boob once though (fake - well, it
is Cali after all). Misguided Arrogance Man was ready to spring
into action.
Sweeping
the area for clues, I found only dust, hair and (arf arf) a
bloodstained knife. Nothing. Curses. It seems that baddies are
much more fiendishly clever that usual. I bet it's one of my
arch-rivals and immortal enemies, The Scrotum Piercing Kid, or
Llandudno Joe. ...Or both of them in cahoots. Fiendish. You've
gotta respect that kinda moxie; evil moxie, but moxie
nonetheless.
I
suppose I could have captured them, killing all their henchmen in
the process, but I wasn't really getting the kind of job
satisfaction that I used to in the good ol' days. All the wet
behind the ears whippersnappers had drained the job of its erotic
danger. Everywhere you turned there was another fat man in
tights. If I didn't save the world, I knew someone else would. I
needed a holiday.