Monday, May 29, 2006

The Mean Streets of Gundon

It is dusk in London. A grey fog, a haze, a miasma of ineluctable failure has descended over the city. Out of this mist emerge two figures from an alley near Clarence and King Streets. They are indistinct at first, wielding flashlights that they are shining carefully along the filthy pavement before them. We soon realize that these are London Police officers investigating the latest shootings in Downtown London.

Det. Const. Smith: Whaddya make of all these shootin's, Paul?

Det. Jones: It ain't right. It just ain't right.

Det. Const. Smith: Whaddya mean?

Det. Jones: I mean it just don't add up. Nothing fits together. I mean, Gus Macker basketball, hip hop, Rum Runner's Bar, random shootings... nobody talkin' to us... it's like somebody took this crazy old world and scrambled a bunch of totally unrelated, random things together, and... it just don't add up. It's like some googly eyed egghead mad scientist decided to go around committing crimes that nobody could predict, just for the sake of watching us scratch our heads.

Det. Const. Smith: I know... this is just like the time those opera singing double-reverse-transsexual Siamese twins were stabbed with golden knitting needles in a portable geodesic dome outside of the Palasad as the planets converged during Home County, back in '97. Right out of the blue. Where do you even start tyin' that together?

Det. Jones: It's stuff like this makes me wonder whether I'm still cut out for this job. You know, all the training in the world doesn't help you when you add two plus two a thousand times and it keeps comin up five.

The radio crackles to life.

Dispatch: Five-oh-one-niner, we have a seventy-six twenty in progress at the Cracky's Place pub on Glebe Street.

Det. Jones: For christ's sake, when are people going to learn that smoking is illegal in bars?

Det. Const. Smith: We're never going to crack this case here. Maybe we can do some good for the lungs of the wait staff down at Cracky's. Let's roll.