Bido Lito!

Crime Series Pt. 1: The Case of Sir Bruce the Pimpernel

It all began on a dark, misty and windswept Tuesday night. I had returned from work, eaten a round of toast and showered before popping back out for my usual two pints of Bombardier at The Ben Fogle on Lord St. After supping these fine beverages and bidding adieu to Landlord Hanson I decided to call it a night and headed towards home passing a string of fast food outlets along the way. I don’t know what became of me but I suddenly felt the urge to indulge in some fried chicken. I stopped at Poultry Bazooka and snaffled up two pieces of delicious, albeit rather fatty, chicken legs. Thank God I did though reader, as if it wasn’t for this brief detour I never would have witnessed that heinous and bloody crime and would still be (like some of you no doubt) hoodwinked by that popular entertainer and criminal mastermind. Forgive me! My blood boils just thinking about it but now I must return to my tale…

I discarded my wrappings with little thought for my immediate surroundings and took a sharp left at Pitmans Lane. It was then that I heard the strangulated sounds of a male Caucasian between the ages of thirty to forty, weighing at least 75kg. Upon hearing these alien and frightful sounds I peered into the adjoining alleyway through the sheen of fog only to make out the silhouette of a man with a rather large chin and slightly stooped posture throttling the helpless victim. As I watched on frozen in horror the screams escalated as the victim struggled for air. As the life was squeezed out of the Caucasian and the screams died down I could hear some slight verbal mumbling, jabbering almost, from the attacker but could only make out the words “nice twirl" and "good game, good game” over and over like some form of murderous mantra.

Framed by the lights from the passing vehicles on Rosenthwistle Plaza I could clearly watch as the lifeless body of the victim was tossed onto the wet cobbles. Then the attacker turned towards me and bent forwards on one knee, raised his forearm and brought his clenched fist to the top of his forehead, then with a swish of his cape he was gone, off into that dark unforgiving abyss we call night.

Paralysed with fear I looked on as slowly it dawned on me. I had seen this bizarre signature courting movement somewhere before, in fact many times, in many different Saturday night primetime vehicles. But surely it couldn’t? Could it? He wouldn’t it? Would he?

To be cont…