THE PIG IN WINTER

OR

I KNOW WHAT? YOU DID?

LAST CHRONICLES?

Al was rather more indifferent to the kidney than he would have expected himself to be.

It wasn’t every day that you saw a kidney lying calmly on your doorstep, not a care in the world, so naturally he was a bit surprised.

He had correctly identified it as a kidney, somehow calling upon his knowledge from high school Biology. This was also rather shocking. He had previously believed that everything ‘learnt’ at school had been removed from his mind to make way for the smut. There were too many files on pornography and the "100 Ways to Do ‘IT’" to leave room for much else.

Thirdly, he was amazed to discover that he quite enjoyed the gentle caress of the smooth, waxy foliage of the pot plant on his . . . The kids!

Al darted back inside to Sweet. She had already selected a snazzy ensemble from Al’s wardrobe. A sky-blue tuxedo with bow-tie and cufflinks in the shape of Joan of Arc (in totally wholesome positions of course).

"Thanks," he began, beginning something else with his hands at the same time, but then decided that it would be best to leave that for later, he had the kids to think about.

Al drove with one hand, using the other to tune into Sex FM. The reception was particularly bad today, possibly because of the giant Phallus the radio station had ‘erected’ (no pun intended) outside it’s studio. Perhaps that was interfering with the signal.

He fiddled with the few knobs and then a thought popped into his overcrowded mind. Pushing a bit of smut aside was a contemplation on who the owner of the kidney may have been. Shit, could it have been one of the children?! He fidgeted at the thought that the killer could be messing with his mind.

He spun the wheel, turning the corner. He sped towards the big circus tent he could still see in the distance at the showground. He shrieked as he saw it start to fold down.

ALTHOUGH BEING QUITE DEAD, EGONI STILL MANAGES TO MAINTAIN A GENUINE AMOUNT OF PUZZLEMENT AMONG THOSE WHO STAND IN HER ROOM . . .

"Where the hell did she go then?" NTM asked quite viciously.

"How the f#$k should I know," the Black Baron retorted. "We came to her door and there was no answer. That’s all we know."

NTM puffed on his pipe. He studied the scene, and then wondered why the hell he was there. Sure, he was the President General, but it wasn’t his job to investigate murders. He thought about this but then changed his mind as he observed his garb. But this Sherlock Homes gear is just so becoming on me, he thought.

That moment, Al ran through the door, a pasty pink organ in his hands.

"Please tell me this is the Bavarian bitch’s kidney!"

"Hey, I object to that!" Cleo complained before Al pushed her out of the way, into a surprised Cactus. Cleo had just been let out of prison.

"Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!" Al said.

"Hey, that’s my line!" NTM protested. "Anyway, we don’t know whose kidney that is Al," NTM said in a mock compassionate tone. "Why? Ooh, where did you get that thing?"

"My kids are missing!"

"What?"

"I left them at the circus and when I got there they had packed up. A man told me that they had joined the circus and had already moved out two hours ago on the performers bus." Al took a breath. "They’ve already gone to the airport and would have left for Italy."

"Italian Circus Freaks!" NTM screamed.

"Well, actually they are Polish."

"Italian, Polish . . ."

"Anyway, where is the body?"

"We don’t know."

"What!?"

"All we have is the marks on the door, a bit of blood over here and quite a bit on the ledge outside."

"Mmm, ledge, perhaps they killed a pigeon," Al said softly.

"Well I suppose we can put you up in the Presidential Palace then. You will all be safe there." NTM assured them.

"Yeah," Al agreed. "Better than any Hilton or Eight Seasons Hotel."

"Eight Seasons?"

"Yeah, it was foundered in Melbourne."

"Oh." NTM felt his mind wondering. "Yes, well. Get packed up and we shall move you into the palace."

"Gees, thanks for letting me come up here in the cockpit!" Al shouted enthusiastically.

"That is alright, Mr. Al." The pilot responded.

"Hey, what does this button do?" Al pressed it.

A clown in a red suit, riding a Kodiac bear came out of one of the side compartments.

"Macho, macho man. I wanna be a macho man," the clown sang.

"K," Al observed nervously.

"Oh, in the navy . . ."

"Oh, no!" the pilot exclaimed. "He’s doing the village people medley again!"

"We’re all going on a summer holiday."

"Quick, put it away!" the co-pilot screamed.

The pilot quickly pushed the button and the clown, after curtly bowing, directed the bear back into the compartment.

"What the fu . . ." Al started.

"Now listen to me," the pilot breathed, grabbing Al by the shirt, "Don’t you ever press that button again! OKAY?!"

"Yes," Al said in his smallest voice.

Ten awkward minutes passed, silence reigned in the cockpit.

"So, what does this do?" Al pulled a lever.

A small door opened above them, from it emerged Frank Sinatra.

"Hey, aren’t you meant to be dead?" Al asked accusingly.

"Actually," Frank explained, "I gave it all up for this gig."

"That’s crazy . . ." Al said. "Hey, could I make a request?"

"Sure!"

"Could you sing Strawberry Fields Forever?"

"Do you know who I am?"

"Sure, you’re John Lennon!"

"No, I am . . ."

"Sing it, hippy!"

"But . . ."

"I said sing!" Al growled holding a gun to Frank’s head.

The plane flew off into the sun, Al was eager to get to Italy.

The time passed quickly with the sweet tones of many Beatles songs, sung awkwardly, missing most of the words.

"Ah . . . yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away . . . something. I don’t know . . ."

"It’s just how I remember it," Al smiled. "Ah, the nostalgia."

"Hey, I don’t remember packing this bottle of blood," Mercedes said, entering the small room that joined onto NTM’s quarters.

"What?" NTM asked.

"Well, I was unpacking and I found this bottle in my suitcase. It looks like blood, and," she took a swig, "It tastes like blood."

"Hey, how do you know what blood tastes like?" Gamblor asked.

"Ah, I . . . don’t it’s just that . . . ah. Were that it was that I did know what . . . ah blood tasted like, it would be like that." Mental note, Mercedes thought, they know too much.

Gamblor considered this. "OK, since I have no idea what you just said, I have not alternative but to accept your logic."

"Who is this sicko who is going around killing us Bavarians?" Daemina asked. "You damn yFalminicans aren’t very hospitable."

"Hey, take that back bitch!" Gamblor screamed, draping himself in a yFalminican flag. This psycho probably isn’t even yFalminican. I bet he is from New Zealand, or one of those other Turkish countries."

"Turkey isn’t a contin . . ."

"Don’t stop me while I am on a roll." NTM was distracted. "Ooh! Fairy bread!"

Hummana had just walked in with a plate of sprinkly bread. "Umh," she thought deeply, "Mr. Al said that I should serve some scones and eggnog or something. And since I don’t like know how to make eggnog, or scones, I decided to go for the something, or something." She paused, tilting her head, "So I like made some fairy bread or something."

"Thanks, breasts," Gamblor breathed, "I mean Hummana."

She slowly moved away, her cleavage leaving a lasting impression on all the males’ minds.

"You better catch this psycho, I can’t stand to not know who they are," Daemina cried.

"Whoether they are," Gorf said, entering the room, crawling on the floor, "they aren’t verwy effithient."

Gorf dragged himself over to NTM. "I am thtill alive." He added.

"Gorf! My god! Look what you’ve done to my rug," NTM shrieked.

"Argh!" Mercedes and Igor shrieked.

"Gees she is attractive," Gamblor said, "I mean Gorf, what happened."

Igor looked at NTM accusingly. "Can’t you see he has been wounded?"

"I will never get this stain out," NTM said observing the rug.

"Gorf, are you alright? My God, who did this?"

"And I just bought it last week."

"Quick, help me Mercedes."

"From that Persian Rug dealer, no less."

"That wound, I can’t stop the blood."

"Do you know how hard it is to by something off a genuine Persian salesman these days, what with our strict immigration policy?"

"Get a bandage or something."

"Cost me an arm and a leg."

"No, Gorf don’t leave us." Gorf closed his eyes, singing softly the tune to ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’.

"Literally, too. Lucky Al and I are involved in that black market body parts racket."

"If you ever need a kidney . . ." Gamblor began.

"Gorf!" Igor lightly slapped his face. She turned to AFOC and Daemina "Where’s the palace medical staff? And have you called the ambulance?"

"Look at the weave! It’s perfect."

"Gorf, count with me! One, two . . ."

Gorf counted weakly, "Onnne, twooo."

"You don’t see a weave like this from any old yFalminican or Australian tailor. No, sir."

"Gorf! Finally, doctor, where have you been?"

"You have to go to a dirty, beggar weaver for a weave like this."

"OK, Gorf," the doctor said. "Can you hear me."

"Yeth."

"The weaver has to have an eye badly affected by glaucoma. It has to be hanging all the fucking way out of his socket for god’s sake."

"We have to get him onto that table, or some flat surface."

"The weaver has to have leprosy, his limbs have to be sitting next to him on the floor."

"Lay him down carefully."

"His ears have to be in a jar, soaking in formaldehyde on the shelf behind him."

"Press that down firmly now."

"His face has to be twisted in so many ways, due to the beating he has received for being the dirty beggar he is. His only arm remaining has to be covered in boils. This man has to be an inbred freak whose sister is also his son!" He spun around. "That’s how you get the perfect weave. Now how many people like that have you seen around here?" He coughed at the sight before him. "Damn it! Gorf, what are you doing on my new mahogany coffee table?"

"You prick!" Igor screamed. "He’s dead, you know?"

"Well, that’s a bit rough now isn’t it?" Gamblor said.

The group stood shaken. That was the fourth victim. Seven Bavarians left. No one was safe.

"Where do we go now?" asked Draco.

"Well I have heard that the presidential palace has good security." NTM suggested.

"We are at the flipping palace, and still this psycho is killing us," Bob screamed.

"You know what I think," NTM said. At the time he was thinking two things, how best sour cream could be utilised as a lubricant, and that the killer was one of them. He decided that perhaps the latter was the one, which was more appropriately shared. "I think that the killer is in this room now."

"Argh!" they all screamed, turning around quickly. "Where are they!"

"No, I mean that the killer is one of us!"

"Oh!" recognition suddenly dawned on them and each lunged for another. Soon it was a big orgy of Bavarians and yFalminicans strangling one another.

"Stop it," NTM called out. "We have to settle this calmly. Look it is obviously one of us because . . . Intoxicating Ritual Cup! Will you stop that? It is very distracting." She was presently writing on the walls. "Come over here and sit down!"

"She’s so attractive," Gamblor whispered, feeling the powerful press of Igor’s foot on his groin.

"So who is it?" Draco asked as they eyed each other suspiciously. "It can’t be me."

"Why not?" Mercedes said."

"It just couldn’t, it’s not my thing."

"Well, we all know that you are capable of evil. You are the Bavarian minister for evil, of course."

"Yes, that’s true, I suppose, but . . ."

"Let’s be constructive, shall we," Igor suggested. "Let’s not accuse each other. Let’s work out which of us it couldn’t be." She thought for a second. "Well it can’t be NTM, AFOC, Gamblor, Mercedes, Daemina or me. We were all here before Gorf came. It can’t be Al, he is in Italy. That leaves you, Inducing Runny Cattle, Baron, Bob, Draco, Cleo and Captain Homes de Pants."

"Well, it couldn’t have been me," Cleo said.

"Why not?"

"I was with Homes."

"Go, son!" Gamblor nudged Home de Pants with his elbow.

"I . . . ah . . . that isn’t, ah." Captain Homes de Pants dribbled.

"Sex, yes?" Cleo asked, turning to the captain.

"Oh, knock it off you two!" Mercedes said, just as the lights went out. "The lights have gone out," Mercedes announced.

"No, shit Sherlock!" screamed Cleo.

"Did someone call me?" NTM asked, light, looming puffs of smoke marking where he sat.

"Well what do we do now?" Igor asked. "I think I am going to go mad if the lights stay off for much longer."

"Quick," NTM said, pulling a small portable touch lamp from his pocket, "We have to get to somewhere safer. Follow me."

There was a deafening scream. "Ah, perhaps we acted too slow," NTM said as he turned on his touch lamp and the lights flickered, giving a strobe-like image of the body on the floor.

When the lights came on they all gasped at the sight of Draco, gutted, lying in a puddle of blood. Those nearest to her (Igor, Itchy Rose Canadian and Bob) jumped away.

"We can cross her off the list then," NTM whispered.

"Well, this is really starting to piss me off!" Igor screamed.