THE USURIOUS SUSPECTS

OR

I KNOW, WHAT? YOU DID LAST CHRONICLES!?

Phil and Bill sat at their table, the security guards watched them suspiciously.

"Yeah, Jake. They have been here everyday for two weeks. Who the hell are they?"

"I think they are kiwis," Jake shuddered. "I heard them talking. That accent, it just sounds evil.

"Hey Phirl," Bill said. "Anether one hes died."

"Really," Phil answered, giving the impression that he was carefully calculating his speech. "I dirdn’t hear."

"Yis, anether girl. They dern’t ivin know who the kirller irs."

"Fescinateng."

"Yis, I thought so."

"Good, firsh and chirps, hey Birl?"

"Yis, good."

"I don’t trust them," Jake said.

"They look harmless, but that accent creeps me out."

"Maybe we should mention them to the President General."

"No, he is too troubled by this killer going around. And you know how hard he works."

"Sex, yes?" Cleo said in a strained voice.

"No. I have gotta go do something." Captain Homes de Pants fled to a bathroom.

In her room Mercedes planned a speech which she would give to the others about her plans to go to sleep. "And thus I conclude," she read to herself. There was a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

No answer. Luckily Mercedes caught on to what this probably meant and quickly went out to the balcony and climbed over the edge. She hung there, watching the door, ready to jump down into the balcony below.

Nothing happened for ten minutes, so for safety’s sake she jumped down anyway. There the robed figure stood. It had apparently anticipated her move.

"Fudge!" Mercedes cried, she didn’t like being outsmarted.

The robed one sliced the air with its sickle. It made a terrifying sound as it came into contact with the rail of the balcony. The robed person stood confused. Where has she gone?

Mercedes had ducked and run into the room, she was now having trouble with the door. "Why can’t they mark the doors with push and pull stickers?" she cried, finally getting it open. The robed one was not deterred, chasing after her.

Mercedes ran along the hall, she had two choices, she could keep running or hide in the closet that she had just come to. She went for the closet.

Inside she held her breath, waiting. After two minutes she thought she had heard someone pass. Then a voice came, a familiar voice.

"Mercedes, where are you. We caught them!"

Mercedes burst out into the hall, and felt the sickle in her stomach. "Fudge! I am going to die!" Mercedes proclaimed and certainly her words did hold true.

In his room the Black Baron stood polishing his model train. The long, shiny vehicle had given him much joy. "Oh, Thomas, my child." He stroked the long engine.

Knock knock.

"Mhm." The baron cleared his throat.

"Come in."

The robed figure did so and approached the Baron who had his back turned. "Isn’t it beautiful?" The Baron asked, not even knowing whom he was talking to.

"Yes," answered the robed one, in that deep voice.

"Wha . . .?"

He turned around. "Well, you’re not Bob are you? I told Bob to meet me here. Who are you? No don’t tell me! I am really good at this. Nothing gets past the black Baron. You know I was a pilot in World War Two. I once brought done six British planes in two minutes. Well maybe they were actually German planes, but that doesn’t matter, they are planes all the same." He paused. "What were we doing? Of course! You, who are you."

The Black Baron thought for a minute. "Black robe . . . deep voice . . . hidden face. Could you give me a clue?"

The Robed one smiled, unbeknownst to the Baron as their face was indeed unseen. It lifted its hand, showing him the sickle. It then stepped carefully in a mock-sneaking prance and tapped on the shoulder of an imaginary person. Then it carefully sliced the unreal person up with savage strokes.

"No . . . its not coming to me. How many words?"

The figure held up two gloved fingers briefly.

"Two words, OK. Give me more."

The Robed One held up one finger. "First word," said the Baron. The figure cupped the hand to where its ear would have been. "Sounds like . . ." The figure pointed to its knee. "Bee! Glee! Sea! Tea? The!" The robed One nodded.

"The what?"

"Sounds like . . ."

The Robed One stabbed the air again.

"Kill?" the Robed One nodded, encouraged the Baron with their hands. "More? Killer?" There was a nod.

"Sounds like The Killer? Killer? . . . Mmm."

The Baron paced. "Oh! I get it! You’re the killer! . . . OH! I bet you are about to kill me then," he chuckled. The killer nodded.

The Sickle went about its work disembowelling the Baron, removing his head, gutting him, the Killer keeping his pancreas as a souvenir.

All that was left was a pretty ugly sight. Even uglier than the way that the Baron had originally looked.

IN NTM’S PRIVATE QUARTERS . . .

NTM lay back in his bubble bath. "Ah, this is the life."

Everyone else was in the visitor’s sector of the palace. They were restricted to their own rooms, armed guards stood outside the sector. Only Igor, Gamblor and Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote were allowed outside the visitors sector. They stayed in their own quarters where they usually did, despite having homes that they could go to. Al was downstairs in the kitchen, getting a long awaited feed.

NTM put his feet up on the sides of the bathtub. He clapped his hands and called for assistance. "I need to be bathed."

A large pair of breasts walked in. It took NTM some time to work out that there was a woman behind them. She wore a skimpy outfit, perhaps inappropriate at late night. "Can I like put something on, Mr. Mirrors. I am like really cold."

"Shush sweety, just swab."

The girl went about her work bathing the president when the room was suddenly filled with gloomy, dark music.

"Hey, Igor, are you playing the soundtrack from Psycho again?"

There was no response. NTM smiled, "Well, it must be for our benefit then."

The breasts screamed then as a robed figure emerged from the adjoining room. "Oh, well it’s all good and f#$ked now isn’t it?" NTM asked.

"Silence!" the robed figure growled.

"Hey, this is where I make my exit!" NTM launched himself out of the tub and pushed the breasts out of the way. He then carelessly jumped out of the open window.

"Um," the breasts said. "Are you like here for a bath? Because I have like a really busy schedule. So get in the tub quick, I don’t like have much time."

"Mmgnnmg," growled the robed one.

"Aha," answered the breasts. "Well, I have got to go service Mr. Al now, so if you don’t mind . . ."

"Stop!" There was no need for this as the sickle prevented the young pair of breasts from going far. There was in the end a very big mess of blood and guts and two big bobbing silicon bags.

The figure grinned.

"Oh, Magnio, you are like soooo gooood or something!" Hummana cried.

She lay next to magnio in his new apartment. He had got a job as a male stripper at the Presidential Showroom, on the second floor of the palace in the entertainment complex.

"Your voice is like so manly, so deep or something. Say something."

"Mmmgngm," he grunted. "You are such a fine woman, Hummana."

"Oh, Magnio, lets do it again or something."

"No! I have things to do."

"OK, I s’pose that I should like be getting back to the palace or something. My break is almost up or something."

Hummana dressed herself and slipped on her shoes, as she was leaving the room she saw a box near Magnio’s bed, labelled ‘Revenge’. "What’s this?" she queried.

"Nothing!" he yelled. "Go now!"

"Like OK, or something."

Brucey snarled at the picture of Al on his desk. "I am gowing to . . . eh . . . get you once I have finished the others off! I will . . . eh . . . make it slow and painful!"

He laughed vigorously. "You will all pay for what you did!" Flakes of scalp flecked the piece of paper that lay on the desk in front of him. "I am a genius!" he cried, shaking his finger. There was a red ‘P’ on it, stuck with glue. "It’s so hard to construct a . . . eh . . . good threat letter!

"So we told the bastard to get the f#$k out of our country," Al laughed. "I don’t know how he got in, our immigration policy is so strict and our government is so efficient!" Al looked at the cook, a thought crossed his mind, but then another one took precedence. "Where’s the f#$king janitor anyway?" Al exclaimed. "He’s meant to clean up this isn’t he?"

Al stood at the kitchen bench, supervising the cook. His feet were in a thick layer of dirt. "How long has it been since the bastard swept here?"

"Me no see janitor for three weeks sir."

"Mmm." There was something about the cook that Al just could not pick. Something different.

"You try this sir."

The cook held out a plate. AL started shovelling the food into his mouth. "How did you get so good at Cajian cooking?"

"Ah, I don’t know. I just sort of . . . ah, well." NTM burst into the kitchen, naked. Seeing his cue, the chef left while he could.

AL choked on a piece of chicken. "Jesus NTM can’t you put some clothes on?"

"The . . . kill . . . er, upstairs. Tried . . . tried . . .tried . . .to . . .tried . . ."

"Tried to what?!"

"Get, ah . . .me!"

"What? Where are they now?"

"I don’t know!"

"Shit, lets go warn the others!" Al put another piece of chicken in his mouth, swished it around with the fine Cabernet Savignon.

"Al!"

"Yeah, just a minute. This tastes so good! Here have a try." AL pushed the plate towards NTM, but then decided that he wanted to eat it all. "Ah, you wouldn’t like it anyway."

"Forget your f#$king food, we have to warn the others!"

"Oh, yes of course. The others, how selfish Mirrors, always think of yourself. The Killer tried to get me, well lad-di-da!"

"Come on, they’ll all be killed."

"Oh, they’ll all be killed will they? . . . Well I suppose that does warrant some sort of action."

They ran up the huge spiral staircase, realising that they should have installed that extra elevator of the east wing instead of just laughing and beating the janitor for suggesting it.

They left the stairs at the third floor. And made there way to Igor’s quarters.

At her door they knocked. There was no answer. They became alarmed, and even more uneasy as they heard sounds inside. Sounds of distress?

No, NTM and Al gagged as they realised that Igor was ‘entertaining’ a male friend.

"I think she’s doing the ‘tassel routine’!" AL cried with excitement, pressing his ear to the door.

"Tassel?" NTM asked, briefly compelled. He could here slapping sounds from the room. "Who’s in there with her?" NTM went to look through the keyhole and then realised that there was none. "Damn! Privacy 8, NTM 3," he muttered. "Well, ‘Miss I-don’t-Want-anyone-looking-through-keyholes-at-me-while-I-am-alone-with-a-‘friend’-preventing-the-slightest-bit-of-joy-from-entering-a-lonely-president’s-life. Sob. She can be so cruel!"

"Well, you can get your own back, we have to go in there to tell her. Lets barge down the door!"

NTM and Al took a few steps back and charged at the door. As they hit it they both severely hurt themselves, but knocked the door down anyway, so they were both left generally pleased.

They were even more pleased by the sight that presented itself to them in the room. There sat Igor in a compromising position, adorned in a manifold of technicolour tassels. In front of her was a muscular man, wearing a cowboy hat, and nothing else.

It took the intruders a while to work out that the naked man was in fact Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote. "My, god Igor!" AL cried. "Still, you refuse me, yet you go and perform the tassel routine for this mental defect!"

"Gnat tied possum looking down onto Alligator," Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote retorted.

"How do you know about the Tassel Routine?" Igor inquired.

"That doesn’t matter! What does is that the Killer is still in the Palace and he was just in NTM’s quarters!"

"No shit!"

"So we have to get all the others, if they are still alive."

"God, will this ever end?"

"Meanwhile," Al continued. "We still have time, so how about I give you two ten minutes and you go about your business." Igor and AFOC sat there. "Well, go on, don’t be shy!"

"I don’t think so!"

"Oh well, lets go then."