THE MOST RECENT In Crime Fighting

Nigel Osprey sits in front of his television set with a can of beer in his hand and slowly raising it and taking a luxurious sip and a sound escapes his wet lips 'ah.....that is life!'

He is enjoying the activity program on television, holding his favourite brew in his hand as symbol of freedom, whilst stabilising a family size pizza that had just been delivered and today balances precariously on his knees. He notices its steam rising gently and wafting through the air, filling the area along with his favourite aroma: 'food!'

He listens with rapture to his favourite football manager's ranting.

Yes, he reminds himself with glowing eyes: that manager's a real man, strong, with a thick-set body and a mouth that continually appears to burst forth outrageous statements! And expletives - admittedly beeped out by freshforex broker of a sissy programme editor - seem to stream effortlessly from thick and egotistic lips.

Nigel giggles to himself. He is enjoying these outbursts; they are amusingly insulting and words are being aired that cannot be received over the airwaves because of the earth content - they're too earthy! But you can always lip-read rather than missng out, thereby increasing the fun!

Wonderful thoughts are arriving at his mind as he takes another strong suck from his beer can: The wife's gone away, this time for good! The divorce was very disturbing and a real upheaval. She seems to live now with her aunt Gerti in Muckalot in another state - wherever the hell that is.

Her dim-witted cousin Winston had come and picked-up all her belongings. He's taken a whole lot, piling it on top of a truck, nonetheless it was great to start to see the last of her junk!

From now on, he keeps reminding himself, there is absolutely no more screaming at him, no more berating, the home is now quiet and peaceful as there is only he and his cat Benny, who's in complete agreement with him.

He glances around and notices that the room now looks sparsely furnished. His wife, ex-wife to be exact, has left him with the bare necessities! But there is a tranquil light filtering through the sheer curtains, making all of the dust visible yet giving the area a tranquil ambiance.

'This is really a man's paradise', he thinks, nodding to himself. You can find his scattered newspapers, with the sports pages open and soon you will have a few magazines lying around the room he'd normally not need dared to buy.

'It's great to be free', he thinks - it is a wonderful feeling, and he becomes aware of an intoxicating rush rippling through his body, making him sigh in bliss.

Suddenly, you can find knocks on the entranceway, rather firm and banging with determination.

'What on earth.....' He doesn't like unforeseen visitors, particularly when they are interrupting his favourite television program!

Before the guy can shout 'Go away!' it bangs again, this time around having an added touch of impatience and very annoying! He feels his fury rising.

Opening the door somewhat in order to avoid further noise, he becomes alert to two men who were obviously detectives, identifiable by their tight fitting suits and felt hats - 'who wears hats, nowadays?' he observes. In it jostled a fat policeman with a television news team, filled with camera man and sound technician.

The detectives worry him - right from his first look into them he's got this gut feeling they spelt troubles. These two men had faces so leathery and weather beaten and with darting eyes that, when coming up with eye contact, appear to yank out any secrets a person should withhold.

They are with a third man, some sort of professor type, with thick glasses, holding a clipboard in his hands.

The news team gets visibly exited, starting to push their way closer to Nigel. They are of the delicate type, colourfully dressed, 'very pansy-like', Nigel observes.

They're holding their various apparatuses as if they were doing the general public, and humanity in general, a great favour! 'But what's this about?' his thoughts keep racing through his mind.

Before he could think straight and absorb all this gathering, among the detectives, with a face such as a constipated bulldog, with eyes which were big and bloodshot and darting everyw here , held out a shiny metal plaque.

'Homicide!' he rasps, 'Are you Nigel Osprey?'

And he did not wait for an answer - so sure was he of his case.

'You are under arrest for the murder of a Mrs.Emilia Prattlelot..., your ex partner wife!'

'W..w..w.whaaaat?' Nigel could only gasp incredulously.

'That's right!' You heard!' This bellow happens of non-existent lips.

'Come with me now. Come on, come on.....' A huge fat hand reaches out to seize him.

'What are you currently talking about?'

Nigel instinctively tries to close the entranceway in an attempt to shut out this hostile crowd.

Unfortunately, this Robert-Mitchum-look-alike has big feet - very big, they reach the door gap, thereby preventing its closing.

The third man, the one looking just like a boffin, but with the same non-descript clothes, had white hair and probably a big bald spot that, too, is included in the old-fashioned hat. His pronounced features were thick spectacles - very thick. These were so pronounced they appear to convex out in an attempt to reach him, with two tiny black spots showing which are attempting to hypnotise him - they were either his pupils or the dots flies had left on his glasses.

'We know' escaped his stern lips. His Adam's apple moved along his scrawny throat with a collar that was much too big, giving the impression of shrinking whilst working!

The policeman, was in a uniform that tries to regulate his excessive weight by compressing it severely. But it only shifted his blubber downwards, manifesting itself in legs like concrete crushers, with rather gigantic, broad feet.

Now, he too, tried to get into the act: Come out, quick!' it escapes his thick lips.

Nigel feels that it's time to say something:

'Look, I haven't done anything to anybody - I simply wish to be left alone'. He forcefully through his weight contrary to the door, as hard as he could, jamming that giant's foot as hard as he could - without effect.

'He must have a prosthesis', he observes because the man's features betray nothing.

The man with the thick goggles explained:

'We are from PCU, Predictive Crime-fighting Unit, based at police headquarters......'

'I don't give a fig what you are - I haven't done anything and my meal gets cold'

(He didn't shout exactly 'fig', but this writer is of good upbringing and wouldn't normally know how to spell the exact expletive!)

Nigel keeps banging the door contrary to the detective's shoe - a useless exercise.

'Hey', shouts the man with the microphone, 'can you come out a bit and present us a smile - you can be on the news headlines tonight!'

Amazed, Nigel opened the entranceway and steppes outside. 'What news? What are you discussing?'

The reporter was quite friendly; 'Our government has installed a fresh supercomputer that not only records all of the crimes in this state, keeps statistics as to their frequency and type........'

The scientist took over:' With the demographic details, and the time-span, motive and all the relevant personality traits of the perpetrators, we have been now in a position to forecast in which a crime may happen, by whom, the reason, et cetera, et cetera', letting the Latin words dissolve on his tongue.

He looked really exited concerning this new era of crime fighting. His hand, holding the pen, seem to write something unseen in the air.

'What rubbish! I 'aven't done anything and that's it. Leave me alone - the lot of you!'

His eyes encompassed everybody and his chin pointed especially at the reporter and his team. Blood is draining from his face and suddenly he feels so alone and helpless.

'This is a nightmare! How do you get out of this?' his thoughts keep racing. And nowadays there are signs of perspiration on his forehead.

'Come with us - come on, come on!' The hefty detective uttered these words such as a busy landlord reminding his patrons of closing time.

'Just to show you how accurate we are,' the scientist tries to demonstrate eagerly, 'You've ordered a pizza for dinner, with extra anchovies and mushrooms.' Looking at his clipboard folder in his hand, he rattled off what.

Stunned silence prevailed.

'Well, yes, but.....'

'Come on, come with us. Don't give us any troubles.' The mountain-man began tucking at his arm again - symbolic of his impatience.

'Leggo of me - I 'aven't done anything!'

Nigel's cry now sounds a little more desperate.

Looking at his clip board folder, the scientist eagerly continues:

'You've ordered this from an outlet called Pizza Paradise - did you not? Then you fed your cat - did you not? Also, you rang your friend Alfredo, inviting him for the evening?'

The final sentence was shouted with disgust.

In the background, the television anchorman started to talk into a microphone, explaining to his unseen viewers this fun new technology, with the eager face of an expert and an uneasy stomach because he was not sure what exactly he was talking about.

Standing on a nature strip, he notices that this was not the only thing he was sitting on. Don't people believe in picking up after their dogs?

Now the policeman enters the act: 'You have a brother called Arthur who lives in England. And a cousin in Townsville, called Edward, - right? As well as your car number is ......' Raising his voice in triumph he finishes:

'Your ex-wife will arrive at any time now, attempt to take custody of your dog, leaving you with the cat. And it will happen!'

He nodded at the increasing number of spectators. Justice is being done - everybody can easily see this!

A fresh person, female, approaches the crowd. She is somewhat dowdily dressed, with a headscarf and showing an expertly way of pushing and shoving her way into the crowd and through it.

Nearly reaching Nigel, she nods at him.

'Stop! Where do you thing you are going? And who are you anyway?' The policeman held up a meaty hand with sausage fingers.

'Let me through, I must see Nigel!'

The detective tried to convey a fact:

'So, you are Emilia Prattlelot, the ex-wife?'

The gathered crowd outside the door stiffens; they look at each other, nodding 'I told you so!' Then they step back somewhat, aware that they are facing a cataclysmic moment.

'No, I'm Sally the cleaner! I am here to pick up my pay for the home cleaning. She looked at Nigel, holding out a hand: 'You promised you'll have the eighty-five dollars for me.....'

Nigel gasped: 'Of course, Sally, eighty five-dollars did you say? No issue! Reaching into his back pocket he produced his wallet and carefully counts out the amount of money into her upheld palm.

Staring at the amount of money piling-up in her hand, she readily gives information to the questions. Yes, she comes regularly and this afternoon is her pay-day.

Great consternation is spreading and the police suddenly look deeply wounded: It really is supposed to be enough time of murder!

There are frantic calls to the police head offices and phones are ringing in reply, backwards and forwards.

'Thanks, Nigel, see you soon!' Sally disappears with exactly the same quantity of determination she came with, but this time having an added touch of triumph.

For reasons uknown the group of police are looking pale and stunned. The scientist staring into his clipboard folder was suddenly red-faced, the authorities crowded around him, all attempting to look knowingly.

'There is no mention of a Sally!' The geek with the thick glasses seems to have his eyes protruding like on stalks.

'The wife is not here, but a cleaning woman arises.....'

First, a murmur undergoes the crowd, a sort of rebellion starts spreading. Mumbling first disappointment, then loud sounds of dissatisfaction about the police generally and the law begins to be aired.

The tv screen team hurriedly pack-up their various equipment with downcast expressions whilst their bus driver starts the engine. Now, they have no story to report!

People are walking away, disgusted and in all directions, having been cheated out of a genuine drama.

The people of regulations remain making frantic phone calls to their head offices, especially with their computer department.

'Goggle-eyes' stares at his mobile as if he cannot believe what he's just heard, Fatso tries to crush his phone in his meaty hand and the bulldog's blood-shot eyes keep staring in disbelief at the scientist's computer readout.

But after a while they, too, withdraw, making their exit with your final glare at Nigel: 'We will be back,' their looks appear to say.

Everybody withdraws - the brand new, crime-predicting, computer has made a blunder!

Leaving Nigel standing outside his door, alone and scratching his head. Shrugging his shoulders he murmurs:

'Who the hell is Sally?'

PETER FREDERICK

[1]

peter-frederick@hotmail.com

For most of his working life, Peter was a commercial traveler, driving across Australia's countryside, having to cope with many hilarious situations plus some mellow moments. Now, he could be authoring them in his books. Peter Frederick invites the reader to visit him on his website for more information about his publications..