12 March 2007
Life’s A Bitch
March the Twelfth, Eighteen Fifty-Six
We returned to Mrs. Dinklesuck’s house-come-brothel promptly, eager to make our acquaintance of this Mark fellow, and bring to a conclusion this baffling mystery.
Inspector Spunkleford knocked briskly upon the door, which was then opened by the senior slut herself.
“Oh!”, she exclaimed, genuinely surprised to see us again. “It’s you gentleman. What a…pleasant surprise, I must say. So, what can I do for you fine gents? Blowjob? Handjob? Titwank…I’m sure I can accommodate you in any way you desire.”
She rolled her tongue suggestively across her wizened, old lips. I retched slightly.
“Uh, no thank you, m’am. We just have a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.” said Spunkleford, clearly revolted as well.
“Oh, no problem, Inspector. How can I help?”
“We have reason to believe there is a gentleman who is something of a regular client of yours. A fellow named Mark. We’d like to…”
“MARK?” snapped Mrs. Dinklesuck, her demeanour changing in a flash. “What do you know about Mark?”
“You know of this man, then?” I interjected.
“Maybe…maybe not…I…uh, I’ll just check my records….if you’ll excuse me, sirs.”
I nodded, and the old lady disappeared back into the house.
“That was a strange reaction,” said Spunkleford.
“Indeed,” I concurred. “I feel we may well be onto something, here.”
“I would have quite liked a handjob,” Botter piped up. We looked at him, disgusted.
Mrs. Dinklesuck returned, carrying a large ledger in her hand.
“Hmmm….now let me see…Mark…Mark…Mark…MARK THIS, MOTHER FUCKERS!”
With remarkable speed for one so old, Mrs. Dinklesuck drew a pistol from within the ledger and fired it at us. I leapt aside, throwing Botter to the ground with me. Spunkleford, meanwhile, drew his own pistol and returned fire. Mrs. Dinklesuck ducked back behind the door.
“What the fuck was that?” yelled Spunkleford.
“That was…unusual,” I said, drawing my own pistol from it’s holster.
“You are not joking,” Spunkleford agreed, slotting some more bullets into his gun’s chamber.
“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE COME BACK, COPPERS!” yelled Mrs. Dinklesuck, interrupting our dialogue. “YOU NO-GOOD, SNOOPING BASTARDS!”
She stepped out from behind the door-frame, and fired a couple more shots in our direction. We scampered, and took refuge behind an ornamental wishing-well in the garden.
“I wish she would stop firing,” I said, tossing a ha’penny into the well, injecting some much-needed humour into proceedings. We chuckled quietly.
Suddenly, another bullet whistled past my ear, as Mrs. Dinklesuck completely failed to adhere to my wishes. Then, she began yelling again.
“PROSTITUTES!” she screamed. “ASSEMBLE!”
We peered over the wishing-well, to see at least ten other women, armed with everything from big knives to automatic flame-throwing devices, appear at the various doors and windows of the house.
“NOW, GENTS…WE’RE GONNA FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU RIGHT UP!” shouted Mrs. Dinklesuck, arming her pistol.
“What a cunt,” I sighed.
Then all merry Hell broke loose.
