Notes

The Latest In Crime Fighting
Nigel Osprey sits in front of his tv with a can of beer in his hand and slowly raising it and going for 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 room 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 seems to burst forth outrageous statements! And expletives - admittedly beeped out by way of a sissy programme editor - appear to stream effortlessly from thick and egotistic lips.

Nigel giggles to himself. He could be enjoying these outbursts; they are amusingly insulting and words are increasingly being aired that can't be received over the airwaves because of their earth content - they're too earthy! But one can always lip-read and not 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 genuine upheaval. She seems to live now with her aunt Gerti in Muckalot in another state - wherever the hell that's.

Her dim-witted cousin Winston had come and picked-up all her belongings. He's taken a whole lot, piling it high on a truck, nonetheless it was great 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's 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. There are his scattered newspapers, with the sports pages open and soon there will be a few magazines lying round the room he'd normally not have dared to buy.

'It's great to be free', he thinks - this 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 the planet.....' He doesn't like unforeseen visitors, particularly when they're 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 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. Behind them jostled a fat policeman with a television news team, complete with camera man and sound technician.

The detectives worry him - right from his first glance at them he's got this gut feeling they spelt troubles. Both of these men had faces so leathery and weather beaten sufficient reason for darting eyes that, when making eye contact, seem to yank out any secrets a person should withhold.

They're with a third man, a kind of professor type, with thick glasses, holding a clipboard in his hands.

The news team is getting visibly exited, needs to push their way nearer to Nigel. They are of the delicate type, colourfully dressed, 'very pansy-like', Nigel observes.

They are holding their various apparatuses as if they were doing the general public, and humanity in general, a great favour! 'But what is 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 like a constipated bulldog, with eyes which were big and bloodshot and darting everywhere, held out a shiny metal plaque.

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

And he did not wait for a reply - 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 comes out of non-existent lips.

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

'What are you talking about?'

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

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

The third man, the main one looking like a boffin, but with the same non-descript clothes, had white hair and probably a large bald spot that, too, is included in the old-fashioned hat. His pronounced features were thick spectacles - very thick. They were so pronounced they seem to convex out so that they can reach him, with two tiny black spots showing that are trying 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 has been 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. Nonetheless 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 and energy 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 - with no effect.

'He will need to have a prosthesis', he observes as 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 provide a fig what you are - I haven't done anything and my meal is getting cold'

(He didn't shout exactly 'fig', but this writer is of good upbringing and would not discover how to spell the precise expletive!)

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

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

Amazed, Nigel opened the door and steppes outside. 'What news? What are you talking about?'

The reporter was quite friendly; 'Our government has installed a new 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 all the demographic details, and the time-span, motive and all other relevant personality traits of the perpetrators, we have been now in a position to forecast where a crime may happen, by whom, the reason, et cetera, et cetera', letting the Latin words dissolve on his tongue.

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

'What rubbish! I 'aven't done anything and that is 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 escape this?' his thoughts keep racing. And there are now signs of perspiration on his forehead.

check here Come around - come on, come on!' The hefty detective uttered these words just like a busy landlord reminding his patrons of closing time.

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

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 - didn't you? Also, you rang your friend Alfredo, inviting him for the evening?'

The last sentence was shouted with disgust.

In the background, the tv screen anchorman began to talk right into a microphone, explaining to his unseen viewers this great new technology, with the eager face of a specialist and an uneasy stomach because he had not been sure just what he was talking about.

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

Now the policeman gets into the act: 'You have a brother called Arthur who lives in England. And a cousin in Townsville, called Edward, - right? And 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 then it will happen!'

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

A new person, female, approaches the crowd. She is somewhat dowdily dressed, with a headscarf and showing an expertly method 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 that are you anyway?' The policeman organized a meaty hand with sausage fingers.

'Let me through, I must see Nigel!'

The detective tried to convey a fact:

'So, you're 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 they are facing a cataclysmic moment.

'No, I am Sally the cleaner! I am here to pick up my pay for the home cleaning. She viewed 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 money into her upheld palm.

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

Great consternation is spreading and the authorities suddenly look deeply wounded: It is supposed to be enough time of murder!
There are frantic calls to the authorities head offices and phones are ringing in reply, back and forth.

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

For some reason the group of police want pale and stunned. The scientist staring into his clipboard folder was suddenly red-faced, the police crowded around him, all wanting to look knowingly.

'There is no mention of a Sally!' The geek with the thick glasses appears to have his eyes protruding like on stalks.
'The wife is not here, but a cleaning woman turns up.....'

First, a murmur goes through the crowd, a kind 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 everywhere, having been cheated out of a genuine drama.

The people of regulations remain making frantic calls to their head offices, especially to their computer department.
'Goggle-eyes' stares at his mobile as though 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 few years they, too, withdraw, making their exit with your final glare at Nigel: 'We will be back,' their looks appear to say.

Everybody withdraws - the 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

[http://www.life-on-the-road.com]

[email protected]

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 writing about them in his books. Peter Frederick invites the reader to go to him on his website for more information about his publications..
Homepage: https://jujubesy.com/know-about-the-top-10-best-food-for-travelling-abroad/