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 taking a luxurious sip and an audio escapes his wet lips 'ah.....this is life!'

He is enjoying the sport 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're amusingly insulting and words are increasingly being aired that cannot be received over the airwaves because of their earth content - they are too earthy! But you can always lip-read rather than missng out, thereby increasing the fun!

Wonderful thoughts are coming to his mind as he takes another strong suck from his beer can: The wife's gone away, this time around once and for all! The divorce was very disturbing and a genuine upheaval. She appears 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 lot, piling it high on 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 currently 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 the dust visible and yet giving the room 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 you will have a few magazines lying round the room he would normally not have dared to buy.

'It's great to be free', he thinks - this can be 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 door, rather firm and banging with determination.

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

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

Opening the door somewhat in order to avoid further noise, he becomes alert to two men who have been 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 - from his first look into 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, appear to yank out any secrets a person might want to withhold.

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

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

They're holding their various apparatuses as though they were doing the 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 of this gathering, one of many detectives, with a face such as a constipated bulldog, with eyes that were big and bloodshot and darting everywhere, held out a shiny metal plaque.

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

And he didn't 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 grab 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 door gap, thereby preventing its closing.

The third man, the main one looking just 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 that they appear 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 up and down his scrawny throat with a collar that was far too big, giving the impression of shrinking whilst on duty!

The policeman, was in a uniform that tries to control 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 find yourself in the act: Turn 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 against 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 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 learn how to spell the exact expletive!)

Nigel keeps banging the door against 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 will be on the news tonight!'

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

The reporter was quite friendly; 'Our government has installed a new supercomputer that not merely records all the crimes in this state, keeps statistics concerning their frequency and type........'

The scientist took over:' With all the current 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 why, etc, 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, seem 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 get out of this?' his thoughts keep racing. And there are now signs of perspiration on his forehead.

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

'Just to show you how accurate we have been,' the scientist tries to demonstrate eagerly, 'You've ordered a pizza for supper, 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, include us. Don't give us any troubles.' The mountain-man began tucking at his arm again - a symbol of his impatience.

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

Nigel's cry now sounds a bit more desperate.

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

'You've ordered this from an outlet called Pizza Paradise - didn't you? You then 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 television anchorman began 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 just what he was discussing.

Sitting on a nature strip, he notices that was not the only thing he was sitting on. Don't people have confidence in picking right 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 any moment now, attempt to take custody of the dog, leaving you with the cat. And it'll happen!'

He nodded at the increasing amount of spectators. Justice is being done - everybody can easily 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 in to the crowd and through it.

Nearly reaching Nigel, she nods at him.

'Stop! Where do you thing you're 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 state a fact:

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

The gathered crowd beyond your door stiffens; they look at one another, 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 get 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 problem! Reaching into his back pocket he produced his wallet and carefully counts out the 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 which afternoon is her pay-day.

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

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

For some reason the band of police are looking 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 reference to a Sally!' The geek with the thick glasses appears to have his eyes protruding like on stalks.
'The wife isn't here, but a cleaning woman turns up.....'

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

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

Folks are walking away, disgusted and everyw here , having been cheated out of a genuine drama.

The people of regulations remain making frantic calls with 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 undoubtedly 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

[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, needing to deal with many hilarious situations plus some mellow moments. Now, he is writing about them in his books. Peter Frederick invites the reader to go to him on his website for more information about his publications..
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