Notes

The Latest In Crime Fighting
Nigel Osprey sits before 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.....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 group size pizza that had just been delivered and now 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 a sissy programme editor - seem to stream effortlessly from thick and egotistic lips.

Nigel giggles to himself. He is enjoying these outbursts; they're amusingly insulting and words are being aired that can't 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 arriving at 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 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 on top of a truck, but it was great to see the last of her junk!

To any extent further, 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 area now looks sparsely furnished. His wife, ex-wife to be exact, has left him with the bare necessities! But there exists a tranquil light filtering through the sheer curtains, making all the dust visible and 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 you will see several magazines lying around 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 alert to an intoxicating rush rippling through his body, making him sigh in bliss.

Suddenly, there are 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 he is able to shout 'Go away!' it bangs again, this time with an added touch of impatience and incredibly annoying! He feels his fury rising.

Opening the entranceway 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. Behind them 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 has this gut feeling they spelt troubles. Both of these men had faces so leathery and weather beaten and with darting eyes that, when coming up with eye contact, seem to yank out any secrets an individual 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 is getting visibly exited, needs 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 generally, an excellent favour! 'But what is this all about?' his thoughts keep racing through his mind.

Before he could think straight and absorb all this gathering, one of many detectives, with a face just 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 an answer - so sure was he of his case.

'You are under arrest for the murder of a Mrs.Emilia Prattlelot..., your ex 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. Come on, come on.....' An enormous fat hand reaches out to grab him.

'What are you talking about?'

Nigel instinctively tries to close the entranceway so that they can 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 seem to convex out in an attempt to 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 has been much too big, giving the impression of shrinking whilst working!

The policeman, was in a uniform that tries to control 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: Turn out, quick!' it escapes his thick lips.

Nigel feels that it is time to say something:

'Look, I haven't done anything to anybody - I simply desire 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 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 is getting cold'

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

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

'Hey', shouts the person with the microphone, 'can you turn out a bit and present us a smile - you will end up on the news 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 new supercomputer that not merely records all the crimes in this state, keeps statistics as to 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 able to forecast in which a crime will 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 is it. Leave me alone - the large amount 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 like a busy landlord reminding his patrons of closing time.

'Just showing you how accurate we are,' the scientist tries to show eagerly, 'You've ordered a pizza for supper, 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.

Staring 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 last sentence was shouted with disgust.

In the background, the television anchorman began to talk into a microphone, trying to explain to his unseen viewers this great new technology, with the eager face of a specialist and an uneasy stomach because he was not sure just what he was discussing.

Standing on a nature strip, he notices that was not the one thing he was standing on. Don't people have confidence in picking 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? 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 your dog, leaving you with the cat. And it'll happen!'

He nodded at the increasing amount of spectators. Justice has been done - everybody can see this!

A new person, female, approaches the crowd. She actually 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 can you thing you are going? And that are you anyway?' The policeman organized a meaty hand with sausage fingers.

'Let me through, I have to see Nigel!'

The detective tried to convey a fact:

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

The gathered crowd beyond your door stiffens; they look at one another, nodding 'I told you so!' They step back somewhat, aware they are facing a cataclysmic moment.

'No, I'm Sally the cleaner! I am here to pick up my pay for the house 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 problem! 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 which afternoon is her pay-day.

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

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

For some reason 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 isn't 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 concerning the police generally and regulations 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!

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

The people of regulations remain making frantic calls with their head offices, especially to 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 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 some of his working life, Peter was a commercial traveler, driving across Australia's countryside, needing to cope with many hilarious situations and some mellow moments. Now, he is writing about them in his books. Peter Frederick invites the reader to visit him on his website for more information about his publications..
Homepage: https://writeuply.com/invest-your-money-wisely-freshforex-broker/