Tetherd Cow Ahead

Pitka cast a world-weary eye over the shabby hotel mezzanine. He was still half asleep. Someone put a coffee in his hand. Jesus H. Christ what a mess. No blood, but broken glass, ash, soot and tinsel everywhere.

The hotel had seen better days, but the mezzanine, with its comfortable-looking armchairs and fireplace, would have continued as a cosy and inviting little refuge from the New York freeze. A few embers remained in the grate.

A Christmas tree lay sprawled across the room, baubles scattered on the carpet, some smashed into glittering shards. A coarse hessian sack spilled brightly wrapped and beribboned packages down the mezzanine steps into the lobby proper.

The fat guy in the charred Santa suit lay smouldering in the middle of the floor, tangled in Christmas tree lights that were still flashing. Little wisps of smoke curled off his scorched flesh.

“Can someone turn those off for God’s sake?” Pitka rubbed his eyes. “What’s all the spilled liquid?”

Goldman was picking something out of the corpse’s white beard with tweezers.

“Milk,” she said.

Of course. He stooped to peer at little pellets of something spread across the hearth.

“These?”

She looked up, and then to where he was pointing.

“Some kind of animal droppings. Herbivore.”

“You’re not going to tell me that they’re reindeer.”

“Only if you want me to, sir.”

“Hmmm. So. Electrocution, then?”

“No. He was tied up with the lights after he died. And then they were switched on. I can’t be entirely certain until I see some lab results but I’m thinking he was poisoned. His skin is overly florid and there are crumbs of this in his beard.”

She handed him a transparent plastic evidence bag. It contained what looked like the remains of a small raspberry & cream tart.

“Smell it.”

Pitka unzipped the seal on the bag and immediately noted the unmistakeable and curiously appealing delicate scent of bitter almond. He nodded.

“Any ID?” he asked, of no-one in particular.

Morrison appeared at his elbow.

“None on the body, chief. No-one in the hotel knows who he is. There was only a desk clerk on duty and he was apparently…” he looked at his notebook “…’having a quiet drink with his girlfriend…’ in one of the unoccupied rooms.”

Pitka sighed. He looked at his watch. 5.15 am. Christmas Day.

An unidentified corpse in a hotel lobby. An unidentified perp. No immediately apparent motive. No witnesses. What were the chances that anyone was going to come forward to identify this guy over the holidays?

He stepped outside and lit a cigarette. It was still dark. A light snow swirled down through the streetlights.

Reindeer droppings?

Somewhere, in a house further off down the street, a kid started to cry.

I’m going to be away for a few days over the Festive Season so I thought I’d take this opportunity to wish all the readers of The Cow a Very Merry Yule and all the Best Things for the coming year.

Thank you all for your laughs, your wit and your wisdom over the past year (if not your atrocious ambitious poetry), and for your great company in this big ol’ Blogosphere. I hope Satan Santa sees fit to fill your stockings with things other than sharp objects, cigarette lighters, gel liquids or anything else that might be challenging to get through airport security.

Maybe candy. Candy’s safe. I think. Except for that exploding stuff.

Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad! Joyeux Noel! Natale hilare et Annum Faustum! Merry Keshmish! Chung Mung Giang Sinh! Meri Kirihimete! Gledileg Jol!

(Oh – and make sure you tune in tomorrow for a Happy Happy Joy Joy Christmas Tale to get you into the mood…)

Shiver me timbers me lads! And serve me up another cup o’ grog!

I’m back from the High Seas, faithful Acowlytes, and what a mighty adventure it was. The sights I saw! The fearsome sea serpents I battled!

Violet Towne and I have been on a trip to the Whitsunday Islands in Northern Queensland, one of the most beautiful places on earth. Under any circumstances this would have been a wonderful thing to have done, but it was even more of a treat owing to the fact that I won the holiday in last year’s Australian Maritime Museum Christmas Raffle.

Specifically, the prize was three days sailing on the Tall Ship the Derwent Hunter, a striking two-masted vessel made in the 1940s from the finest Australian ship-building timbers available. I don’t want to make you too jealous, but basically, we spent three days on the deck of a beautiful wooden ship, sailing under clear blue skies by day and star-filled skies by night. We swam off beaches of powdery white silica sand and dived among fishes so colourful that they put the rainbow to shame.

Lest you think this all sounds a little too much like Paradise, let me return to the bit about the fearsome sea serpents. Consider the sign that we encountered on our arrival:

I just want to point out that this BIG sign encompasses only jellyfish. It says nothing of sharks, stingrays, giant octopods or other ship-eating fishy things. But trust me, the jellyfish alone are enough to keep you in the cocktail bar.

Especially this one:

You may have missed a salient point here, so I will reiterate it – Size: 12mm. Twelve millimeters. About half an inch. Also – ‘transparent jellyfish – usually never seen’.

Up until 1964 the main evidence that someone had come into contact with an Irukandji was their dead body washed up on the beach… But I exaggerate for effect; in actual fact, death from the Irukandji is rare even if the symptoms are dire: back pain, nausea, abdominal cramps, sweating, hypertension, tachycardia and a feeling of impending doom.

A feeling of impending doom. Oh boy, as symptoms go that really sounds like a barrel of laughs.

The Irukandji is dangerous and unpleasant, but only one of a dozen scary toxic creatures that inhabit these waters. It is one of Nature’s cruel ironies that the beautiful blue seas off the coast of Queensland are filled with some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet. When the mercury rises, it seems that being denied the respite of the cool azure sea is an almost certain proof of the non-existence of a benign God.

Only a total bastard would pull a trick like that.

Of course, such trivial measures would never stop a pirate.

It’s going to be quiet on The Cow for a week or so – I’m off on another adventure. More when I return, including pics. You guys have fun without me. And no loud parties OK?

The Continuing Misfortunes of Simple Graphics Man

~ #17: Hangin’ With the Cool Kids.

This just in from Wooolphmann. He says: Backstage at the Kraftwerk concert, SGM gets his photo taken with some of the guys in the band….