FOREWARD: This is the first news story or article Jesus Budda has written in almost a year.
If the fat man can be bothered he will try and update this story every week until it's thrilling conclusion.
Dedicated to all the brave police officers out there who are corrupt, incompetent and enjoy masturbation.
The district patrol cop stands over the butchered corpse, stroking his chin.
"Hey! Quit rubbing that body's face", shouts Detective O' Halloran as he bounds into the room, car cars dangling from a chain on his belt.
"Sorry, Detective. I just couldn't resist. I like chins so much".
O' Halloran pats the officer on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
"I understand, son. It took me a few cases before I got out of the habit."
"Thanks detective", the officer smiles back relieved.
"So what've we got here?"
"It's a body. And it's dead", says the officer as he takes some notes.
"Hmmm, the kind of body I wouldn't like waking up next to", says O' Halloran as he lights a bent cigarette and puts it to his lips. He's always enjoyed the Homosexual (TM) brand. Nothing like sucking on a thin faggot late at night.
"How long before forensics get here?"
"20 minutes. They're on their way."
The Detective walks around the body and tries to visualize the scene, but then he decides it's probably best to just open his eyes and judge it by looking at the crime scene instead: dead body; missing head, hands and feet; dressed pretty nicely for this part of town.
"Detective, I think you should have a look at this".
O' Halloran follows the officer to a darkened corner of the room. The officer pulls down his pants.
"Well, what do you think?"
"I'd have a doctor give that the once over. I don't like the way it's curving upwards. Not. One. Bit", O' Halloran adds sagely.
"Well, thats not the only reason I brought you over here", the officer says as he hikes his pants back up and takes out a torch and shines it high up on the wall.
"Oh, my God!", O' Halloran's mouth almost drops, "Is that...?"
Up near the top of the wall where it meets the ceiling, printed in foot-high letters are the words "Carla Bruni".
O'Halloran puts his sleeve up to his mouth and nose.
"Yeah", nods the officer, "what kind of sick bastard would cut off someones head, hands and feet and then write a sick message like that in excrement? Do you think it's a clue to the killer, Detective?"
O' Halloran backs away shaking his head.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Any witnesses?, he asks expecting an answer in the negative but is surprised by the response.
"Yeah, a girl. Officer Jones is with her in the other room".
A witness, eh? Maybe this is one of his lucky days. The previous five cases turned out unsolvable, and everyone knows a homicide cop who can't solve a murder - let alone one with five open cases - is a bit shit, frankly.
O' Halloran used his finally-honed skills and experience to plant evidence on people he didn't like and let them take the rap. Who gives a fuck if the cases don't hold up in court (let alone even make it that far). The main point was that he got the Lieutenant and the brass in the department off his back. He was sick of the way they placed that saddle on him and rode him around like some cheap playground carousel pony.
One more year of this shitty job and he'd take that fat retirement money and open that gay bar he'd always dreamed about: The Blue Oyster. Just him, a bunch of Freddie Mercury lookalikes and The Village People laying back, listening to Frankie Goes to Hollywood records on the jukebox and wanking.
Ahh, the wanking.
"Detective, you wanna talk to the witness?"
Broken out of his fantasy wet-dream, O' Halloran takes his hands out of his pants and heads into the room opposite to talk to their only lead in the case so far.
And there she stood, all seven and a half feet of her. With her back turned to him, O' Halloran gazed her up and down: long thin legs covered in fishnet stockings reached all the way up to a tight mini skirt which could barely contain a sweet fat ass - the kind of ass you wanna ride around on the beach on and pour icecream all over until it drips down into the baking sand.
As she turns around, she swished her hair like My Little Pony would in those TV adverts.
What a beauty! Dark feline eyes framed by arcing brows; lips like cushions; cheekbones that could cut steel.
Her swan-like neck lead the eye downwards to her plunging neckline. And those breasts! O' Halloran couldn't resist and reached out to touch them.
"Be careful, detective, they're hot", said the other officer present.
O Halloran didn't care. He liked chicken and when he wanted chicken he got it, goddammit.
"I just removed it from the oven this instant", purred the mysterious woman as she placed some freshly carved pieces of chicken fillet's on a plate and handed them to the detective.
O' Halloran smiled that toothy smile of his as he munched into the meal.
"I see your man who enjoys breasts".
"Only the succulent kind", he replies.
The Detective waves the other two officers out of the room and moves closer to the woman.
"So what's a fine-looking lady like you doing cooking roast chicken at 3am while a mutilated body lies face down in the room next door? Seems kinda odd to me".
"Can't a girl cook?", she answers defensively.
"Whaddaya know about the victim?", O' Halloran suddenly shouts.
"I've never seen him before in my life"
"You're lying", O Halloran blares.
"It's true. I've never seen that person before in my life. The first time I saw him was when I walked into the room and I immediately called the cops"
O' Halloran turns his questioning towards the message on the wall.
"What's Carla Bruni got to do with this?"
"Don't act dumb. You know who I'm talking about. The broad with the plastic face that's always in the papers. Married to that French bastard midget."
"You mean the skanky bitch who looks like a Michael Jackson impersonator?", she coyly asks.
"Yeah, thats the one"
"I don't know nuthin'"
"You know more than you're making out, sister", ' Halloran shouts.
"I'm not your sister!", she shouts back.
"Oh yeah? Well, what if your mother and my father made love to each other and then nine months later you were born? What about then, dollface?"
The lady shrugs and admits it's a possibility;
"Sure, yeah. Then we would be brother and sister, but so what?"
"It means a hell of a lot, lady. The difference between me marching you right down to the station or screwing you right here on the floor".
"Thats a fucking weird thing to say", she blasts back.
"Well, not as weird as the poor sonofabitch bleeding his guts out on your carpet", O' Halloran grunts as he slams his plate of chicken down on the table.
One of the officers re-enters. O' Halloran issues his instructions.
"Take her downtown and get a statement. I have a feeling we'll be talking again in chapter 2 or 3"
The officer obediently ushers the lady out of the room by the arm. Both she and O' Halloran lock eyes on the way out.
"There's just something about that woman that makes me wish I was a lesbian", O' Halloran says aloud to the second officer as he stands at the door.
"But, detective, she's heterosexual.".
"Oh, yeah....", O' Halloran's mind trails off as he refocuses on the case.
"Detective, forensics are here"
"Good. I want this place dusted top and bottom. And make sure somebody mops the floors and irons the curtains. I hate an untidy crime scene"
"Sure thing, detective".
O' Halloran picks up another slice of tasty chicken and gnaws on it as he gazes back into the room where the CSI's rummage about silently.
Part of him wants to frame that old lady who keeps stealing his mail, or that annoying paper boy who keeps losing his newspapers with this murder, but his conscience is telling him otherwise.
This case he can solve without resorting to criminal means. But what's he got to work on: a butchered victim with no name, no weapon, an uncooperative witness and that Carla Bruni message written in shit on the wall. What does it all mean?
O' Halloran wipes his mouth with a dirty dishcloth and rises. He knows that chapter 2 will probably open up many more avenues of investigation and some more random bits of saucy nonsense....