Chapter 11 - The Conclusion/Confusion!
"Stop what you're doing right now, Doc? I want some fucking answers"
O' Halloran pushes open the mortuary door and points his finger at Doc who is slouched over a corpse, its entrails dripping from his hands.
Doc gazes up, slightly bewildered.
"Fucking answers? Hang on, I'll get my copy of the Kama Sutra..", he says as he shuffles over to his desk.
"Don't fucking move. I swear I'll pump you full of lead, asshole", O' Halloran screams, clearly not appreciating the pun.
He then instructs the robo female cop to check the desk drawer: sure enough, inside is a loaded poison dart gun, the type you can find in every Starbucks.
O' Halloran slaps the Doc across the face and pushes the old man down into a chair.
"What the fuck is going on, Doc?"
"My dark Alien Lords are too powerful for you puny Earthlings, Detective", spits Doc, his voice changing to sound like an underwater shit.
"Detective, look! His face is changing", points out the robo female cop.
"That's just the aging process, baby. Nothing to fear", says O' Halloran.
"No! He really is changing. Look!", she screams.
For fucks sake! Right before their very eyes the old mortician's skin peels back revealing a second layer of naked flesh beneath.
"What the hell are you?!", O' Halloran says dumbfounded.
The transformed Doc rises from his chair, his face now distorted and warped like a freakish beast of nature.
"I am Joan Rivers, darling", it bellows.
"Christ!", O' Halloran blurts out in utter terror, "this fucking plot has gone totally off the wall…."
The beast lurches forward, droll pooling about its bony ankles.
"Melissa? Melissa? Where are you? Come to mommy", it cries out.
"Detective, do something!", robo female cop pleads helplessly, "it's making it's way outside. I think it wants its irritating unfunny daughter. Stop it!"
O' Halloran looks down. Shit! The tiled floor ends at a strip of red carpet. Red carpet! Fuck. If the creature makes it onto that they are fucked.
O' Halloran pulls out his water pistol and pumps the beast full of…water.
The beast recoils and screams in rage as the liquid gets on it's deformed face.
"I'm melting! I'm melting! Oh, what a world, what a world..", it yelps as it is consumed in smoke and turns into a blob of plastic on the floor.
O' Halloran comes closer for a look.
"Well that was pretty weird and unexpected", he says, scratching his balls through his pants.
"This is one seriously fucked-up plot, Detective. Aliens, Supermodels, average models, murder, shit and now Joan Rivers. What the fuck is going on?", asks robo female cop as she scratches her pussy through her pants.
"This has all the hallmarks of a writer who acts on impulse and believes in a stream-of-consciousness style of writing, but as this is reality and not just some cheap pulp novel I'm inclined to believe that something huge is going on that must be stopped before the future of mankind is wiped from existence", O' Halloran bellows in his most superhero-esque tone.
"Detective, pardon my asking but I've been around you for several chapters…I mean - days - now, and, to be quite frank, everything that's happened seems, well, …random. I'd like to know if there is actually going to be an enjoyable and exciting conclusion to this whole series of events and not just a limp-wristed ending where the protagonists walk off into the sunset, leaving the story open-ended so that a sequel can be written in a few days time".
"I hear ya, sweet bits. I often ask myself that very same question as I'm lying in bed, fumbling in my boxers and thinking of Dame Edna Everidge. Coated in marmalade…"
"Detective, you're drooling again"
"Sorry. Where was I?"
"You were about to explain whether this series of bizarre events are going to conclude satisfactorily"
"Oh yeah. Well, I think that a story should flow naturally and not seem laboured. What's more natural than an open-ended story? Life is open-ended. Most criminals get away with murder. The good guys don't always win. And lets be honest here: the police are fucking useless, corrupt and incompetent. I think I'm proof of that."
"But the readers…I mean - the citizens of this fine city of PsychoTown - would surely like a satisfactory conclusion after bothering to stick with this adventure up until this stage?"
O' Halloran stops scratching his balls and paces the room.
"And they'll get one. For instance my keen mind and years of police investigation have led me to deduce several key facts on this case that I will now link in an ingenious way: all the bodies were males with no genitals. This suggests that they were dickless men, which would link directly to the types of gentlemen that Carla Bruni and Gisele are attracted to.
Their names were scrawled in excrement using the shit belonging to a seven-foot big-breasted woman who wrote letters to Jimmy Saville years ago. She discovered that Jimmy Saville was behind a smuggling operation in which Aliens were being imported into the World. Jimmy Saville was quite obviously a trained killer who was employed to knock off anybody who got in the way of the evil scheme. His connections to famous people and royalty gave him the kind of protection that money can't buy - unless of course you are a Russian billionaire. Or Prince Edward.
The BBC make-up department clearly was behind the clever disguises used by these aliens to make them appear human-like. I noticed that Doc's wig, for instance, was exactly the same as that worn by Barbara Windsor on Eastenders.
But the seven-foot woman discovered this fiendish plot on that day she wandered onto the sound stage as a child. They set out to intimidate her - Ok, I can't explain why they decided to do it so many years later, but….anyways, they intimidated her by writing shitty messages on her wall and framing her for murders she did not commit.
Why didn't they didn't just send Jimmy Saville to kill her, you ask? Well, she was a seven-foot woman: Jimmy was too small and frail for the job. His gold chains would also get in the way."
"How does the mortician and Joan Rovers fit into all of this, Detective", robo female asks interested despite the fucking stupidity of it all.
"Fuck do I know! Maybe it's something to do with plastic surgery and off-putting the aging/death process. I'm only postulating now", shrugs O' Halloran.
"'Postulating'? Detective, that is not the kind of word you would ever use".
"I know. It's late and I'm hungry. Stuff like that can affect my lingo sometimes. Say, whaddaya say we go get a cup of joe and a donut?"
"That also doesn't sound like you! Maybe you are brain-damaged from all that's gone on these past few days - and all that acid you drop?"
"Maybe I am brain-damaged", chuckles O' Halloran as he walks away, "maybe I am just a little bit mentally retarded."
Robo female walks with him, she too laughing at the suggestion. Maybe we are all brain damaged.
"Say, have I ever told you about my dream to open a Blue Oyster bar", O' Halloran confides as he wraps his arms around his new partner.
There the conversation fades into the background as the city sounds drown out what would possibly have been an amusing - though pointless - sharing of personal information.
A cup of joe and a donut, it is.
And then onto more exciting adventures in PsychoTown in an all-new story.
Down at the police station the seven-foot woman is released from her cell and her items are returned to her: one purse - black leather; one lipstick - fire engine red; one handkerchief - used and snotty; one condom - used and sticky (ugh!); one turkey and bacon sandwich - tasty; and one 12-inch blade - bloody with bits of guts stuck to it.
A bloodstained 12-inch knife?
Wait a second…..that can't be right, can it?
The woman winks at the on-duty warden as she passes through the gate leading out into the station yard, pausing only to fix her knickers: how she hates those tight undies snagging in her ass crack.
With a flick of her hair she struts into the parking lot and gets into an unidentified parked object. Turning the key in the futuristic ignition, the craft lifts off into the air - now officially becoming an unidentified flying object - and rockets off into the darkest reaches of outer space.
O' Halloran's donkey stares out the station window at the departing craft. He then looks at the wall alongside where the inter-galactic vehicle was parked: high up, written in still-wet shit are the words 'Ivana Trump'.
Jesus, it was the seven-foot woman after all!
But only donkey (and now you, the reader - obviously!) knows of this event. Sadly donkeys can't talk (despite the hard work of the children at the local elementary science club across the road) so this mystery remains as all good mysteries should remain: a mysterious mystery of deep mysterious mysteriousness. (Coughs)
THE END? (Yeah, probably)
The rights to this movie have been sold to Mr. Jerry Bruckheimer for 10p. Mr. Michael Bay's little sister has agreed to direct the TV movie which stars Brian Dennehy with a moustache as O' Halloran; Charlize Theron covered in bits of metallic paint plays Robo Female Cop; Brigitte Nielson and Janice Dickinson plays the seven-foot woman; the big fat Lieutenant out of The Wire plays the big fat lieutenant; Richard Attenborough with a Barbara Windsor wig and an American accent plays Doc; James Earl Jones voices the mute character of 'Donkey'.
Expected release date: Spring 2012 - just before the end of the World.
O' Halloran WILL return in: "O' Halloran: Murder with a Capital Punishment".