Later, O' Halloran sits curled up on the steps of an ambulance, a reflective sheet draped across his shoulders. He nurses a cup of strong coffee. Who knew a man could breast-feed a cup of coffee?
"You ok, O' Halloran?", asks the Lieutenant.
O' Halloran looks up, his face drenched in misery. He always was a bit of a miserable bastard.
"She was just one day away from retirement…", he says in a low voice.
"What's that?", asks the Lieutenant as he leans in closer.
"I said: she had just one more day to go before retirement…", O' Halloran repeats louder.
"Bullshit, O' Halloran!"
"Yeah, I know. I just always wanted to say that line….she was years away from retiring…"
The Lieutenant surveys the wreckage just as robo female cop is wheeled away on a gurney: her head where her arse should have been. She's a mangled wreck of genitalia and flesh. And metallic bits.
"Who do you think would do such a thing to such an attractive robotic female cop, O' Halloran?"
"I think this has something to do with the French Revolution, Lieutenant"
"The French Revolution?!", the Lieutenant asks stunned, "You been smoking crack again, O' Halloran?"
"Dropping acid? Snorting coke? Injecting heroin? Popping pills? Drinking toilet cleaner?"
"No, Lieutenant - well, except for the toilet cleaner bit. But I think that she was killed by some insane bastard from 18th century France. I'm sure of it", O' Halloran says, rising up and smacking the side of the ambulance to make his point.
"Well, it doesn't really matter anymore - you not being a detective and all…", shrugs the Lieutenant as he chews a stick of gum: peppermint flavour - makes him calm and sleepy.
"Lieutenant, ya can't cut me out of this! She brought me onto this case and I need to finish this", shouts O' Halloran.
"No dice, O' Halloran. She would've still been alive if it wasn't for your meddling!"
O' Halloran picks up the ambulance and flings it across the street. He never knew he was so strong: must be the pent up anger and rage. Then again maybe he is so sort of muscular superhero.
"Fuck you, Lieutenant! I'm gonna solve this case if it's the last thing I do", he grunts as he walks off into the night.
The lieutenant calls out to him: "Oh yeah? Well, fuck you, O' Halloran! You aint got a badge. You aint got the authority and you sure as hell aint got a friend in this town to help your sorry ass".
O' Halloran stops short, turns back and plants a right uppercut to the Lieutenant's fat jaw sending the big bastard sprawling across the asphalt.
"I'm sick of you insulting my dead donkey Bilbo Baggins, you asshole".
He then continues on into the night as the steam vents spew smoke from the subway below.
O' Halloran picks his nose as he waits on the corner of the street at the junction of Mary Whitehouse and Maggie Thatcher Streets. It's the conservative part of town. Everyone around here is upper middle-class twat. You can just smell it in the air: the guffawing laughs of tea-sipping old biddies; baldy bastards reading the local newspapers and tut-tutting; some former political couple engaged in homosexual activity with a badger.
O' Halloran was as blue collar as they get. He was so blue-collar he wore two shirts - both with large collars - just to prove the point.
He stood out like an ugly chick with a big nose at a Miss World pageant.
Dressed in his hobo getup he really stood out around here. His shit-stained pants and smelly armpits attracted attention like an epileptic stripper in a nursing home. He could only imagine the letters being written to the local papers:
"Dear Sir, I was stunned and shocked to see a ruffian-like character lurking in our fine neighbourhood the other night. He lowered the tone of the area and I am certain that he also lowered the house prices too. I hope he doesn't stand near my garden gnomes…"
But O' Halloran didn't give a shit. He was here on business. The business of revenge.
Enough talking. Here comes somebody now. Bang on schedule. The manhole cover raises casting out a brilliant bright light and the figure enters. Before the cover closes again O' Halloran dashes and rolls inside. Now he's in the beast's belly: the 'beast' being a metaphorical term for an underground tunnel that also passes for a time machine, naturally.
O' Halloran follows the figure down a murky tunnel lined with all the shit and debris the city above dare not think of. He hasn't seen so many used condoms since his sister's birthday party.
The figure turns a corner. O' Halloran tries to keep up but loses them.
Instead he finds a queer circular gateway with lots of symbols all around it.
When I say 'queer' I mean the traditional meaning and not anything gay - although, to be honest, the hieroglyphic symbols are very, very gay!
Little funny pictures of Men Behaving Badly. No, not that shitty sitcom with Martin Clunes - I mean, pictures of man-on-man action of every degrading sort. It's like they were carved by the Marquis deSade….or Julian Clary.
O Halloran knows that he must push one of them to make the gateway unlock. But which one?
He decides on the one where a squiggly-shaped guy is fondling another squiggly-shaped guy's squiggly-shaped bits with a water balloon (at least he thinks it's a water balloon…)
Suddenly the gateway creaks and groans into action. O' Halloran watches as the mechanical devices alongside it whirr and click like big noisy mechanical whirry-clicking…thingy!
The passageway is just wide enough to let a fat bastard like O' Halloran squeeze through.
As he passes through he emerges from a well in the back garden of a Parisian house. He know's it's French because everyone around him sound's like pretentious bastards and ignore him as if he's not important.
Bloody French. Typical!
From a side street her hears a cry of something 'Frenchy' and the chattering of a gathered crowd.
He arrives just in time to watch a modern-day hobo person being decapitated by the dreaded guillotine.
"For fucks sake! ", he gasps, "I can't wait to find out what happens in the next chapter…I mean, …Jesus, this is mad!"
Little did he know how mad it would become when he became fodder for the chopping block soon after...