Chapter One – a taster!


Crime Scenes.

Crime Scenes.

Crime Scenes

“Fuck me bandy!” exclaimed Inspector Flaange.

Fat guy naked in a chair. Wrists and ankles gently encapsulated in pink fluffy handcuffs. Smell of burnt flesh and flatulence suffused the office air.

“Fuck me bandy!”

Electric cables traced back to the mains socket, live and neutral pressed against his bollocks. Eyes wide open, unseeing, uncaring, unfeeling. Well and truly fucked.

Power equals Ivy Watts.

“Fuck me bandy!”

To top off the entire scene; a nine inch cock shoved majestically into his throat.

“And there’s another up his arse,” smirked DC Jason Beaver, nominal sidekick to the Ipswich detective.

Before them sat the corpse of Mr. Harry Dick – local businessman, pillar of the community, associate of the good and noble in the County of Suffolk, patron of the Arts, organiser of charity, visitor to the Hospice (‘about a gallon and a half’), Orchid Judge at the Suffolk Show, member of the spinning dining club; and manufacturer the best dildo’s, vibrators and blow up dolls in the whole of Christendom – the four hole doll a speciality.


“Apparently he was also Vice Chancellor at the local College,” added one of the uniformed plods.

“Less of the levity. This is a crime scene. What the fuck happened?” asked Flaange.

The recently departed Mr. Dick sat bolt upright in a leather chair in the middle of his office, having been discovered that morning by his secretary. Harry Dick, known affectionately as ‘Hairy’ to his close friends, sat gazing blankly into the room as though shocked by his own demise. He had probably been taken aback in complete astonishment as the angel of death shook his hand!

“Fuck me bandy!” said Flaange.

“Apparently it is a ‘Big Willy’,” offered Beaver.

“What is?” questioned Flaange.

“The make and model of cock shoved in his gob. It’s called a ‘Big Willy’.”

Well that didn’t really take much imagination from the marketing department. A nine inch rubber knob called a ‘Big Willy’.

In over twenty years of serving with the Police Force – yes he still called it a Force, not the new fangled nancy-boy ‘Police Service’ – he had never seen anything like this. Clearly Harry Dick had lived by the cock and died by the cock.

Well maybe.

Flaange surveyed the room, looking for whatever he could observe; not unusual for a detective detecting detectable things. His eyes roamed anachronistic office. The ‘Dick Factory’ nestled neatly into the Ransomes estate, a typical modern affair –a multicoloured blessing of metal and plastic and glass and concrete and wild angles.

An erection fitting for the manufacture of plastic love.

Yet the office could have jumped out of a Dickensian novel; dark oak shelves, desk, leather chairs, a globe, a Persian Carpet, fat naked Scrooge with fried testicles.

The Detective detected no gas lamps.

No computer and just a retro telephone on the desk, with a rotary dialer and a notepad next to it.

Clearly a man of traditional values…

“Is that electricity still on?” he asked no-one in particular.

He noticed a uniform plod standing in the corner, looking peaky and in a mild state of shock.

“Phlapz!” called Flaange, “what are you doing here?”

PC Robert Steven Phlapz pulled himself away from his self indulgent horror, manfully forcing the vomit back down into his stomach. Death comes in many forms, at unusual times and from unexpected places; young men and women like Phlapz just have to deal with it. Apparently it’s what they get paid for.

“First on scene Sir” he said, “we were called just after 0800 this morning. Got here quickly as we’d only just come on shift. Assumed it was a routine stiff Sir, rather than a stiff with a stiffy.”

Flaange bit his tongue.

“It’s an organ donor with a boner!” added Beaver.

Black humour caresses away the pains of death. Flaange felt the deep cultural stirrings of Liverpool humour; scousers derived their joy of sick and poor taste jokes from the mass Irish immigration to Merseyside during the potato famines of the nineteenth century. This was a time when the life of an ordinary working man was worth feck all, a time when life was transient and a man would be lucky to see thirty.

Great basis for taking the piss out of everything.

The metropolis that made up Liverpool city centre had its foundations in the laughing gear of the navvy’s who sweated blood to keep some men rich. From the slums of nineteenth century Liverpool to twenty first century labour camps of Doha, little changed.

Mind you, with fast food shops on every street corner the days of premature death were probably going to be making a comeback alongside rickets, tuberculosis, bubonic plague and Jerry and Pacemakers.

It was actually quite an impressive post mortem priapism; most young ladies would be delighted for a bit of time on that, if it wasn’t for the smell.

“Dicks’ dick looks like a stick!” tried Phlapz.

“Look lads, said Flaange, “there’s a man dead here. We need to show our upmost respect and professionalism. There will no doubt be grieving friends and relatives who will need counseling, and have to be dealt with the utmost sympathy. So I want no cock-ups!”

The doughnut commando, aka Jason Beaver, sidled slowly toward his boss; Beaver, the epitome of modern day policing.

He’s fat, he’s round, he can’t get off the ground.

“Is the electricity still connected to the cables on his balls?” asked Flaange again. “I don’t want to end up sparked out next to our good citizen here.”

The sparkling Inspector was aware of Beaver’s approach due to two factors. Firstly it is hard to miss an asteroid sized detective, no matter how slowly he moves, even out the corner of your eye. Not that Beaver would fit in the corner; of anything. Secondly there was the smell.

“Fuck me bandy yet again!” declared the senior detective. “Young Mr. Beaver might I suggest an upgrade in your daily hygiene routine?”

“Like what Boss?”

“Like start one.”

Flaange and Beaver had an excellent working relationship. Like most men they could constantly take the piss out of each other without ever being offended. Though there were occasions when Beavers’ stupidity sent the Inspector over the edge.

“Up yours too Boss,” retorted the retarded DC.

“We need some southerns here to assess the scene before we get the pathologist in. Has anything been done to this sad bastard since he was found dead?”

“SOCO’s are on their way and the new pathologist will be here soon,” said Beaver.

“New Pathologist?” asked Flaange.

“Yes, new to Suffolk anyway. Dr. Arzt; just moved down here from your neck of the woods.”

“He’s from Liverpool?”

“No – Sheffield. Same difference; somewhere up North!”

Flaange cringed internally. Some of these local gobshites actually believed ‘Up North’ was a place. What’s more they thought everyone from ‘Up North’ said ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ wore clogs and flat caps. That’s only Wigan.

“Sheffield is miles from Liverpool, past Mancsville and over the Penines. It’s a completely different County for god’s sake! It’s like me saying Norwich is right next to Ipswich!”

“Don’t be daft Boss; Norwich is Up North too!”

Beaver was Ipswich through and through, right down to his ‘compooter’. He hated Norwich – that is he hated Norwich City Football Club. Sadly fate had kept the two warring football communities apart, as the Tractor Boys and Canaries had not been in the same league division for some years, both sides yo-yoing between Premiership and Championship.

“Anyway let me know when Arzt get’s here. What else are we doing?”

“There’s a tithead with the secretary in the office down the hall – Mrs. Cox. She discovered the deceased when she arrived at 0800 this morning. Usually first in. She found Dick in his office and called 999 straight away. She’s crying her eyes out just now. We’re waiting for a lumpy jumper to arrive before we take a statement.”

Detective Constable Jason Beaver, pride of the Politically Correct Brigade.

The Inspector inspected the scene again.


Who would benefit from Dicks’ death?

Why kill him?


A fucking miraculous one. Strap yourself to the chair, then without the use of your hands, attach two probes to own scrotum, switch on mains and fry. Meanwhile get a couple of dildo’s, insert into orifices and die. I think not.

Accidental death?

Some of these sicko’s played strange sex games; he’d read about them in certain ‘confiscated’ media down at the nick.

“Is that feckin electricity still on?” asked Flaange, yet again.

Two men dressed as condoms entered the room. SOCO’s. Southerns.

They oozed about with a ghostly gambol, looking, breathing, looking, not touching. One nodded to Phlapz.

“No Sir – that ghoulish nod means things are safe,” added Phlapz.

This was the first time Inspector Flaange had been into the ‘Dick factory’ on Ransomes Europark. He knew of its existence as there had been the occasional raid to check the quality of the products shipped through its doors. He had sat over some serious discussions with trading standards officers as they had explained to him how important it was that customer satisfaction needed to be guaranteed no matter what the product. Were they to allow a dodgy dangerous vibrator onto the market the ensuing trouble could be right pain in the arse. Flaange had taunted them, suggesting all they were really doing was checking out the quality of the Grot mags.

But who would make an official complaint if the Divine Miss Blow Up didn’t work?

‘Excuse me sir, I bought this inflatable doll last week. But every time I blow it up it goes down on me.’ ‘Well if I knew it could do that I would have doubled the price.’

“Quick summary then Phlapz?”

“Secretary arrives just before 0800 as usual, notices a light still on in Mr. Dick’s office, knocks, opens door and finds deceased as you see him. Calls us. Myself and PC Yerburgh arrive on scene 0820 after negotiating traffic at Nacton Road roundabout – commuters Sir, and Chelsea tractors on the school run” he added.

“School run on Nacton Road?” queried Flaange.

Phlapz continued.

“Secretary in a state, rest of workers arriving and curious about what is happening. Office staff have been arriving since just before 0900; we’ve got them together in the research director’s office Sir. Pc Yerburgh and myself are planning to start questioning when you give the go ahead Sir. We’re waiting for a female officer to arrive Sir, to help us with the more, erm, delicate issues.”

Flaange was impressed. Good for Phlapz. He had almost puked his ring due to the smell of scorched scrotum, but now he was the consummate professional.


Flaange wondered how a female officer could handle the issue of a dead body with a plastic knob shoved down its mouth any more delicately than Phlapz and Yerburgh.

“The light was on in the Office?” asked Flaange. “But you said the electricity was off.”

“Two different circuits Sir,” said Beaver. “Sockets are on a ring main, lights are on a separate circuit. Didn’t you get that in your Physics lessons at school Sir?”

Feck that annoyed him.

Inspector Hunter Flaange, B.Sc. Applied Physics. With honours. Not really worth bringing up at this point. Try a bit of levity instead; keep the grunts amused.

“The only thing I can remember about any of my Science lessons at school is watching David Thomas trying his best to set fire to everyone’s exercise books by using the Bunsen burner as a flamethrower. Mrs. Shannon never managed to stop him, wet woman as she was. Bless her.”

Flaange examined the room again.

“Any chance of this being suicide?” he asked.

This time DC Beaver was unable to control his outburst of laughter.

Even an idiot like Beaver would not fall for suicide.

“I reckon he was having a bit of fun with some of the girls and things went horribly wrong. Then they fucked off in a panic and left the poor sod here, naked as the day he was born,” offered the corpulent DC.

“Do you think he was that fat and had a dildo in his arse on the day he was born?” asked Phlapz.

“Where is that new feckin pathologist?” asked Flaange.

Dr Carnaby Arzt was outside having a quick cigarette. A typical Physician, though mostly concerned with the dead, he smoked and drank heavily whilst handing out life saving tips. He was talking to animatedly to a new companion.

The slightly impatient Inspector approached.

“Dr Arzt?” he asked.

“Don’t be daft. I’m Roger Tillet-Hertz, Director of Research here at the Dick Factory. I can’t be Arzt!”

Flaange turned to the correct person.

“Morning Doc, Hunter Flaange, Detective Inspector. Looks like this will be my case. Early ideas?”

Dr Arzt dragged deeply on the last of his cigarette, muttered ‘terrible things’ as he squashed out the last of it on the ground and motioned the Inspector away from Tillet-Hertz. They came to a quiet corner at the front of the building. Arzt looked up and down the road as the morning delivery vehicles began their endless drop off at the factories and offices all over the estate. He had a conspiratorial air, typical of his profession.

“Life goes on eh, Inspector,” said Arzt nodding an indication toward the traffic. “And sitting in that office is a good old boy with fried bollocks.”

“Is that what killed him?” asked Flaange.

“Two hundred and forty volts of mains electricity through the balls, and a massive dose of terror probably induced a heart attack. That would be my first impression. Need him back at the morgue for a proper autopsy but I’ll bet my reputation on heart attack.”

“How do you know that? Have you examined the body?”

“No. One of your uniforms filled me in. I’ll get in there when it’s safe. Don’t want the Pathologist dead too do you?”

Arzt turned again to look at the traffic.

“What about the dick in his mouth? Could it have choked him?”

“The dildo! No Inspector. From what your man said I believe that was inserted long after death, probably for dramatic effect. Someone having a final dig at the old boy.”

“Sick bastard!” said Flaange.

“Great joke though, don’t you think Inspector. Turns this into a bit of a cock-and-ball investigation!” smiled Arzt. “It feels to me like he died sometime yesterday evening. The plastic knob appears not to have been added until early this morning; probably some disgruntled employee saw the old man and had a go at him. Talk to that secretary, see what she has to say.”

The Inspector took an immediate liking to the new pathologist, probably due to the Northern affinity. The whole world belched out intelligent people on a daily basis, though many were destined for nothingness. Sadly the idiots rule the world.

“Those fags will be the death of you Doc,” said Arzt.

“What has my sex life got to with anything?” asked the Doctor smirking.

“And some drug crazed psycho could be the death of you Inspector,” retorted the Doctor, “but I bet you’ll carry on attending crime scenes. And when I say drug crazed psychos I’m not referring to your colleagues!”

Yes, Flaange liked this new pathologist.

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