||[Jun. 3rd, 2005|02:54 pm]
Falconer, the great consulting detective, arose from his forensic |
contemplation. His raptor's profile was stark against the blood-spattered
"You will arrest this boy's mother now," he intoned to the attending police
The boy, naked and swabbing at the tiny cuts under his testicles with a wad
of grey toilet tissue, reacted badly. "Not Mummy! Not my Mummy!"
"Indeed," Falconer observed, "your police scientists will confirm that the
placenta currently filling the gullet of the dead girl strapped to the bed
once shared a womb with this boy. It has been cleverly preserved by a
master criminal for precisely this purpose -- choking the boy's girlfriend
"My Mummy is not a master criminal!" the boy protested.
"I see," Falconer said, "that you still rub that pinprick on your arm.
Your girlfriend has a matching mark. I submit that your mother entered the
house while you were engaged in coitus with the young lady. She assaulted
you both with a hypodermic syringe with a substance that made you both
more...pliant. She was restrained, and the placenta shoved into her mouth.
She choked to death while your mother placed you in that chair and
rrrrutted with you. Riding you so hard, in fact, that blood vessels under
your scrotum burst against repeated violent contact with the edge of the
Falconer drew himself up to his full height and loomed over the weeping
boy. "I further deduce that she forced you to ejaculate into a plastic
dripfeed bag such as is found in medical establishments, later to introduce
your vigorous sperm into her bloodstream for the purpose of youth
preservation. I suspect she bred you specifically for sexual entertainment
and, in her twisted mind, the production of age-retarding chemicals. The
girl was killed as instruction and punishment: you belong only to Mummy."
"And the ligatures on his thighs?" the police officer asked. "Was he
"Not as such," smiled Falconer. "Those livid lines come from his mother's
Falconer lit a match off the boy's penis, making him yelp, and ignited The
Cigarette Of Victory.
"I go now to obtain a schoolboy's uniform and some kind of cricket box to
protect my precious scrotal treasures, thence to meet your very interesting
No one is ever the way they are "just cuz". There always has to be some deep dark "thing" that they claim makes them fucked up.
Isn't anyone just fucked up for the hell of it anymore?
I see Falconer as someone who has a rotating assortment of explanations for his ... eccentricity ... that he offers to the curious and credulous. None of them are complete. All of them have a chance of being true-ish. None of them really are. All of them have a small spark of something. Most of them conflict.