Falconer

Warren Ellis - Falconer

Warren Ellis

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Falconer

[May. 9th, 2005|01:44 am]

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"I think I have to put his penis in my mouth," Falconer observed.

"Good Christ, man," the detective said. "Are you on drugs?"

"God, I hope so. I rather think I'd have to be to stay in here. Look at this place. Blood everywhere."

"It's a murder scene," the detective said, slowly.

"That explains everything," Falconer smiled. "Your Chief of Police must have called me in again, yes?"

"I have no idea why," the detective scowled, stepping out of the way of an industrious CSU rushing out of the room with eight bags of post-mortem turds. "This is a bad one, but it hardly requires outside help less than an hour into the case."

"Your boss feels otherwise, obviously. If only I can remember why. What was I saying?"

"You wanted to suck off the corpse."

"Don't be so disgusting," Falconer said. "No wonder he wanted me here. You are plainly some kind of hired pervert. I simply need to learn of the woman who had sex with him before he died."

"You think someone humped him and then flayed him alive?"

"The blood that isn't on the walls and the floor still charges his organ, detective. Look at it closely."

"I'm not looking at a dead guy's cock."

Falconer shuffled towards the body spreadeagled on the filthy bed, his hand pressing on the small of his back where the pain always lay. His early years as a male prostitute had quite ruined his spine, although they'd also gifted him with his sharp senses and preternaturally strong tongue.

"This man's penis, detective, is the centre of this case. We'll have it solved before the strip clubs open, you mark my words."

Falconer hunched over the corpse -- a boy of eighteen, his torso opened like curtains, his remaining ribs like windowframes on the vista of his internal organs.

The detective retched as Falconer took a deep inhalation of the decedent's genitals.

"Aaaaah," Falconer said. "A woman who uses beer as a perfume. She's slept rough in the same pleather outfit for the last three nights. Waiting for a victim, I would imagine."

And so Falconer, the great consulting detective, gently and carefully took the dead man's penis, grey and full of dead blood, into his mouth.

And spat it out again. "Jesus Motherfucker, that's horrible," he declared.

"What were you expecting?"

Falconer tapped his lips frenziedly. "My lips are numb. Oh my god, I've killed my lips with a dead boy's cock."

"Get out," said the detective.

"No. No no no. Spermicide. She used too much spermicide. She didn't want any part of him, no accidents. A woman posing as a vagrant prostitute, detective. She has money. Money for a strong spermicide, liberally applied. And..."

"And?"

"...the flavour. The flavour of the woman's vagina is uniquely horrible. Foodstuffs and other ingestible substances affect the flavour of our sexual secretions, you know. Mine taste of gin."

"I could shoot you and call it an accident, you know."

"Detective, only one substance makes a woman's nether regions taste this foul. You are looking for a heavy user of amphetamine sulphate."

Falconer straightened up, wincing. "Also, she's covered in blood and less than an hour away. I shall now consume the Cigarette Of Victory. Exeunt."

Falconer, the great detective, exited the scene, en route to a rendezvous with a lady of his acquaintance. For a significant sum, he would help her wash the blood off, burn her pleather pants and put her on a bus for points unknown.

It was, as ever, a fine day to be Falconer.

(c) Warren Ellis 2005 etc etc

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Comments:

From:

venus_orbiting
2005-05-09 12:50 am (UTC)

(Link)

I loved that and I'm still not quite sure why.

The best...