The Fishwhacker Swindle?

Disclaimer: what follows is the first of three episodes of a drama involving some of you, my fellow bloggers. In no way is it intended to rip off or jump on the bandwagon of Dr Maroon’s far superior Gothic tale. Here, the story is a mere vehicle for an idea that’s been growing in my mind for some time.



Once he had brushed the last of the crisp crumbs from his beard, Kim climbed into his Aston Martin and gunned the engine. The meeting had gone well, and the good Doctor had proven a most affable companion. Already Kim was composing in his head the next post.

He decided to take the scenic route home from the hotel, and swung the car effortlessly through the suburban streets and onto the country lanes beyond the town’s reach. It had started raining and he flicked on the wipers. The road rose before him and he slowed as he approached the summit in preparation for the plunge down through the forest on the other side. As he crested the hill, his thoughts elsewhere, the reflexive organism in him jammed his foot down on the brakes as shapes loomed in the road ahead. He held the Aston against the slewing of its wheels on the wet tarmac and brought it to a stop only a few feet from one of the figures.

There were about ten of them, creatures such as he’d never seen before in his life. Humanoid in shape, and naked, but their faces without features and their skin a dull blue. Each one carried a truncheon.

He pulled the gear lever to the reverse position and turned the key, but now there were more of the figures behind him. He reeled back as a truncheon smashed into the windscreen, the glass starring. Blue hands wrenched open his door and grabbed at him, and he lashed out instinctively but a sharp blow to his head rendered him senseless.

He came to painfully, nausea writhing in his throat. He was aware of movement, and that he was seated with his arms bound behind him. He was in the back of some sort of van, but the absence of windows meant he had no external point of reference. Seated on either side of him were several of the blue, silent beings. Across from him, watching him, sat a man dressed in black, with a face that was instantly familiar to Kim although he could not put a name to it. An actor, perhaps? The man held a bowl in one hand and, as Kim made groggy eye contact, he smiled and dipped his free hand into the bowl and withdrew a tiny mouse, wriggling feebly, which he put into his mouth and chewed.

Kim looked away, fighting down the gorge. The man sucked the lashing tail between his lips and dabbed at them with a napkin. His voice was like the meshing of gears.

“Kim Ayres,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“You are accused of being El Barbudo.”



Next: the case for the prosecution.