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Fiction, © Copyright 2003, Jim Loy
"Coleslaw!"
"Gesundheit!"
"It says here that Scotland Yard is investigating a plague of beetles. Perhaps they could use your help."
"Beatles? Pshaw, I predict that we won't be infested with them for at least another hundred years."
"Not Beatles, beetles."
"Well then, please enunciate, Blithering."
"It says here: A plague of carnivorous beetles has been detected, swarming from the British Museum (where the sarcophagi, plural of sarcophagus, of Clemhotep and his lovely companion Nefermind have recently arrived from Egypt), and devouring everything and everyone in its path."
"All very interesting I'm sure, Blithering. But a mere plague of beetles would be no match for a brain such as mine. Why, my brain must be at least ten times the size of a beetle's brain. Why, a beetle would have to be larger than a man to even win a game of draughts off me. Why, a beetle would have to have . . ." There was a loud knock at the door. ". . . a knock such as that! Tell him I'm not at home." He dived into his bedroom and shut the door. I could hear him barricading the door with furniture.
There was another knock at our outer door. I opened the door, and greeted Chief Inspector Lemonade, of Scotland Yard. "Ah Blithering, is Coleslaw at home."
"Why yes, he is in his bedroom."
A voice came from the bedroom, "No I'm not." Lemonade strode to the bedroom door, and pulled it open. He stepped aside as a pile of furniture fell into the sitting room. There was a stunned silence. Then Coleslaw said, "Lemonade, you very nearly fell into my trap." We returned the furniture to Coleslaw's room. "I suppose you need my help catching a few beetles. In fact I know of a piper who might be persuaded to lead them into the Thames; you can't miss him; he's rather pied."
"No thank you Coleslaw, the Zoological Society is dealing with them. I believe they have hired a Scottish marching band, which is driving them insane."
"The Zoological Society or the beetles?"
"Pardon?"
"Which are being driven insane, the Zoological Society or the beetles?"
"Both, as far as I know. Coleslaw, I need your help in stopping the Mummy."
"The Mummy you say? Egyptian dead chap, wrapped in a quarter mile of bandages, limps with both legs, arms outstretched like this, riddled with worms, smells to high Heaven, looks like Boris Karloff?"
"Yes, the very same. He intends to rule the world."
"Don't we all. Far be it from me to interfere with a bit of free enterprise."
"But Coleslaw, he's also going to destroy London, and make slaves of the survivors."
"That sounds like an improvement to me. Oh very well, I guess I'll have to stop him. Lead on, Lemonade. When I get ahold of this mummy, he'll be ancient history."
From the British Museum, the trail of pus was surprisingly easy to follow.
As we followed, Coleslaw complained, "Unfortunately, this Clemhotep or yours has several hours' head start, as I can tell by the viscosity of this pus." He held his gooey finger up for us to see. Then he stuck the finger into his mouth to gross us out, but I knew that he had cleverly stuck another finger into mouth to fool us, a typical joke of Coleslaw's. He enhanced the trick by spitting and coughing and turning green. Then he collided with the back side of a tall man wrapped in bandages, transferring several maggots onto Coleslaw's Inverness cape (which he wore when he played cricket for Inverness). Coleslaw immediately assumed his martial arts pose; an artist named Marshall had been painting his portrait, and that was the pose that they had chosen. There followed an amazing display of fighting skills, the likes of which I had never seen before. Coleslaw was jumping around his lunging opponent, whooping and dodging. The Mummy tried to poke him in the eyes, but Coleslaw deftly inserted the edge of his hand between the Mummy's two fingers and Coleslaw's eyes. Coleslaw's clever insult, "Your mummy wears combat boots," seemed to puzzle the Mummy.
In the end, they both fell to the ground, exhausted, snorting and giggling, patting each other on the back, now the best of friends. And so, the world was again saved by Sherbert Coleslaw, consulting detective.
"You know Clem, may I call you Clem, I may be able to help you with this idea of ruling the world. Have you ever thought of working in the stock market. Those beetles of yours might really come in handy there. You could make a killing. It could be the perfect pyramid scheme."
Author's note: If I am remembered for anything, after I am gone, it may be the line: "The trail of pus was surprisingly easy to follow."