I Am Exactly A Week Behind.

“Hang on, I just gotta make sure of somethin first.”

What are- OW! I say! Unhand my mustaches, sir!

“Good, they’re real.”

Of course they are! Why shouldn’t they be?!

“Nevermind.”

Geez, Everything is Gold Coins to This Guy!

He’s still rubbing his upper lip as we pull up alongside the other boat. Absolutely intolerable… I’ve a good mind to call my solicitor… your superiors will hear about this!

“Just count yourself lucky that my superiors wanted me to take you at your word on this one. They know your record aint exactly pristine.”

That shuts him up, for now.

What he doesn’t know about would fill an encyclopedia or three, but one thing he doesn’t know about is the bizarre rash of home invasions around the city lately. Whoever it was was targeting cats, drugging them somehow, and then going in and taking whatever they wanted while the owner sits there helpless to lift a paw. They were damn thorough about it, too. Not only was there nothing left worth more than a couple bucks, but the victims had suffered some pretty severe brain damage. There was one, pro athlete, he’d been up a couple times on minor assault charges–predator supremacist stuff, but it only seemed to happen when he got completely plastered, so nobody was worried. Then, well, something happened, and ever since it’s like he’s just got a peaceful easy feeling. He’s not the worst. Some of these cat are gonna be spending the rest of their natural lives strapped to beds being bottle-fed.

If I was the kinda guy who let his work get to him, I’d probly be pretty thoroughly freaked out.

We got lucky with an eyewitness, says it was a whole gang of mice. But that doesn’t tell us where they’re getting the drugs. Let me rephrase that: that doesn’t give us any legally admissible proof where they’re getting the drugs. I know well enough. There’s not a lot of things that I can see Shady Shrew doing that’d let him afford a yacht. If I could get my paws on him, I could get all the evidence I needed, and no, I don’t mean like that. I can talk circles around him with my tongue and all but two teeth tied behind my back. But I can’t. Unfortunately, the chief has a bit of a giant sequoia up his tail about having warrants and other procedural crap like that.

Which is why I pretended to listen for once when, ahem, ‘Sir’ Hound came in to complain about his gold coins this morning. Right on schedule, too.

It doesn’t really matter what we say. I lay on a few withering insults, he says something moronic, lather, rinse, and repeat. It’s like putting a kettle on the stove, just let it stew long enough, it goes off, except imagine that there’s a poncey british snob interrupting continually.

Will ya dry up an get da heck off ma boat? I dunno nuttin bout no drugs!

“Well that’s a non-sequitur.”

S’at good?

“Seeing as how I’m supposed to be arresting you for stealing some antiques and hiding em in a fish, I’m gonna have to say no.”

Once we had him in the holding cells, he spilled the beans inside of an hour. We rounded up the whole gang.

And I told Hound not to bug me next time he forgets where he set down his mayonnaise jar full of pennies.

The Final Word.

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