BigBug

Something wasn’t right. The Russian geologist from the VU in Amsterdam, Igor, said he would have thin slices made from the rock and then he would conduct a professional petro-graphic/micro probe examination. Igor said he was looking forward to examining this ‘most interesting and unusual specimen.’ He was a nice guy. Now he had faded away into the forget-me-do cosmos. Moon said Igor was evaluating a tortoise and that when he got around to making the thin slices he should put them between two slices of bread because Igor was permanently out to lunch. That’s was Moon rationale. That is his way of thought and there is nothing you or Seamus or Moon can do, and Seamus for one would not want to do, about it. Moon’s logic was refreshingly weird sprinkled with multi – dimensional, mad, muddling, penetrating insights. When Moon first gave Igor part of the rock he was very enthusiastic. He said it was a most interesting rock and he speculated the small circular spherules which were abundant in the matrix of the rock could indeed be chondrules which are only found in meteorites. A new type of minuscule chondrules. Igor said he had detected a rare mineral in the rock which to date had only been discovered in a meteorite found in Antarctica. He wouldn’t disclose what the mineral was. He would not say in which meteorite this mineral had been detected. They then had from him a complete reversal of opinion and interest in the rock before the information eventually dried up.

Seamus had a very odd e –mail from Igor in which he speculated the small spherules in the rock may have formed at very high temperatures in a specialized steel /alloy making process. The rock could be a rare specialized form of man- made waste/ byproduct. Slag. He was talking about slag. He had quickly ruled out slag after the first meeting. What had he discovered to make him change his mind? Seamus was determined to find out. He asked to meet up with Igor to discuss this and other new data Seamus had collated which included that Iridium had been discovered in the rock. Seamus wanted to ask Igor by which/what process could Iridium find its way into slag? Igor refused to meet up and Seamus became suspicious. Did Igor send the e mail? Was the e mail sent by someone impersonating Igor? Seamus carried out extensive research and from his reading and research, he was unable to locate any slag with Iridium rich spherules. Seamus got the distinct impression Igor was back peddling on his original preliminary analysis. Closing everything creepy crawly down. Moon said Igor was up the Volga without a rouble. Or was it a pebble? Can’t remember. Pebblerouble. Rouplepebble. Microsoft word abuse. Take your choice. We don’t mind and the programme doesn’t give a damn. Grammar is guttural gibberish to the laptop. It be not composed of 1s and Os. Perhaps Moon’s theory about Igor the Rockhead eating petrified tortoise sandwiches was not so far off the mark. Igor lived only a few minutes’ drive away from the VU University where he worked.

Bigbug was driving in a Dutch secret service PTT van along Beethovenstraat in Amsterdam. It soon passed the VU University. It was, speculated Bigbug, unfortunate, that Dr Igor Beria brought the piece of Moon’s meteorite home with him. Bigbug understood why Beria was excited and fascinated by the piece of rock. DATA was too. The geologist knew he had something rare and special. Igor was so interested he decided to study the rock at home. In his own good and precious family time. A few minutes later Bigbug reached Igor’s semi- detached house in Amstelveen and parked its PTT van in the driveway. Bigbug already knew Igor was in there with his wife and two of his three children. They were in the kitchen having dinner. Sea food platter. Bigbug was revolted. More species slaughtered for culinary titillation. Sea creatures did not need to be consumed for human survival and life in the universe was very much a matter of survival. These bastard humans had no idea how hard life could be. Sea food platter was a perfect example of ghastly gourmet gluttony. Eating species because they tasted nice? Get off my fucking planet. Still. Yet. It was most unfortunate the human brought the piece of the meteorite home with him. Bigbug rang the doorbell. It had a parcel in its hands. The younger of the two girls opened the door. She smiled at Bigbug. A very pretty human girl child eight or nine years old. Bigbug walked past her caught her by the back of the dress and dragged her with it as it walked into the dining room. It filled the house with a powerful knockout gas from the gill like valves that rose up out from the base of its neck. The Beria’s fell down unconscious. They were in a coma and would not come to for 24 hours unless revived. Bigbug quickly found Moons piece of rock. It placed the piece of rock and Igor’s laptop into the bag slung over its shoulder. Bigbug dragged the parents and their two kids outside and dumped them in the back of the PTT van. It placed the parcel, which contained a powerful incendiary bomb under the wooden stairs. Bigbug looked at the two girl children and somewhere far away deep inside it some primordial genetic trace of human emotion, perhaps a fleeting breath of pity that cost nothing, not even to evident evil, made it shake its head in resignation and acceptance of the invidious inevitable. The human Beria should not have brought his work home. Unfortunate. A human word that covered so much mayhem and mishap. The humans would now be recycled. Beria and his wife would be slaughtered, savaged by the cannibal marines relatively quickly, their blood drank as beer and eaten, or if after quality control inspection they were deemed too polluted for M&Ms to eat, processed into prison pie. Big human white puddings. Battle rations. Human flesh steamed off the bone and sterilized. Devoid of any life. Not a single bacterium. Fodder for the service clones. The M&Ms preferred fresh young meat. Baby beef. Venus veal. The two young girls would be playthings of the M&Ms. The misogynist marines would have great pleasure in degrading torturing and abusing the kids before eating them alive as they raped them. All four skeletons from the Beria’s would be revamped to make super frames on which to grow in the clone jelly tanks four more M&Ms. Pity about the kids. Pity? Where do such emotional nonsensical notions come from? Pity, the Bigbug reminded itself, was an unwanted unnecessary emotional intellectual irregularity in the practical application of logic but somewhere deep inside Bigbug a nine-year-old boy was weeping. Bigbug could shed no tears. Logic does not cry. Bigbug and Data loathed and detested the human race with an intense hatred that was impossible to measure or describe. As Bigbug drove back to the Schip Museum the Beria house burst into flames. The incendiary device caused a fire so hot the concrete itself melted within eight minutes. Nothing left to examine before the fire engines and police cars that came wailing past Bigbug arrived at the scene. Bigbug was not worried about the fire brigade or the police. Data had dispatched them. All the emergency services in Amsterdam, and soon the entire planet, were within the control of Data. Bigbug arrived at the Schip Museum. It drove into the courtyard and unloaded the four humans onto a cart. It pulled the humans into the building along the corridor and into its laboratory offices. The heavy security door clunked shut behind it. Bigbug pulled the cart into a hidden elevator and went 25 meters down to Metro Ship. In the station, Bigbug got the M&M detachment there to load the humans into a carriage on the Turtle train. The turtle train ran across the tunnel under the river Ij to the cut off station Metro Shell in Amsterdam North. The line from Metro Shell ran 10 kilometres out under the North Sea to the alien facility at Metro Data. The humans would be given to the M&Ms there who would use and abuse them before handing their skeletal remains over to the Cyclops for processing in the clone production facility. Bigbug drove the Turtle train into the tunnel. Bigbug didn’t give a damn what happened to the humans. They were scum. It was concentrating on how it was going to take the DATA rock from the two Irishmen. When it had the rock back it would deal with the troublesome Irishmen. It laughed mirthlessly to itself. Two Paddies in a pod. Two prison pies. Bigbug shuddered. The very thought of anything eating two such rotten stinking misfit humans made it feel sick in the head. Bigbug brought the train to a halt in the Metro Shell underground. Four M&Ms were guarding the station and the metro tunnel that led to Metro DATA. The sergeant M&M saluted Bigbug. Bigbug did not return the salute but quickly dumped the four humans onto the platform. Sacks of macabre mail.

“For us, sir?” asked the M&M. It was already salivating and barring its surgical steel teeth. It sniffed around the kids. “They are alive,” it shouted with joy to its comrades.

“Your treats,” said Bigbug, “Enjoy.” The M&Ms were ecstatic. Bigbug’s intention was to travel on to Metro DATA and speak with its creator but it stood still listening to DATA. “I am returning,” said Bigbug. It got into the opposite end of the Turtle train and drove back to Metro Ship. “Be good,” shouted Bigbug over its shoulder.

“Sir, yes sir,” barked the M&M. The cannibal clones grabbed the four unconscious humans and dragged them away. They were howling with joy. Bigbug shrugged but didn’t look back. The M&Ms were only displaying elevated human behaviour within their aggravated aggression programme. The aggression was modified and manipulated within design but it was human based. The humans could hardly complain. They thrived on violence. In the battlefield or the bedroom, the cinema or in the kitchen. Aggro anywhere and at anytime. Television and cinema were based on violence and this addiction was presented as entertainment. Characters playing ultra- violent roles were fashioned into movie stars who were displayed as heroes and revered as idols. The humans loved it. Bigbug drove the train as fast as it would go. It had received urgent information. The two Irishmen were on the move, travelling by car, in the direction of the Dutch city of Amersfoort. They had the rock. They had DATA. Bigbug listened and frowned. The DATA rock was not safe with these two clowns. The Dutch security service had lost visual contact with the Irishmen. They were being tracked by homing in on Seamus’s mobile phone. The humans believed that if they turned off their mobile phones they could not be tracked. Stupid creatures. Even if they took the precaution of removing the batteries from their mobile phones it was so very very easy for DATA to locate their position. It was like taking cake from a baby. A rock cake. The Turtle train screeched to a halt at the Metro Ship. The M&M guard held open the door to its security elevator. Bigbug ascended up to the museum ran out into the yard and jumped into the PTT van. It exited the Schip Museum at high speed. It could have used the Turtle space shuttle and remained completely anonymous and invisible but Bigbug was enjoying itself. It liked these old primitive autos with their backward internal combustion and diesel engines. It imagined itself to be in an auto chase in a movie. Bigbug listened intently. DATA was concerned and shared its thoughts with Bigbug about the two wayward Irishmen. An entity, mulled Bigbug, could be endowed with the finest intelligence in the universe but still have its plans thwarted by imbecilic behaviour. Idiot humans were entirely unpredictable. It was difficult to outwit creatures who were witless. DATA didn’t like unpredictable and what was going on in Mr Moon’s head was unpredictable, unique, and entirely unreadable. DATA conveyed these concerns to Bigbug. Bigbug concurred and got back to the chase.

“They are travelling by car towards the city of Amersfoort,” Bigbug talked into the air, “I am tracking them. Yes, they have the rock with them.” Bigbug swung onto the motor way and accelerated. He pushed the PTT van as fast as it would go. DATA was right. The DATA rock had to be retrieved as soon as possible. The two morons might lose it or swap it for a bag of potatoes. Paddy and the Potato Stalk. The possibilities were unthinkable and unbearable. The PTT van, boosted by Bigbug, sped down the A4 at an incredible two hundred and twenty kilometres per hour. The speed limit was one hundred.

Seamus was in the skateboard park across from his house talking to Moon.

“We are going out to a lawyer I know and he will hold the meteorite in his company safe.” Seamus talked low into Moons ear. “I don’t want any argument about it Moon. The meteorite is not safe in the house. Fat Don and Suzzi Pong are working for someone. It’s not the police. It has to be some government agency. I am sure of it and they must be after the meteorite. It needs to go into the lawyers safe.”

“Who is this lawyer?” asked Moon.

“Kraal. He is a good man. We can trust him.”

“Ok that’s cool with me,” agreed Moon, patting the meteorite he carried in his old grenade pouch, “but you said in the house we were going out to the boatyard.”

“Walls have ears, Moon. Don’t want to make it easy for the nosey assholes. Let’s walk to the car. Nice and easy and give them the slip. The sooner the meteorite is in Kraals safe the better. They have a high tech security system in the offices.” They walked over the bridge and down to the Wittenkade and stopped around the corner beside Finnegan’s pub. Seamus opened the door of a dark green BMW.

“This is not your car,” said Moon.

Seamus opened the boot. “Put the rock in the boot. It’s the safest place for it.” Moon put the meteorite into the boot and Seamus covered it with a blanket. “Get in,” said Seamus. Moon got into the passenger seat. “I borrowed the car from Marjolien. I don’t want anyone to know where we are going and you are not to tell anyone either. This is Top Secret.” Seamus adjusted the driver’s seat and the rear view mirror and pulled away.

“And you think I am paranoid?” Moon began to laugh. He thought all this was great stuff. It was something to tell the EWAB’s about at happy hour and he would get a few pints out of the battalion’s funds, for sure.

“Someone is taking an awful lot of interest in your meteorite Moon. Enough interest to make the Dutch government place us under surveillance.” Seamus was looking in his rear view mirror for undercover cars and vans as Moon began moonologuing.

“It is no use looking for tailing cars,” said Moon, “in modern surveillance the paranoids just put a tracking device in your car. They bury it deep inside the car which is why you borrowed Marjolein's car. Right? Am I ever fucking wrong! They can get the keys of any car by an arrangement most police forces have with the main manufacturers/dealers. They have similar surveillance arrangements with computer manufacturers and the home computer anti-virus/security systems we pay to have installed. When the paranoids want to gut your computer and suck it dry they pretend you are having an update, or they use the security system you bought to protect your computer, and spy on you with it. We are easy meat.” Moon was deep in thought.

Seamus knew Moon was absolutely right but in total surveillance, they still kept the suspect in visual contact, but still, where did Moon get all this information? The EWAB? Moon expanded and explained in moonologue.

“Do not turn off your computer. Installing updates. What kind of updates? Updates to your government security file? I don’t trust these anti-virus programmes either. Scanning now,” said Moon scathingly, disgusted and dragging on his spliff, “but scanning for what? And for whom?” He thought a moment. “It’s not scanning. It’s trawling for information. The tracking devices they install while you are otherwise engaged with diabolical subversive pursuits such as sleeping or working or playing darts down the pub. We pay the porkers for watching, while you are at work, to make sure you are out of the way, and they will not be disturbed, while they get up to their illegal spying activities. And the devices run off your battery on your own computer so you are paying to run them. We pay the internet providers money to let spooks transfer their stolen data over the web or should I say under the web. It’s like someone pissing on your back and then telling you it’s raining. They can listen to your conversation outside your car, for instance in your lawyer’s office, by utilizing your mobile phone, and they can pick up and hear your conversations just as clear as you speak or listen to a friend or colleague on your mobile. And we pay the energy and service costs to enable these bastards to spy on us. We are a backward, brainwashed, supine species. And most of us humans are stupid enough to bring a mobile phone to a meeting with a lawyer.” He looked at me pointedly.

“I have taken the battery out of mine”

“That will do it. Better not to own a mobile. In the French underworld, they call the mobile, - “the policeman’s friend.” Moon never had a mobile phone. He didn’t agree with them on humanitarian grounds. As Seamus drove along Moon settled into a rebellious roll, getting more and more inspired, as new plots unravelled before his very brain. He was overloading on PIE. Over dosing in revelation. Seamus thought he might have to isolate him from his conspiracy comrades. He might carry out a democratic detox by hiding away his beloved laptop. Let Moon suffer online withdrawal symptoms - Coldchip.

“Big Brother is a greedy paranoid with enormous resources to pamper to its many suspicions. And they are to a man, woman and system laptop dogs of the establishment. Righteous right wing rats.”

Moon, forever the passionate eco-warrior and conspiracy theory foot soldier, explained it this way. He had his eyes closed, marching about in Northern Lights territory, full of PIE, as we drove along the A9 towards Amersfoort.

“If, for instance, acting on some political party whim, to get re-elected probably, the government of the day decides all white men with blonde hair and blue eyes over the age of 18 years old, who are currently out of work, are declared a clear and present danger to the state than our valiant men and women of the security services will declare all Viking types terrorists, and draw up war plans to invade and destroy Scandinavia.”

“You think they are that extreme?”

“Yes of course. What’s to stop them? Can anyone stop them? We are dealing with a highly developed form of paranoid creature. A state of the art monster, a monster of a state, that creates its own fears, and feeds off them. It manufactures enemies of the people, enemies of the state, from nothing more than black thought. A dreadful depressing place to be, in short, the modern Democratic State in which voters have no choice.”

“Ok. Let me do the talking in the lawyer’s office, please.”

“I have nothing to say to any lawyer. They all dream about being judges.”

“We need the lawyer. The rock has to be protected and we need legal protection in case they try and confiscate the rock. Agreed?”

“I suppose so but I’m telling you. We should take the rock out at night and bury it. That way no one will know where it is but me and you and we will not have to pay rip off fees to a legal vulture. How much is this going to cost?”

We pulled up at the offices where Kraal the lawyer worked.

“Nothing or very little I would say. Kraal is a good friend of mine and he is a good man. He works for Amnesty and he defends all the squatters. Free of charge.”

“He will end up as managing director of the biggest property developers in Holland or President of the Supreme Court.”

“I don’t think so. He is a very ethical man. He is a Quaker.”

For some reason, Moon began to laugh. He took a fit of the giggles. He couldn’t stop. Laughing gas. He was trying to say something.

“Get it together Moon.”

“A Dutchman, a Cloggie, a Cheesehead, playing the bagpipes wearing a kilt and clogs,” and he began roaring with laughter again. He began to march up and down the car park playing imaginary bagpipes and making weird squeaky noises. Seamus opened the boot and took out the rock.

The lawyer Kraal was not wearing a kilt and clogs and he was not playing the bag pipes. This tall thin austere lawyer was looking at us both from his window on the first floor. He was expecting us as a matter of some urgency. He did not look amused. His window was open and he was eating a sausage roll.

“The hot breakfast that beats the cold,” shouts up Moon to the lawyer and he starts up with the giggles again. “Fusion crusted sausage rolls.” Seamus grabbed Moon and bundled him in the door, tears of laughter rolling down Moon’s cheeks, and ushered him up to the meeting. Seamus had persuaded Kraal to grant them an emergency consultation in his lunch break on the grounds of an urgent legal necessity. A grave matter of the utmost importance, hence a sausage roll in the hand, and a plastic cup full of office sludge. Normally he had lunch, with his baby son and his adorable lovely wife Else, at home. I rang the bell to his office. No answer. I thought for a moment he was not going to let us in. Moon’s giggles had now subsided to humorous hiccups. He waved his extinguished spliff at me. “This will win the Cannabis Cup. No problem.” Seamus gave him the evil eye. Eventually, Kraal opened the door. He also gave Moon the evil eye, the difference being he will probably send him a bill. Krall shook Seamus’s hand.

“Come in, Seamus.” he ignored Moon. Seamus understood. They walked into Kraal’s small office and he invited them to sit down on two hard backed wooden chairs. “Do you have the meteorite with you?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. We need to photograph it and weigh it.”

I took the meteorite out of Moon’s grenade pouch. It was wrapped up in a tea towel.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do. You cannot smoke in here.”

“I wasn’t going to smoke tobacco.”

“No smoking of any kind, Mr Moon, is permitted in this entire building. There is a smoking area outside.” Moon went off for a smoke. Kraal ignored Moon and placed the rock on the scales. “5.85 kilos.” He took a couple of photographs and sat down. “Ok, Seamus I have drawn up a deed of ownership which states you and Mr Moon have a legal claim to this meteorite. It is your property and you own equal shares in the meteorite and in all aspects relating to the meteorite. I have researched the laws in relation to this matter and my advice is that you are legally entitled to own this meteorite and no one can lay any claim to the meteorite or any part thereof. If you sign these three sets of deeds, I will lock the rock away for safe keeping in our company safe. I need both your passports and social security numbers. Read the contracts. I will be back in few minutes.” Kraal took the meteorite into the strong room.

Moon came back into the office. He was off the head stoned. Moon had been working in his plantation and he stank so much from his Northern Lights weed so much, Seamus imagined him to be a giant stoned bumble bee. If only and he could fly off to the land of giant flowers somewhere far, far, away. Seamus managed to get Moon’s passport and social security number for Kraal. The lawyer came back into his office and was staring at Moon with some bewilderment. Seamus and Moon gave him what he needed and he buzzed his secretary. She went off to make copies and make a receipt.

“Is your office alarmed?” asked Moon, “and what kind of safe do you have.”

“Come and take a look.” Kraal opened a door behind him and we followed him. He opened another door. It was a security door that led into a fire proof room. The room was stuffed full of dusty lawyer’s files and papers but in the middle of the room against the wall were two big modern Chubb safes. It would take a lot of gelignite, or plastic, to blow these beauties, even if you could disable the alarms, but Seamus didn’t say that in case Kraal asked him how he knew. Moon was impressed. Kraal worked the combination and then unlocked the safe with a key. He pointed to a locked drawer within the safe. “Your meteorite is in here. This safe and office are burglar proof.” He locked the drawer, shut the safe door, spun the combination lock, and then locked the safe door. Moon was even more impressed.

“Cool,” said Moon and punched the air with his fist and shouted, “an extra lock for a special rock.”

Kraal managed a smile. “It is not a Swiss vault but your rock is very safe here Mr Moon. Our alarm system is directly connected to the police and our own private security company. No one can get in here without being detected.” Kraal pointed to the two cameras inside the strong room. “We have 24hrs CCTV.”

That was no boast but where there is a signal there is a spy. Bigbug was watching and listening to everything that was taking place in the strong room on a heads up projected by DATA onto the windscreen of the PTT van. DATA and Bigbug were relieved the DATA rock was locked securely away and no longer in the hands of the two paddies. Seamus and Moon went back into Kraal’s office. They signed the deeds of ownership. Seamus got one, Moon got one, and Kraal held two. He gave each of them a receipt for the rock, shook hands and bade them goodbye. As they stood up he said to Seamus, “I will e mail you Seamus so we can make another appointment. I will send you a small bill for the storage. If you want to have the meteorite back give me a day or so notice in case, I am away in Court.”

“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice. Will do.”

“Over and out,” said Moon and gave Kraal a Legion salute. For a moment Seamus thought Kraal was going to return the salute, his right arm twitched a bit, but he just looked at Moon with as much Christian compassion as a Quaker can muster. He went briskly to the door and held it open for them. The door closed loudly.

“Moody Man,” whispered Moon in a loud voice. “This planet is crawling with moody men and women. The Geni Quartet will soon make happiness a criminal condition. We will be compelled to go about the planet grumpy and glum or face crippling sanctions imposed by the United Nations Solemnity Council.”

“Mood is a notoriously difficult word to define. There can be so many definitions depending on how one feels. There are thousands of moods.”

“More than that, a lot more than that,” agreed Moon, “sure the planet is infested with them,” and, he confided, as we walked to the car, “there is a lot more of them than you think. Believe me.”

“Get in the fucking car. What are you doing freaking out the lawyer like that?”

“What are you talking about?” Moon didn’t understand. “You are in a right foul mood, moody man,” said Moon.

Seamus drove off. He relaxed a bit. He was relieved the meteorite was safe in the lawyers safe. Bigbug and DATA were also relieved, very relieved. The police were outside Seamus’s house when they arrived back in Marnixstraat. As Seamus walked up to his house Inspector Dick Inkhuizen appeared on his bicycle. Seamus faced him on the pavement. He was a wily policeman, formerly the head of the Amsterdam pickpocket squad, and he deserved his nickname Tricky Dicky.

“Good morning, Mister Mulgreavey.”

They shook hands. “Good morning Inspector.” Seamus was formal because he knew there was police business afoot.

“Bad news,” Inspector Dick looked Seamus in the eyes. “I am afraid you have been buggerled.”

Moon spluttered, a comical generator, about to start, fun fired-up, with the giggles.

“Yes. We received a call. Unfortunately, the burglars were gone when we got here. Your house has been badly upset.”

“You’d be too,” replied Moon with a serious face of some sorts, “if you had been buggerled.”

“It’s a big problem in the community. Last week they even buggerled the Church.”

“Was the priest there at the time?” asked Moon.

“No,” replied Inspector Dick, looking as Moon with more suspicion than a policeman ought to have. “Why do you ask?”

Seamus indicated to Moon he should leave at once or face crippling sanctions of the physical kind.

“Very strange,” said Moon as he moved off. “Wait I have it,” he shouted back to us “If it wasn’t the priest then the butler done it,” and he scuttled off up the road towards his haunt The Republic coffee shop. You could hear Moon laughing all the way through the skateboard park and over the bridge.

“Your friend is in a funny mood,” said Inspector Dick.

“Moody man,” replied Seamus. They walked into Seamus’s apartment. The front door was busted off its hinges. The apartment wasn’t just upset, it was trashed, and there were two big porkers, in white forensic suits, prodding and poking about the place, going through the motions.

“What is missing?” asked Inspector Dick.

The flat screen TV was there. Ok, it had been up ended but it was still there attached to its cables. Seamus’s main frame was still there and the big monitor too. The stereo was there but all the CDs were scattered among the debris pulled out from the drawers and shelves and flung about the place. The bed settee and arm chair were ripped open and foam all over the place. The fridge had been emptied onto the floor. The kitchen cabinets like wise. The place had been the victim of a frenzied attack. The bed was destroyed. Pulled apart. This was worse than any random vandalism. It was fury. Someone was furiously looking for something. They could only have been looking for the rock. Who? Consult the Oracle. Magic mirror still left on the wall who is the biggest asshole of them all? Fat Don. Seamus pulled a kitchen chair up off the floor and sat on it.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything missing,” Seamus said to Inspector Dick who was hovering, at that time, at his shoulder with his notebook and pen at the ready.

“Nothing missing?” Incredulous inscrutable blue porker’s eyes looking at Seamus weighing him up.

“As far as I can tell. No, there is nothing missing.”

“Perhaps they were disturbed.”

“They certainly were. Very disturbed minds to do the likes of this.”

Inspector Dick spoke to the forensic porkers in Dutch. He said, “Are we done here? Ya ya. Front door and hallway examined? Ya ya. Ok, we will question the neighbours see if they saw or heard anything. You can go. I will inform Mr Mulgreavey.”

So Inspector Dick told Seamus what he already knew. Seamus understood every word that had passed between Inspector Dick and the forensic porkers. As he finished his briefing Seamus listened politely, he had no wish for the porker to know he understood and could read Dutch, Murphy banged through the cat flap in the kitchen door. He hissed at Inspector Dick, the cat comes from good stock and rubbed his head on Seamus’s legs. The cat was not in a good mood. The vandals had thrown over his food and water bowl. What could possibly be hidden under a cat food bowl? There was no cat burglar finesse or sophistication here. Ok, they were looking for something, but did they have to trash the place so badly? The answer was no. Seamus thought they must have trashed the place after they didn’t find what they were looking for. A warning, a spiteful sign, from bully boys. Seamus petted Murphy. The cat was damp and there were bits of cat food stuck to his fur. His water bowl and food bowl were over by the cat flap. Someone had thrown them at the cat and Murphy was not pleased. Neither was Seamus. This was getting personal. Very personal. He was glad Moon wasn’t here. Moon loved the cat. He would go crazy and whatever was going on would not be resolved by emotional Moon knee jerking. This affair was going to take a fine degree of intelligence, and a great deal of cunning, to fathom through.

“Ah,” said Seamus to Inspector Dick, “I will find out everything now.”

“Why is that, Mr Mulgreavey?”

“I have an eyewitness. Someone who saw everything as it happened.”

“Everything?” Inspector Dick was very pale and his voice was a bit croaky. “And who is this eyewitness.”

“The cat, he saw everything.” Seamus lifted up the cat and scratched between his ears.

“Ah,” said Inspector Dick forcing a laugh, “the cat. It’s always the jokes with you English.”

It’s not worth the effort to explain Seamus is an Irishman, so full of Celtic whizz and fizz, he has developed green toenails, but is worth noting, for one of those absurd irrational paranoid moments that brighten up our dull rational, that Seamus thought Inspector Dick Inkhuizen was going to shoot the cat. He didn’t. He took his hand away from the butt of his Glock pistol and left, after telling Seamus he was required to come down to his police station to make a statement, and, while doing so, he would afford Seamus every assistance in making an insurance claim for damages.

What a nice helpful man!

Seamus shuffled through the debris that had once been his home and found a couple of tubs of Murphy’s favourite cat food. The cat brushed up against Seamus purring, squeaking, hissing, scratching and meowing. He was trying to tell Seamus something vitally important and then the cat went silent his mouth full of rabbit and wild mushroom sauce. He paused and looked up at Seamus licking his chops. What was he trying to tell Seamus?

If only we could decipher the Felinish language.

Bigbug was listening in to the conversation in Seamus’s house. No papers or data relating to the DATA rock had been found by its secret agents Fat Don, Suzzi Pong and the henchmen but Bigbug pandered to its creative yearnings by considering to write a script for a new movie The Raiders of the Lost Rock or starting up a new talentless flat pack bi-sexual group Suzzi Pong and the Henchmen. Moon and Seamus had cut the rock up in the house. Bigbug instructed Fat Don to look for any small pieces of the rock that could still be there after the cutting. None had been found. Good. There was a piece left over from the cutting. An end cut of one hundred and sixty-three grams. That piece was in Seamus’s pocket. Bigbug could understand Felinish. It smirked. The cat was complaining that four guys had broken into the house searched it and trashed it but the person who threw the bowl of food at the cat was a nasty woman with a big horrible peppercorny- wart studded nose. Suzzi Pong loathed and detested the nose but Bigbug thought it was a work of art. It was also a vital control tool in the tyrant's toolbox. It entitles the work The Emperors Affliction.