9,000 Petals of Insanity

Chapter 2: The Eight Wooden Chickens

"Double, double toil and trouble; 

Fire burn and caldron bubble."

— William Shakespeare, Macbeth 

It all began, thought Inspector Pongo Galsworthy, with the chickens.

He had been sitting there, in his office, on that swelteringly hot January night, of the year 1936, when he had first received the call. Inspector Galsworthy wasn't a superstitious person— he was loath to read science fiction, of course, though no one quite knows why. Furthermore, his personality was one of utmost logic. He was a man of almost six feet in height, moderately built, his face an egg-shaped affair with small, intelligent eyes, and a bald pate. Despite his demeanor, the inspector was a very energetic person. He was a man of the force, the lone inspector of this small police station in Oxhaven, on the island of New Zealand. However, it is not the inspector's personality and character that are to be discussed. As it has been mentioned before, it all began with the chickens. 

As he studied the report on his desk the inspector lit a foul cigarette, which he proceeded to lift to his lips. The suffocatingly hot summer air was not relenting in any sense. Galsworthy emitted a disgusted noise. He had never liked the New Zealandian summer. Spreading his hands, he leant back in his seat.

The door banged open and in walked an abdominous little officer, his upper lip crowned by a massive walrus moustache, bestowing upon him a sort of comical character. "Inspector," said Sergeant Pepkins, "you might want to hear this."

Inspector Galsworthy frowned and stubbed out his cigarette. He plucked at his shirt. The heat was palpably, horribly unbearable. "What is it now, Pepkins?"

The sergeant walked up to the inspector. "We've received a call from someone three streets away from here. Apparently, his chickens have been stolen."

"Chickens?" Inspector Galsworthy scoffed. "You came in to tell me that?"

Pepkins looked apologetic. "I apologize, Inspector, but it was a matter of utmost urgency."

"Chickens!" the inspector roared with derision. "And who is the victim of this dastardly deed?"

"A Mr. Beelzebub Narkarec, sir," said Pepkins. "He sounded quite unnerved on the phone."

The inspector lit a second cigarette. "Thank you, Sergeant, but you need not go into details."

Pepkins bowed apologetically, then said, "Aren't we going to investigate it?"

"In a minute, Pepkins," said Galsworthy. "In a minute."

The sergeant bowed apologetically, then left the room. Galsworthy gazed out of the window into the infinite darkness of night. Chickens! The inspector laughed. Investigating the disappearance of a few chickens on such a horrible night! The chief constable would be amused, of course. Laughing softly to himself, the inspector rose from his seat. He didn't appreciate the sweltering heat, of course, but duty called.

He turned the knob and left his office.

The police car was there in half an hour. Inspector Galsworthy stepped out of the car, frowning slightly. "Well?"

They had stopped before a great, splendid mansion, which was eerily silhouetted against the ghostly moon. The night was impossibly quiet, as though some judgment had come before it. In fact, almost too quiet. Had something, then, happened, already? The star-studded heavens were clear; the ugly luminescence of the swollen moon was almost disturbing in character. The car door screeched agonizingly as it was closed. Lighting his third cigarette of the night, Inspector Galsworthy walked up to the mansion.