Saturday, July the 3rd, 2004
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Whither Blenkinsop? It is a question I have asked myself, oh, dozens of times in the past fortnight. That was when I last saw him, the titanic blob of a man, as he trundled away from me aboard his self-constructed space-age uber-tractor, heading, he said, for the Big Disused Radish Cannery near Crapwing. So far as anybody knows, he never arrived. His vehicle, uncannily riddled with what looked like age-old rust, was found in a thicket, as if deliberately concealed by a malefactor. A boot which may have belonged to Blenkinsop lay in the muck a few yards away. There were signs that an attempt had been made to remove the bootlace, which was splattered with stains of an unknown and possibly extra-terrestrial substance of fabulous blue. Mordant herons, gathered in a clump nearby, seemed to be suffering the ill-effects of this goo, whatever it was. Then, on Thursday, the night editor of the Daily Spasm took delivery of a parcel. It had been inexpertly-wrapped in corrugated cardboard and smelled of pig. Reluctant to divulge the contents, the newshound handed it to the police, who sent it to their forensic laboratory, which burned to the ground the next day, when a rookie lab assistant carelessly discarded a not-quite-spent lucifer in a wastepaper basket containing a petri dish of something monstrous, invisible and volatile concocted by the evil experimentalist Dr Turp, who had inveigled his way into the lab through a combination of charm and cunning. Now, it is known that Dr Turp once belonged to the same hat-collecting club as Blenkinsop. For this reason alone, he was taken into custody by the doughty Inspector Brazilnut on the day after the fire. This morning I purchased a railway ticket, and in a few minutes I shall board the train to Crapwing, where I shall confront Dr Turp as he stands arraigned in the dock of the assizes, and I shall blow his brains out with a fat and shiny pistol.