Just Dropped By by Philip A. Stenson

    "Seventy percent of all businesses fail in their first year," said Detective Chief Inspector Beckett as he stood on the doorstep.
    "What? Jesus! What are you talking about?" exclaimed his wife. He was home from work four hours late. He stepped in, out of the rain, and shook off his umbrella.
    He continued, "Most don’t do any market research. They push forward headlong with no experience straight into a competitive market place and are surprised to find that all the business goes to the same old stalwarts while they go tits up. You’ve got to find your niche."
    "Woah, woah, just wait a minute!" interrupted his wife, "I’ve been sitting here for four hours waiting for you to get back from work. Look, look through there, see the table there? See the wineglasses? See the burned out candles? See the fucking cold lobster bisque on your plate? Jesus Ian, I didn’t expect you to do anything, but I expected you to fucking remember! And here you are, sliding in at ten o’ clock thinking you’re Alan fucking Sugar! What’s it all about, eh? No! In fact; I don’t want to know, I’m going to bed." She was already halfway up the stairs.
    "Oh God, sorry love, really I am. Bloody hell. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ve just been a bit tied up with..." He was interrupted by the sound of the bedroom door slamming "...work." He kicked the coat stand. "Bollocks."

    It’s true, seventy percent of all businesses do fail in their first year. But, thought DCI Beckett as he poured himself a whisky, if you do your research, find your niche, you can make a real killing. That’s exactly what Graham Hunter’s done, he’s been going for three years, and no one even dares guess the size of the fortune he’s notched up for himself.
    Graham Hunter was the sole employee of Black ‘n’ Bluicide.com. He specialised in organising assisted suicide for those who wish to humiliate/shock/institutionalise spouses/family/employers by inflicting a triumphant and gory death upon themselves right in front of the eyes of those who drove them to it.
    In one recent case, Hunter aided a 26 year old man who wanted to get one over on his fiancée, whom he had just discovered had been unfaithful several months previous. A fraudulent lottery jackpot win was staged. Friends and family were invited to the celebration party at a local pub. Hunter played the doorman; he gathered them all outside, insisting that the jackpot winner wished his guests to wait outside the pub until he made his arrival by limousine. A shout was heard from above, ‘Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch’ it ended with a dull thump and a splattering of fluids over the startled guests. Across the forehead, in permanent black marker, could clearly be seen the words ‘IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT KIRSTY’. Hunter had probably helped him to write it.
    As a final insult, it was later revealed that Hunter’s fees, an estimated £10,000 cash, had been paid for out of the couple’s wedding fund.
    Police were understandably keen to speak to Mr Hunter. But, as his notoriety grew, he became more and more difficult to track down. Unless, of course, you required his services.

    DCI Beckett strode into the office and slammed his briefcase down on his desk. Three years now, and Hunter was as elusive as ever.
    "Sir, I think you should have a look at this." Detective Constable Regan, clearly eager to enhance his promotion prospects, had won the race amongst the young upstarts in the office to be the first to provide the boss with the news. "Here, look!" He held out a copy of one of the less reputable red-tops. "Look at what it says in Gary’s paper!"
    "Oh my lord," uttered DCI Beckett when he read the headline: SPURNED LOVER PROJECTS HIMSELF INTO FACE OF WOMAN. The whole office looked on in silence for fully five minutes as Beckett sat down and studied the article.
    The subsequent investigation learned that a female auditor of a well known financial services company had received a large package in the works post from a male colleague. As it was wheeled over to her on a trolley it had naturally aroused the curiosity of several other colleagues who gathered round for a closer look. It had the words NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE MADE ME DO! LOVE, JAMES, X written across the top. The woman had repeatedly turned down James Parker’s advances. Nevertheless, he persistently sent flowers, chocolates and all manner of other gifts to both her work and home address.
    The package contained a series of photographs showing James Parker climbing into and emerging from a tree shredder. As a final insult, it had contained a small explosive device that was triggered upon opening which showered the woman and onlookers with lumps of bloody flesh and skeins of the internal plumbings of the heartbroken man.
    In a despicable act of self-publicity, Hunter had printed the ‘Black ‘n’ Bluicide’ logo on the back of the photographs which had spewed from the package along with the body tissues.

    DCI Beckett’s frustration grew as the year bought news of continued Bluicides.
    Most notable was the case where a recently married man from Birmingham bumped into an ex-girlfriend one particularly hot July day. She invited him back to her flat. As soon as they were through the door, she tore his clothes off and performed fellatio. He was surprised, the greeting he was more accustomed to was a barrage of insults and threats, as she was apparently still bitter following their acrimonious break-up three years previous. She led him to the bedroom, she hitched up her dress and straddled him. She wasn’t wearing underwear, she eased him inside of her and with her hands on his chest began to moan as she thrust herself up and down his length. Her breasts, in front of his face, swung with her gyrations and he felt himself harden as he grabbed them with both hands, squeezing at her nipples through the material of her dress. She lifted her arms up and he lifted her dress off over her head.
    At first he thought it was a corset; it was black, it looked like corrugated cardboard and it was very tightly wrapped around her body. He stared in confusion. She stopped moving, she looked at him. She laughed.
    "You’re pathetic," she said. "You’re pathetic, look at you, married to that bitch, but you just can’t help coming back for more. Thought she’d make a better wife than me did you? Pathetic."
    She pulled a cord. Instantly the room was covered with chunks of flesh and fat. He hoped that some of it was his. But it wasn’t, Graham Hunter was the master tactician, he had somehow managed to equip her with just enough explosive to blow herself apart but leave him without injury. The dazed man wiped the blood away from his eyes and baulked at the sight of the singed lower half of his ex-girlfriend’s body still straddling him, sat atop of his penis.

    The undercover work was beginning to yield results. DC Greenwood had approached Hunter online and presented him with his greatest challenge yet. Greenwood posed as a jealous husband who wanted to ruin the dinner party that his wife had been planning to celebrate her promotion at work. He wanted to sneak off sometime after the starter, somehow liquefy himself and serve himself to the guests with the roasted sea bass.
    He arranged a meeting with Hunter to discuss the operation. The address that they tracked Hunter down to was on a Manchester council estate.

    DCI Beckett was eager to make the arrest himself. They arrived at the address; tall, grey residential blocks brooded over a tatty central square. Beckett waited in the car across the street with DC Regan whilst DCs Price and Faulkner waited in the other car at the rear of the building. Greenwood knocked on the door.
    There was an answer, it looked like Hunter himself. He appeared edgy, perhaps he was suspicious; before he shook Greenwood’s hand he took a good look around. He glanced nervously left and right and then up and down. Apparently satisfied, he ushered Greenwood through the door and followed him in.
    Beckett radioed the signal to Price and Faulkner, he grabbed the battering ram, the car doors opened and he and Regan ran across the square to the ground floor flat.
    Before they got there a scream was heard from above.                 "Baaaaastaaaaarrrrd!" It ended with a dull squelch and a large spluttering of matter in front of the two officers. A melee of coughing and expletives ensued.
    Beckett smeared a lump of fatty tissue off his glasses and choked at the scene in front of him. The broken face of his wife peered up from her oozing body whilst her blood soaked through his shirt and warmly kissed his skin. She was holding a bouquet of red roses in one hand and in the other a greetings card upon which could clearly be read the words ‘Happy Silver Wedding Anniversary.’
    Greenwood didn’t know what to do, upon hearing the commotion outside, drew his pistol and peered out of the window at the gathering crowd. He could just make out DCI Beckett at the centre, on his knees. Regan was trying to keep the onlookers back.
Graham Hunter slipped out of the door, climbed into his car and turned the key.

 

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