Inspiration

Many an obsesed fan who has tracked me down to my secret hidden mansion in the woods; Dromckeacker House, Mucross Road, Killarney, Left after the old church if you see the hotel youve gone too far. Has asked me, after the tour of the west wing (but before the luxtoury car part, the nerve!) where i get my inpiration from.
What a ludicrious question! It sadens me that they havent read my third biography in detail, where I describe my fourty two incarnations before my most recent and most sucsesful one.

Some would say my fourteenth life, where I was Sultan of the Ottoman Empire during the years 1324 to 1362 was my most sucsesful. I obviously dissagee, though I do conceed that my thirty fifth was quite fun untill my untimly death at the hands of a certain gentleman in the mists of London in 1888. Ah Jack... Such a troubled young man... Its nice to see that his new incarnation has gotten his act together and is the leader of a major world power.

I've said too much.

But yes! Inspiration, Well many of my novels are 're-hashings' or 're-imaginings'of events in my many, many attempts at finding Nirvana. Shamlessly re-phrased. Vigilant fans will of course remeber my fantasy novels in the 'Bottomen Empire' and my 'World War 1.5' series to name but a few. But in my latest book i decided to go agents teh norm and take the perspective of a police man. For this book would be no jaunt down memory lane, oh no! This would be my last, and perhaps greatest story I will ever tell...

WOO!

It was another three days before we finally finished interveiwing the relatives and assoicates of the late Seamus Murphy. The only new insight we learned of the batchelours life was that: He was friends of a man by the name of Mirium, he owned three copys of the origain police accadumy movie and he owed his sister twenty euro. In some places that would have been enought to kill him. No one wanted to be remineded of the days that police accamumey movies were funny...
Of course Det. Walsh dissagred with that statement. Or at least i think he dissagreed, he was shaking his head when he mummbled the responce to me. Not for the first time i wondered about my compaion as we sat in the station. His filthy shoes tapped flecks of dirt onto my desk as he struggled to tap at text to his wife. Apperently my murderous glances at my suppiour didnt help him understand that my parents had brought me up to never put my feet above my hips.

Surrendering my clean desk to its new filthy appearal, i glanced arround the offices. The bright green carpet a call back from the birth our nations independence. It gave the room a more earthly look. The wooden desks added to this air. They seamed to sprout out of the ground like the stumps of once great trees. The light filtered thru the blinds and for a moment, i was lost in the illusion. Untill my colleages phone bleated a message recived and the phones and computers and wires and reports all flooded back and reminded me where i was.

mystery theate! But without the theater!

The last time Killarney had been witness to murder had been last year. But before that nearly none in its 250 year long existence. There was no expertise in the local guards to deal with murders like this. Which was why last week, Dublin had sent us Super Intendent Walsh from the homicide division up in Limerick. The man was towering over the dresser where the calling card sat proudly. He was from the old school of Irish policing, Tall and ganly. The better to look down at you and intimidate you into not throwing that empty bottle of calpol thank you very much. He had long artistic fingers that were, momentary shoved into his coat pockets. Despite the look of a man who spent hours of his life, drawing and redrawing upon a canvas he was actually quite unconcerned with the more cultured things in life. The closest he got to art was training a GAA team back in limerick, the crest of which adorned his coat brest.

'What ya think?' He mumbled, turning to me. Despite being a West-of-Ireland lad myself i had to strain to understand him in his much thicker dialect.
'I think he's dead.' I responded. Not knowing the correct answer to give the taller man. His azure blue eyes shot up to heaven and back. He stuck his chin out as if he could hit me with it. He mumbled something else which i ignored. I had learned from working for the last week with this man that it didn't matter what i said. he was always in a foul mood.

We exited the house and pushed past the news crews. None of them were forgin. But as soon as they were the town would be in trouble. Killarney reallied heavily on the tourist trade in the summer month's. In fact during those months the population actually doubled so many were the tourists. Myself and Waslh walked up the street past the Bank of Ireland building, the ugliest building (some said) in the whole country. I glanced at the horrid thing as we walked by and grimaced in disgust. The first cafe we came to was immediately vetoed by my taller companion. So we headed towards the Granary. They were still serving lunch (and alcohol) so we sat in one of the comfy leather chairs and ordered our food.

the bit after the other bit

This was the third body to be found in Killareny.
To think the ancient Eqyptians had once made pilgramies to this fair vale, and now this....
I backed out of the cramped bathroom. Being carful not to touch the white suited pherensic people. Outside in the bedroom I could hear the people crowed beyond the guarda barrier. All huddled in the cold shouting questions. Staring at this old unsusepting looking Victorian house, that had become the third crimescene in as many weeks.
Like in the last murders, the rest of house was spotless. The killer having hovered, polished and even done the dishes. Logic would tell you that the killer was just making sure he left no DNA. The only thing out of place was the killers signature... A calling card,

youve been done in by me

I stared at the small peice of white card. Its black ink, so beatifuly and carfully rendered mocking us. Of course we had checked the four printing houses in the town. And none knew anything about it. In fact Murphy Print (no relation to the decessed) had been the only lead, saying the paper was in fact a certain type of card.

the bit after the intro

At the end of the intro my editor told me that we should, and by that he meant I should: describe my detective instead of going on a wild mad and fun to write chase scene. I tyred to convince him that to describe the detective would ruin the immerse feeling the reader had. I mean 'I wouldn't be able to imagine myself as ugly and you wouldn't be able to imagine yourself as handsome.' I reasoned with the misshapen nosed bastard. He seamed to take this the wrong way and after a heated argument about his hideous visage and the fact that his wife isn't that bad to look at, he threw me out via the educationally crippled security men.

Whilst dusting myself off and descrity giving the finger to said security mans back, i hit upon a brainwave.
'What if i don't describe my detective but rather do something better?'
With this in mind i set about on my task.
But unfortunately making a page in my book out of glass was 'unrealistic' and 'stupid'. Which just goes to show how damn narrow minded my editors wife can be. Makes me wounder why I bother going round to see her at all. But then again, she does have a terrific rack.
So we are back where we started. In the dingy bathroom with a corpse. A place I know we've been many times before and will be again.

the intro....

The body was nessled in the bathtub. Just like the last three. The pale flesh burnt by the harsh packed ice. So many cubes... The faceless head looks at me. It has no eyes. Not anymore, but i feel its phantom eyes. Staring out from beyond death. Mocking me, just as the killer mocked life when he took this mans face.

I shrug and look to the small shrine left beside the toliet. The candles have been extingushied but the photo frame and passport are still there. My eyes pull me back to the corpse. He even removed the fingerprints....How do i even know this is 'Seamus Murphy'?. Because the bastard left a passport? But of course its Mr. Murphy. Same as the last time... missing person found the next day....

The police photographer baths the body in bright light. The pale body somehow becoming smaller in the flash. Less real for an instant. Then the colours become real again. The dryed blood on the green tiles fades from brillent scarlet to dark brownish red. The skin becoming less plaster white and more jawndice yellow.

Dr Pauls' Memoirs

the following are extracts from the self styled memoirs by Dr. Paul Kelliher PHD... the following is dated 4th August 2009, this date was of course hidden in a complex mathematical code involving the poss ion of guitar strings.




4th August 2009

Mr J,
Today brend bought a sledge hammer and a microwave...
I can see his 'experiments' into the versatility to these nuclear machines knowes no bounds. When his fabled, 'lets see what tinfoil does inside it' one was such a huge success (to his twisted view anyway. I still haven't been able to remove the shrapnel from the wall) two years ago he has constantly tyred to outdo that one magnificent time with a variety of apparatus and liquids... But never before has
he tyred to microwave a 15kg sledge hammer...

I can hear him now cursing and panting trying to force a tool for driving rail road spikes into a box no bigger than an energon cube. I tyred to explain to him that no amount of 'heaving it in there boy' will be sufficient. But he just looks at me with those big dull puppy dog eyes and trys again. This is exasperating...

In other news i received a letter from the Academy of advanced learning. Those bastards have once again refused me my proposal to replace Dr. Death as head of the Laser research department. Don't they understand that the reason we keep finding British agents in the lab after dark with the doctors daughter is because all the file are tagged 'Death Laser'.

Well J, i must be off. I hear brend screaming, he must have hit himself with the sledge hammer....again....