A whole week without a murder in Midsomer St Mary and Jane is getting bored
Jane experiences Pinkertons Prong.
Jane Marbles stared at the approaching rain clouds. It was nearly a week since they had experienced a murder in Midsomer St Mary and she was getting bored.
Inspector Wexford was getting worried, his crime figures projections were causing some anxiety, the numbers of murders had recently overtaken the Bronx and were almost as bad as the figures for Peckham, if unreported crimes were considered, and now Miss Marbles was back visiting one of her "Relatives".
In fact Jane was visiting an old friend, Miriam, Slobotham - Smythe, Miss Marbles and she had shared a dorm and frequently a bed at Cheltenham, and Miriam had a nice little business in her Cottage next to Midsomer St Mary Manor, selling cream teas and crack cocaine to tourists.
Jane liked dark wet nights, one could not hear the screams, she had solved nearly eighty murders, up to now, she loved the feeling of snapping a neck, or feeling the knife slip gently against the victims ribs, it was so much easier to solve a murder if one knew all the people, assessed the motives, decided who was likely to kill whom and then to simply do it.
Jack Wexford was her great love, unattainable sadly, her twenty four separate attempts to kill his wife having failed miserably, and yet she still held a torch for him, although she was not too sure about the physical side of any relationship, she generally preferred girls.
Rain drops started to fall, she smiled thinking about Roger, Miriam's Sister Betty's husband, she remembered the way his pretty bearded face looked unbelievingly as she plunged the kitchen knife into his chest, the red blood bubbling around the knife, his lover got twelve years for manslaughter for that when she persuaded him to do a plea bargain, apparently Roger wore socks in bed, and Jane had her principles, he deserved to die, even if he took out his vile lusts on another man.
Jane watched the rain, should she kill the Vicar, or should it be the Organist, who always dragged the Hymns at evensong, or that colour blind fool who did the flower arrangements, she mulled it over.
"Supper Jane" cried Miriam, and Jane remembered just in time that she could not fly and walked down the psychedic pink inside of a giant snakes throat which led from Bathroom to Dining room.
"Damn Good shit that Mirrors" she complimented her friend.
Audrey Manors looked astonished. "We dress for Dinner in Midsomer St Mary"
"Fuck" said Jane, she knew she forgot something and that was to dress after showering, she hoped no one noticed her nipple rings, as she waddled artlessly towards the door.
"Jane, not outside dear, up stairs" Miriam advised and Jane nodded, and started to climb the bright yellow bean pole leading to the bedroom.
"Nice Tits" Abrahms Miriam's Butler exclaimed as he stared as Jane struggled to climb the staircase convinced as she was that she was being swallowed by a Giant Turtle.
Jane quickly retrieved her clothes from the roof of the porch where she had thrown them in mistake for a cupboard, she always wore the same grey suit with white blouse and bought them by the dozen so she could always change to a clean set and burn or bury the blood soaked originals.
A car horn brought her to her senses, Pinky Pinkerton's son Pinkers had arrived in the MG and was waiting for his boyfriend Charlie, Charlie was once a girl named Charlotte but before she met Pinkers she wanted to be a man and pee standing up, so it was all a bit unfortunate really, and despite the operation being done privately they claimed they could not reverse it that easily, so she remained a man until the Chinese authorities found a suitable doner to sentence to death.
Jane wondered about Charlie, but when she realised the poor fool would be better off dead she decided to leave him/ her/ it alive. Reynolds, the Butcher, Arthurs the Greengrocer, Allenby who ran the pub, she remembered their final moments fondly, a neck snapped here, a knife, and carbon monoxide poisoning when she pushed Allenby into the firebox of the shunting engine she borrowed from Slugborough Gas works when he driver was occupied with the signal man in a coital fashion. She smiled at the memories as she stared at the rain running down the window pane like a red and green spiders web.
Abrahms spoke to Miriam in a hushed voice, "Madam, the uncut shit from my room is gone, I fear poor Jane half inched it."
Miriam was outraged, "Half inched it, Abrahms please this is Dorsetstershire, not the fleshpots of Dorking, Nicked it please."
"Sorry Ma'am" he apologised.
Jane thought back to her training, at special operations, where they demonstrated the agony which a man could routinely inflict upon a woman in the interests of procreation, Hauptman Linderman had demonstrated, the rear was nor too bad almost pleasant, but the front was pure agony.
She remembered floating down over Midsomer St Andrew swinging from the parachute in her nuns habit, wishing she had remembered to wear knickers, and the reception committee waiting as the three engined Ju 52 Junkers flew back towards Deutschland.
The reception committee were terrible their accents nothing like the BBC, she learned afterwards all Dorsetstershire Yokels spoke like that, but she considered her first duty was to despatch them so she invited each in turn to her room and slit their throats, the last almost spotted the blood pouring out of the cupboard but she got the knife in his wind pipe before he could scream.
Quite how the English could mistake an eighteen year old from Bavaria for a fifty two year old English woman was a mystery until Jane found the Poppy farm and the Opiates factory when she went with Inspector Foyle to act as interpreter at Munsdown Hall, as of course half decent Afgan Shit was hard to come by in war torn Britain.
Jane looked down at Pinkers, sitting in his MG, not even the Overhead Cam model but the cheap eleven hundred CC overhead valve version, Pinkers waiting to inflict unspeakable pain by penetrating some poor wench, he would have to die.
Jane refined her plan over the next few days, she knew Pinkers was to travel to London by train leaving his car at Fly B Knight garage and saw he would travel the straight road past Scrubditch Farm, she reached down her SS book of sabotage instructions and calculated the amount of fuel an MG would use at top speed, and the size of fuel pipe needed to supply this, any less and the car would break down, she realised squeezing the pipe to 2.33457 millimetres would cause the car to stop right by the giant Oak tree, along he Scrubditch road and that evening clutching a pair of pliers and a Zeiss micrometer she did the devious deed.
Morning came, an Owl hooted, Jane carefully blew its tiny brains out with her silenced Schmeiser sub machine gun and sat and waited under the mighty tree, she heard the sound of a tortured six cylinder engine, as with its tyres howling and driver Alf Biggins wrestling with his cigarette, morning paper and earthenware half gallon Cider Jar, the morning bus hurtled towards Arthon in the Marsh Station, and Catspissford Canning where they had the stray pet shelter and pie factory which provie work and chaep tasty eals for the local populace.
Silence returned, and Jane dozed dreaming of far away lands, Wansdyke, Newton Abbottsford, Cumbran and of her heroes, Al Capone, Erwin Rommel, and of course Jacques le Ripper.
The MG was coming, she could hear the engine struggling, not running cleanly but suffering fuel starvation, it was too soon, Pinkers had shut the engine down and was coasting, her plan had failed, she peered out, she had miscalculated, the car had stopped two metres short.
Pinkers was searching for his thin long handled screwdriver when the shadows fell across him, he turned and saw an old crone advancing steadily from the direction of the Oak Tree and he realised in an instant that she had tampered with his car to bring him to a helpless halt, he panicked until he remembered Lance Corporal Jones instructions to the boys in his class at elementary school, "Don't Panic" he had shouted after he had accidentally shot the entire upper sixth with a Gatling Gun.
The old crone approached, her Schmeiser in her hands,"Guten Tag" she greeted him.
Pinkers instinctively grabbed a cricket ball from his luggage and threw it high in the air then sweeping his tennis racket from the luggage straps he served the ball faultlessly between the old crones eyes.
She staggered back, stunned, Pinkers seized the moment and wrote a long last will and testament which he folded inside his jacket before approaching the aged hag, he looked at her greying hair, the lined forehead and the pallid complexion, he knew no one would believe him that she had threatened him with the gun so decided he would just humilliate her slightly and fix the car.
Pinkers propped Jane's surprisingly light body against the Oak tree and unbuttoned his flies, the old John Thomas was in flaccid mode and he struggled to aim the stream of piss at her face, but with a supreme effort soon the stinking yellow beer laden urine was washing her aged visage.
Suddenly Pinkers saw to his astonishment that the grey hair was turning Gold, and the pallor and wrinkles vanishing, she was wearing makeup to make her look older, Pinkers realised immediately that this could mean only one thing. She batted for the other side, a left hander, enjoyed the pleasures of Lesbos, she was a Lesbian.
Pinkers grabbed the spare can of water and carefully chucked it over her from a range of six feet, she stirred, opened her eyes and spoke softly, "You must Die Schwine, hand me the Gun so I may shoot you like a Rat."
"Not so fast, Lesbian" he cried, "I know your sort, and I know what to do about you, I shall report you to the Vicar."
Pinkers was becoming aware of intense pain, his John Thomas was swelling uncontrollably and as he only had two fly buttons undone the blood supply to his helmet was being restricted.
Jane gazed at the member, remembering her own agonising experience with one barely half the diameter, but in her dazed state it somehow seemed beautiful, she reached out with her left hand, gently touched the tip and was rewarded by a shower of creamy white ejaculate. She absent mindedly licked the cum from her fingers, she was not used to salty cream and in her dazed state though it amusing.
"You bloody bitch" cried Pinkers, "nobody laughs at my pecker, I won best prong three terms running at Sandhurst I'll have you know, and I have never had a complaint," and in his fury he dragged her to the ground.
PC Harrington was struggling to see straight, as he cycled uncertainly along the long straight road past Scrubditch farm he sort of remembered arriving at the Dog and Duck just after ten o'clock after Miss Marbles had sent young Roger round to complain they were open after hours, but then it was a bit of a blur, he remembered having a glass of something to quench his thirst but from then until the Landlord found him in bed with his wife he could remember precisely nothing.
He saw Pinkers car parked and noted the Guiness beer bottle label in the Tax Disc holder, he fell off his bike with excitement, "I'll have you Pinkers, I bloody got you now!"
Harrington, heard noises, he strode unsteadily to the gate and saw Pinkers pink bottom staring back at him, and the old bitch Marbles naked crotch beyond.
"Excuse me Mr Pinkerton, might I have a word." he asked politely.
Pinkers looked round, "Fuck off I'm just about to point Percy at the Vagina, teach the old trout some manners."
"Very good sir, give her one from me while you're at it sir, I'll overlook the tax disc this time sir."
Harrington smiled, that old bitch needed a good shafting.
Jane shook her head, her hair cascaded around her neck in a snowstorm of white powder, Pinkers Pinkerton was undoing her Bodice and her Brassiere, her pale pink breasts spilled out her golden nipple rings with their swastica emblems shining in the sunlight, she had not worn any knickers and with her thick dress around her waist there was no defence against Pinkers' rejuvenated advancing rampant prong.
She wished she could faint but she watched in detached fascination as it advanced and he shuffled slowly forward, his advancing knees forcing her legs ever wider.
Jane knew her fate was inescapable, and as a good resourceful former member of the Hitler Youth she sought to minimise her pain, scooping the spent cum from her chest and shoulders and lubricating herself with it, she realised he was going for the front orifice and she prayed she would remember to scream in english.
She felt her labia being eased apart, Pinkers Prong slid further in, she braced herself for the excruciating pain, her eyes tight shut her fingers like claws raking Pinkers back, the moment was unending, waiting, dreading the pain, she felt her body stretched, unused muscles stretched, towards their limits but where was the pain, a warm sensation spread around her crotch, she was aware she was disgracefully wet with her own secretions, she peered down, his entire prong was filling her, how could this be? there was no pain.
His balls were slapping against her, he was humming, he was happy, he was humiliating her, taking her without her commanding officers permission, without first signing a requisition in triplicate. He must die, but perhaps not quite yet, she did not find his kisses upon her neck entirely distasteful, and perhaps if her were to put some more effort into his thrusting, like an experienced SS officer would have been trained to do then the experience would not have been entirely unpleasant.
"Thrust harder, In, Out, In, Out keep time to the Horst Wessel Gsang" she ordered in German, which Pinkers did not understand, but he did realise she had the potential to be a grade A fuck, with a bit of practice and he was sure Mrs Barber who ran Midsomer St Mary Escorts would take her on for the summer and show her the ropes if he put in a word for her.
Jane was floating, her mind in ecstasy Pinkers thrusting away energetically, her crotch and tits flooding her mind with beautiful thoughts. She had the Eureka moment, this was as good as doing drugs, so what if Pinkers did this to her all the time, well every morning, and twice at night and every Thursday and Saturday afternoon because they were early closing, and five times on sundays and bank holidays, then she would save eighteen shillings and sixpence each week on her crack cocaine bill.
She whispered lovingly. "If you become my lover I shall not blow your brains out my Darling"
"Sorry old bean promised to Charlie, her dads got a mansion"
"I have a hand grenade" Jane countered.
"Fair enough," said Pinkers "I'll have a word with the Bishop see when we can get the Cathedral" and with that he came and flooded Jane's womb with his seed, his brave British seed invading her proud Nazi eggs. The same eggs which in just nine months produced Getchen, Wolfgang and Mary, their beloved triplets.
So Janes attempt to kill Pinkers failed, although a shag every thirty mintes for three days would surely have killed a lesser man, Pinkerton's prong withstood the test.
Testimony indeed to the wisdom of the lecturers at Sandhurst and the planners who sited the Horse guards Barracks next to the greatest concentration of brothels in the entire British Empire.