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666 Great Junction Street

Part 15

As Michael Cade trundled on down Great Junction Street, he thought he saw Yosemite Sam heading his way. It was, of course, Clint McMurdo, who eyed Rudy the daschund, tucked securely under Michael's arm, with extreme suspicion.

'Put the critter down, mister,' drawled Clint.

Michael struggled to erase the image of the deranged redheaded cartoon cowboy from his scarred imagination. Eventually, he decided a wisecracking grey rabbit chewing a carrot was not about to make an appearance and questioned Clint's request.


'Just put the varmint down and drop your weapon.' Clint was referring to the paraffin lamp the ex children's TV presenter carried with him everywhere.

'It's not loaded,' explained Michael. 'In fact, it hasn't said a word to me in years. I think he must be sickening for something.'

Clint looked puzzled. Portable lighting apparatus, paraffin or otherwise, were not his territory. He quickly whipped out his pointing gun hand.

'Pcheeew! Reach for the skies!'

Startled, Michael instinctively raised his hands and in the process let Rudy drop to the street yelping as he leapt to avoid the falling lamp which shattered instantly with a thunderous bang. Well past its prime and fat enough to actually bounce, the agile daschund was not nimble enough to escape every piece of shattering glass, and a shard lodged itself in his right paw.

Quicker than a roadrunner, Michael was down on the ground to simultaneously comfort his squealing pet and mourn his smashed lamp.

'Oh, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy! You poor thing.' He yanked the splinter from the dog's bleeding paw and shot Clint a withering glance. 'You stupid, stupid man,' he wailed.

Suddenly the two men looked around them bewildered as a distorted voice rang out:

'Thtep away from the dog and throw down your weaponth!'

A police car had pulled up across the street and a constable was crouched behind it with a loudhailer.

'It's the Leith police!' smiled Clint.

'Put your handth above your headth!'

Both men complied and stared in disbelief at the scene before them. All around, pedestrians had ducked for cover, obviously under the impression that the exploding lamp had been a gunshot. The passing policemen had made the same assumption. The one with the lisp and the megaphone made his way over to the incredulous pair.

'It's alright, officer,' pleaded Michael. 'It's his fingers. They're not loaded.'


After a quick frisk, the constable proceeded to handcuff them and escorted them over the road where he bundled them into the back seat of the vehicle.

'My Rudy!' yelled Michael.

The constable went to collect the injured animal which growled as he picked it up. 'Ith thith a thothage dog?' he asked as he roughly threw it in beside his captives.

'No. It's a daschund,' said Michael, cradling the beast to his breast and sobbing quietly.

The driver of the car turned to his colleague. 'Where's the firearm?' he asked.

'I didn't find any. But we'll take them in anyway. They were cauthing a fracas.'

Next Week: Dismisseth



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