Death in Ugzcyk # 1

My name is Seighton. Nicky Seighton. An altogether uncommon name in Ugzcyk. My trade an altogether uncommon occupation. I had uncovered some vile misdeeds in my time, but none that held a tusk to what was about to unfold as the chase unlaced and I plunged into a below zero inferno of false intestine readings, unlicenced fishing-hole drilling and assassination.

It was a cold June, the dead month, day. Ugzcyk lay grey and smoky, silent and dull within the texture of a frozen velveteen undergarment. The phone split the silence. Gina Lorrabitchiner, my secretary, called to me. It was Dogsson, the District Commisioner. I lodged an icicle in my throat. Cool was the watchword where Dogsson was concerned.
"Zatiu"? He bawled.
"Seighton speaking", I replied calmly.
"Srongwidja? Sounslikeyagorriceinyermowf, harharhhar! Now, shurrupanlissenup!Theresumfinsickbrewinintownanitaintsluice,
djaknoworrimean"?
"Just give me the details", I butted in rigidly.
I already knew I had no other choice than to accept the case.

Death in Ugzcyk#2

Gina rushed around my desk dragging furiously on her thick red-root cheroot. I could see she was feeling exalted. Nervous. Her eyes were so narrow it looked like someone had scratched two slits through the powder on her face.
"Are you going to take the case, Nick"?
"Call me a cab".
" So! You are going to take the case"!
" I've got to get out of here, fast. Call me a cab"!
" Nick. You know...if you are ever in a jam...I mean, a real pickle...you know you can count on me to flip the crpes, don't you"?
I packed my piece, slamming her hard bristling against the filing cabinet.What Dogsson had told me left no time for spooning.
Not for a while, anyway.

Death in Ugzcyk# 3

Old Cow Walrus.
She looked up as I entered and motioned for no more refreshments. Only the rustic music continued, the rythm increasing its frenetic chowder if anything. There was a teasing, expectant high among the gathered mobsters, moguls and clansmen.
Groan of heavily burdened table.
Muffled coughing and a heartfelt sigh.
In the smoky hall the light was as low as to be very nearly imperceptible. It suited the occasion better than the music, which was gay, frivolous, chittering.
With an impatient burst of hot lead Old Cow Walrus silenced the musicians. She raised her brimming tusk of Sluice with extreme caution, saluted the gathered clans, fixed her one good eye on me, and sipped.
Amid scenes of wild jubilation she choked to the floor, heaving and palpitating as she retched.
The venom had been sweet but deadly. 

Death in Ugzcyk#4

I knelt over the stiffly sprawled corpse, and picked up the fallen tusk with some bar-tongs. I sniffed the dregs...It had been venom, alright. The shrivelling odour of raw plate weed made me rush suspiciously out into the street.
I offered several innocent passers by a sip from the tusk, but all refused with vile imprecations on getting a whiff of the poison. That death soaked odour was unmistakable...so why had she taken the mortal swig? I couldn't rule out suicide, but suspected foul play.
For the momentit was just another question to add to the "unanswered" list.
Suddenly, with a rush, everything swirled into a momentary clarity. My blood cooled perceptibly. This killing was inextricably linked to my intended questioning of the victim with regard to Dogsson's allegations! I snatched my notebook from my inside leggings pocket and deleted Old Cow Walrus from the pile of names.
Next on the list was...or would I be too late again! 

Death in Ugzcyk#5


Fast cars. A pockmarked face. Solid seashores and blunted trumpets. Would it all come to a cells and bars end? It was hard to see straight for the humour of it.
A balding man in a felt hat watched as I ran off. A wild haired devotee of The Black Nipple followed the balding man. I called from a phone booth anyway, and she promised to see us later. Once again music permeated the air. In spite of which there was no dancing.
All the evidence had been taken, leaving the room pale and bare, like the inside of an empty icebox. The concierge told me that nobody had entered or left the building that evening.
I found him dead a few minutes later; his ancient face a mass of wrinkles and a fixed smile. My curiosity was aroused. Was he lying or was he playing possum? I hung around for some time but all that happened was his grin got wider. 


Death in Ugzcyk #6

" Somebody shot a broken harpoon in the face of our innocence".
I decided to take that as the Mothwer of syllogisms and wait for another. There are times when silence is the maximum interrogator.
A yak's manic yakking accompanied by distant terrorised screaming. A panic delerium in the ubiquitous fog. The clansman spoke again:
"Bathed the wounds in stinging unguents. Pruning shears tonight, eh, m'boy"?
Levering off the lid of the tin he proferred me I sniffed the contents. Yak balm! A "stinging unguent" indeed.
"No, Not tonight".
Padded footsteps paced my thoughts, in ever shortening concentric circles around the corpse. I buttoned my lip. Time to wait.
Time to see.
Come to me, O providential circumstance in my hour of need.


Death in Ugzcyk#7

I flipped a fishhead. The descision was clear. Wiping the frost from my shades, I struck out for Dogsson's residence.
When I got to the house he was prone with the cat on his face.
"The joke's on you", I muttered.
Was I talking to him, or me? Only the cat knew for sure. It exercised its clawing style on his eyelids. He didn't even blink. As one list lengthened the other grew inexorably shorter.
It was then, or thenabouts, that I heard the first whispers concerning the discovery of Anthony's letter. With disgust I threw the fishhead at the cat.

Death in Ugzcyk#8

The shocked populace of Ugzcyk heard of the discovery of the following letter among the entrails of a pregnant walrus. A mighty portent. This was what finally triggered the elections which Anthony had so vainly struggled to precipiate but never contested.

" Ice was my fortune. O precious citizen, my warflung spirznaz dreams of orderly floes in endless, seried ranks 'neath rice skies. Brought to nought.
I drool over daydreams of your potted squid. I cannot help but think of our beloved monarch, Solid King Fume III, to be exact. Is he still enthroned? It is my dearest wish. His coronation is a fondly treasured memory. What wouldn't I give to see him now, majestic and dignified? Now, that I am despoiled and whining between the slabs of this frozen sandwich, like those we ate in that field, dearest.
O baleful scum of a heaving green plate! Endlessly repeating scenes spoken forgotten like you and I. This I realise now that the Green Plate has spoken to me with the healthy lust of the bludcrg rooting.
Do you remember me? Anthony!
And still I ask myself how it could have happened? To me, of all people. O, how pathetic I am! But I refuse to believe that The King is anything but innocent. The idea that he could be involved in some foggy skein scandal does credit only to rodentbone crapage of the lowest order. And there are plenty of that breed to be found in Ugzcyk! The sons of perdure, the daughters of some profanity of a fairy; ghastly, utterly nausome.
I know now that it was the bludcrg rooting that brought about my downfall. It was always so...it is, after all, my nature. What could I do? And it was my bludcrg rooting that led me to The Reeking Hegs...not directly, of course...but rather, inexorably, as if my whole existance, stance, did but advance to THIS very point. The Hegs. How could I have understood? It was totally beyond my kennel. Dogdirt is what I am become. A vile curse on The Reeking Hegs, and, above, beyond, deep, stiry, gluey, a bit in the distance on the left, in the permafrost of this unhallowed unterdisco dreg of the entire universe I met you. But for that fately day in Ugzcyk all would have been different.
It was a day of frenzy. Drumming drums, dancing, tombola stalls on every corner, brazen wenches flogging themselves like sealmeat sausages. The sun shone remotely amongst the icy spears of the frozen mountains. Frozen fire - sun unto blood - unlike. I myself was aglow, head to toe, in a shimmering suit of hairs. You cannot imagine how excited I was! The suit was of bear hairs, and I, as I said, was all aglow like a little candle in the bestial immensity of Ugzcyk. Awaiting a flame to ignite the slumbering soul of a misbegotten wretch such as I was and am yet.
So, to hell with this! I mean, for Bog's sake! They've got me here, and they're hurting me! GET ME OUT! HELP!! Weather fine, love, Anthony xxx"

Yeah. A mighty portent. But love is a wretch also. Ein sturmspiel. Someone gave the letter to a sailor, and he gave it to me, Nick Seighton. Thus perished the first of many victims. So much carnage, on an unprecedented scale.
O The Hegs. Neo-boreal incantations. A strangely glowing dwarf uttering alchemic symbols.
Who would come here to buy a lawnmower?