Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 9

Previously in A Hazard of Parsnips…

A love ignited

And also squashed

An insane rival

Vegetables washed

Strange goings on

Lord Dennis admonished

And worst of all

Clarence has vanished.

And now, A Hazard of Parsnips continues…


DI Detective-Inspector

My personal assistant, Sam, has just handed me your official letter of complaint (thanks, Sam).  I can understand your concerns with regards to our drafting in of external support, but the recent spate of kidnappings have literally spiralled out of control.  A bit like a crazy helter-skelter that doesn’t have one of those doormats to sit on.  We’re all getting our metaphorical bottoms burned here.

Anyway, it was not lightly that I took the decision to make a formal request to our brethren over in the Big Juicy Apple, and was delighted to hear that they were going to be sending us their best man.  I mean their best detective, not their ‘best man’ like at a wedding.  That wouldn’t be much use at all.  Unless he had to make a funny, yet touching speech, or maybe tie somebody to a lampost while naked, and possibly covered in shaving cream.  To be fair, those particular circumstances seem unlikely to arise during the course of a kidnapping investigation, but fingers crossed.

I feel confident that you will see past your complaint (Sam tells me that you’re a very forgiving person, and that your loved ones really miss you) and that you’ll give this Kowalski chap a good, old-fashioned Saint Helens Police Department welcome.  You’re probably best getting some party hats and streamers from B&M’s, something like that.  Anyway, I expect to see daily reports  on your progress and, of course, any gossip about this dashing Kowalski.


ACC Acorah.


Sam tells me that you know somebody with a red car.  Does that mean anything to you? No? With the greatest respect, if you think hard enough about it, you’ll find that it does.



An ill-wind blows through me.  Goddamn it, this boat stinks.

It’s the final day of my voyage to the old country.  I’m not sure which old country it is, I just know that it’s so old that the cobwebs have cobwebs.  It will be a relief to get off this christforsaken steam-ship.  The department would only cover me for a third-class ticket, so I’m stuck below decks with all the low-rents, two-bit Johnny Comeuppance merchants, Bobby Foreigners, Heebie Jeebies, the Spit-Spots and the, frankly, chair bonkers.  Christ, there’s no air to breathe.  Well, obviously there’s some air or I’d be dead.  I was being all metaphorical.  My god, it’s tough being Kowalski.

Those limey pricks have telefaxed me through their flea-bitten ‘evidence’.  These guys wouldn’t know a good, old-fashioned serial killer from someone who has murdered several people in a ritualistic way.  What am I gonna do with these jerks?  Am I going to have to put them over my knee, pull down their pants and underpants and give them a right, royal spanking?  They expect too much from me, I’m only one Kowalski, after all.  If the commissionar hadn’t tried to give me a hickey during the precinct’s Easter party then I’d still be beating up perps in Jockstrap Alley.  Saints above!  Why did nature make me this way?

Still, those guys have one good lead.  That letter from the kidnapper is one hell of a pervy read.  Any cop worth his salt would be suspicious of anyone who writes in a German accent.  Let’s just say that there’s more to this than meets the eye.  And when you meet Kowalski’s eye, you better be telling the truth or you’re gonna get a pistol-whip sandwich on rye.  Oh, hell yeah, I’m gonna catch you, you creepy sonofabitch, you mother-lickin’ creep.

You just need a name.

Kowalski’s the man to name you, you punk.

You say meow.  You’re a cat.

You’re trying to tease me.  You’re a kitty.

You’re a perp, but you’re playful. Oh so, naughty.

You’re suspiciously German….

Oh yeah. Der Naughty Kitty, that sums you up to a tee.

A golf tee that Kowalski is gonna drive his ball from. Straight into my hole of justice.  Kowalski is a hole-in-one kind of guy, now Kowalski just needs to find Kowalski’s caddy.

Maybe I’ll find one in merry old England.

Wish me luck.



As requested, I provide my first daily report on the kidnapping investigation and the comings and\or goings of Kowalski.  I took my trusty police horse (Lucky) and side-car to the docks to meet the ship – a ship that could barely contain our Yankie colleague.  This is no slight on the quality of the shipbuilders’ workmanship.  Even the hold of the mighty Titanic would have strained at the seams and popped many a rivet, were it to attempt to house this raging juggernaut of a man.

Lucky became increasingly twitchy as we approached the port, it was most unlike her.  I could barely control her trot as we got within sight of the quayside.  Her nervousness was understandable, as I rounded the corner, I got my first glimpse of the man – his arrogance screamed at me like a painting by Munch.  There was something in the snarl of his lip and the angle of his hips that made me fear for my very soul.  He stood with his hand in his jacket pocket and a foot cocked up on top of his travelling chest.  It was a pose so jaunty that it made this proud Englishman throb the deepest crimson.  I awkwardly choked back my pride and approached.  Cautiously.  Like you might approach a hungry tapir.

I bade him my greetings and warily proffered my hand.  He merely growled and spat his tobacco stained sputum within an inch of my freshly polished brogues.  A chill ran through my body that I can barely describe, it was an unnatural mixture of ecstasy and terror that coursed through my veins.  My brogues were the finest that George from Asda had to offer and are my most cherished possession.  Not knowing what else to do, I gestured towards the horse and side-car and miraculously he lazily swaggered toward it.  I couldn’t help but notice, as he climbed into the vehicle, that his trousers, a particularly jazzy pair of Farah, were incredibly well fitting.  Perhaps he had a previous career as a fashion model.  I couldn’t help but imagine his toned physique gracing the catwalks of Paris, Milan or Salford.  Shamefully, he caught my gaze as I was picturing him strutting up and down in some trendy lederhosen and his stern glare gave me an instant rebuke.  My cheeks burned so hotly that you could have fried an egg on them.  In other circumstances this might have proved quite useful.

I digress.  We hurried back to the station, anxious to get on with some actual policework.  Kowalski did not speak a word to me, but continued to growl for the entire duration of the journey.  It made me feel like nothing less than a melon that had been squashed between two rather large, hairy buttocks.  My seeds scattered to the four winds and my succulent juices rapidly evaporating.

Thankfully, we soon reached SHPD HQ and, having had no indication of his intentions, I took Kowalski directly to the Quite Difficult Crimes Unit’s incident room.  Some of my best men were in atendance, including the shapely Bottle and the fragile egoed Glass, who have helped me solve many a conservatory based crime.  What would their reaction be to this uncultured, rough hewn slab of granite?

We would soon find out.  The growling subsided and we expected the awful, yet magnificent looking, man to speak.  What we did not expect for him to do was to begin furiously, yet with a chilling attention to detail, stripping the incident room of all its wallpaper.  He even got the kettle to generate some steam for the more stubborn areas.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  He was a frenzy of activity and the air was thick with flying shreds of paper.  It was rather like a rather extravagant ticker-tape parade given for the first chimp in space.

After an hour or two, the walls were completely bare.  Like a rabid wolf, he then began to bellow his own name at the top of his lungs: KOOOOWWWWWAAAALLLLLSSSSKKKKKIIIIIII!!!!!! for a full ten minutes.  When he’d finished, he simply took a sip of coffee and began some actual policework.  Luckily, I was able to take detailed notes:


Ok, you limey faggots.  Listen up and listen down.  Whatever you do, just goddam listen.  You been working this case for too freakin’ long and you ain’t even got the address of someone who may have a clue.  So, now you got Kowalski right up your asses.  Now, who’s in charge of this so called investigation?


Urm.  I believe that would be me.  I’m the…


Shut your goddam wiener-hole before I fill it with a piece of Kowalski.  I just got two questions for you:  where’s your goddam evidence room, and have you been working out?


Errm.  It’s just over there and I haven’t been working out, but I have been trying to watch what I eat.

I then promptly showed Detective Kowalski the evidence room and he pored over the 3 items that we have regarding Der Naughty Kitty (as Kowalski has decided to label the kidnapper).  After a few hours, he seemed to be purring like a kitten and we realised that he had fallen fast asleep.  We slowly left the room after gently laying a blanket over his prostrate, yet eerily masculine body.

Hopefully the investigation will begin in earnest tomorrow and prove that this is not all the massive waste of everybody’s time that it appears to be.



I just woke my ass up in this stinking, so-called evidence room.  These chumps wouldn’t know a decent piece of evidence if it walked up to them and introduced itself as Lord George Decent Piece of Evidence of DecentPieceOfEvidence-shire.  The pricks.

I’ve been dragged into a serial kidnapping case where the only clue they have is the letter from the kidnapper that I already know about.  The other two bits of ‘evidence’ are an old bus ticket, and a half eaten ‘hob-nob’ (whatever the hell that is).  None of these jokers know how they relate to the case.  Officer Glass thinks that they might have fallen out of his pocket.

The jerk-off in charge of this case, this Ian Detective-Whatshisface is one of the most surly, pompous jack-asses I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.  If I didn’t think he had the raw clay for me to mold a real detective from, then I would have kicked his butt from here to Coney Island.  And not just his butt.  The rest of his limey ass too.  I’ll keep him around for now, and just follow Kowalski’s Law: Keep your friends close, but keep pompous Limey dickweeds even closer.  Everybody knows Kowalski’s Law.  Especially Kowalski.

Geez, I need some more sleep.  I don’t understand this crazy country or how its police force works.  I found one of their police notebooks, called a ‘Panini Football 86 Sticker Book’.  Why it has that crazy name I have no idea.  And who is this Ian Rush? Why is his name next to a box.  Am I supposed to write in it?  Does it have to be about him?  Does Ian Rush even own a goddam box?Sheesh, it’s enough to turn a guy to Twinkies.

I’m gonna have to meet the DA tomorrow.  Hopefully he’ll be less of a tool.

3 thoughts on “Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 9

  1. Dear Drs Shed and Sherby,
    I like this stuff. I like this stuff a lot. I like Kowalski. If I were a tissue, I’d probably be first in line to blow his nose. That’s how much I like him. I don’t like him any more than that though. I mean, you know what else loud, manly Americans use tissues for. Especially when they’re on a long boat voyage. Alone. You know, I don’t like him that much. But the manlier ones tend to use rough burlap soaked in grits instead of tissues. Just to emphasise their manliness, as it were.
    I was ever so slightly disappointed in one respect though. Some of us have tastes. Urges. Juices. For blond root vegetables. I was hoping for some real hot parsnip action here. Read ‘Snip Monthly, why don’t you? It’ll give you a few ideas. You could develop Kowalski’s character a little. Get him out in the allotment. Or in the greengrocers. Some of us have greengrocers for our best friends. Just to get close to parsnips. I’m just saying. Alright?

    • Dear G, I thank you for your comments. Kowalski is the man we all want to be, but I appreciate your want to connect him to parsnips literally. Sadly, I’m afriad if Sherby and I were to indulge this whim of yours the internet world would become even more sexy time resulting in erotic charges reaching to the moon. This would interfere with my freeview and come dine with me is on today.

  2. Dear Dr A, Please don’t be afriad. It makes me nervuos. I’m always getting thwarted in my desire to see root vegetables getting the exposure they deserve. Ah well, back to stringing the beans along and shucking a few peas, I suppose. Ooh! I’m ***** ****! Thank you for your reply.

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