Murphy Slaw


"Mr Cowley, Bodie and I just killed Murphy," Doyle confessed.

"Aye, did ye now. And how did you manage that?"

"Accident, sir," Bodie said firmly. "Didn't murder him."

"He ... choked," Doyle said.

"On what, Doyle?"

"Rather not say it, sir." Doyle slid a sheet of paper across the desk.

"Both at once?" Cowley demanded.

"Died trying," said Bodie.

"Bloody uncomfortable, too," Doyle complained. "All teeth and elbows."

"I trust there was no unprofessional involvement."

"Involvement?" Bodie said blandly. "Oh, I don't think you'd call it involvement."

"Well, that's a relief. I suppose you'll be wanting Corpse Removal to lend you a hand."

"Well, actually, sir," Doyle ventured, "we thought Catering would be more appropriate."

"I don't follow you, Doyle."

"The budget cuts, sir -- the canteen food's been very spartan the last few months."

"Ah." Cowley's eyes lighted up. "Aye, a good thought, Doyle. Help yourself to a glass of the Australian malt."

"We've been meaning to suggest it as an economy move for a while now," Bodie added.

"When did this economical stroke of genius occur to you?" Cowley asked.

"Suddenly last summer, sir," Bodie replied.

-- THE END --

November 1998

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