"I just don't get it," Constable Knobsmasher said to Catsmeat Dobler. "Why does your kind call today 'Black Friday'? It's not even a bit cloudy out, much less dark an' stormy. It's what you call an oxymoronic 'oliday, it is."

Dobler was along to observe as Knobsmasher walked a beat through the Old Quarter, Part of Dobler's training in Watch procedures. "If you're a businessman, Knobby, this is, like, the best day of the year. Perfectly sane consumers lose all reason and practically fork the cash over like it was Monopoly money. Black Friday used to be my best day. Folks are in a hurry and can't spare the time for a sit-down lunch, but you offer 'em a nice grilled sausage on a stick at a reasonable price, they'll line up." Dobler sighed. "Damn, those were good times."

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with it bein' Black an' all? There's not a cloud ina sky, no dark lords smitin' folk with flamin' swords and such, nobody runnin' 'round 'ollerin' in a panic."

"You've obviously never gotten caught between two old ladies both trying to buy the last fondue pot from a kiosk in the Medina."

"Can't say as I 'ave..." Knobsmasher was interrupted by a beep from the radio attached to his tunic. "Yeah, sarge," he answered, then cupped his hand over his earpiece to listen. After a moment he said, "We're at Roubidoux an' Deschanel in the Quarter." He listened again, then, "Right you are, sarge. We'll 'ead over an' check it out." He looked over at Catsmeat. "Sarge says a neighbor reported seeing a large number of dead bodies in an apartment in the Folly. We're to check it out."

"Just the two of us?" asked Dobler a bit nervously. "The sarge did say 'bodies', right? You know, as in multiple. Shouldn't we wait for some backup?"

"Nah, no need. Be good trainin' for you. An' you'll get to know a bit more about the neighbor'ood this way."

"How, by taking down the names of the streets along the way while some deranged axe murderer sneaks up behind and adds me to the pile of dead bodies?"

"No need to get all sarcastic like," said Knobsmasher. "I know who lives in that apartment, I does, an' I know she's got some, shall we say, unusual friends. We won't be findin' no dead bodies up there. Well, all right, theys will be dead, but there's dead, and then there is dead. You see?"

"No," said Dobler, "Not a clue." A couple of moments later he asked, "But what if they're the other kind of dead?"

"Well then, Catsy, me ol' chum, we'll 'ave us an old fashioned Black Friday, now won't we."

The door to the apartment was open a crack when the constables arrived at the apartment in question. Through the opening Dobler could see several bodies sprawled about unmoving, all looking deathly pale. "Knobby, they look awfully dead," he whispered, getting a bit pale himself.

"They are," said Knobsmasher, "but as I said..." He opened the door full, strode over to one of the bodies, and poked it with his nightstick. "C'mon there, Bob, wake up."

The body groaned and rolled over, opening it's eye a crack as it looked up at Knobsmasher. "Knobby? What the hell time is it?"

"Noon. Neighbor reported a pile o' dead bodies. Mass turkey coma, then?"

"Yeoop," came the woozy reply.

"Everyone else okay, nobody needin' a couple pints o' AB neg?"

"Well, if you're offering to go..."

"No. Just checkin' your reflexes, I was." He turned to Dobler. "Told you, I did. Nothin' to see here. Just a bunch o' vampires doped up on turkey dinners."

"Vampires?"

"Yeah, whadya expect, zombies? Now let's us go reassure Mrs. McGregor down the 'all."

Zombies. Why's it got to be zombies?

I feel glad that I've worn a nice warm hat. I know, I know, they are perfectly well restrained, and yet, I can't help but feel grateful for that extra little bit of padding between my brain and the outside world. There have been two of them following me, shall we say, avidly for a good twenty minutes, and in spite of the proprietor's reassurancess, I don't feel quite comfortable. And really, who would have expected zombies in a Dalrymple sculptor's studio? Let alone that they would, erm, hired help?

Still, there are definitely some lovely anatomical studies here.

"The new uniforms look pretty sharp," I said brightly. I said it brightly because I knew what was coming, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. It didn't help that once again I was the only member of the W.O.B. who made it to the monthly board meeting with Captain Charpe. Funny how they all begged off when they saw the final item on the agenda. Hilarious, in fact.

"They do, don't they?" said Charpe. "Your Ms. Brooks was very helpful. The woman does wonders with kevlar."

I found myself without any further topics to delay the inevitable. "We found you a detective." I handed over a dossier.

Charpe opened it and started reading. Given what was typed right there at the top of the first page, it only took a second for a scowl to appear. "His name is Tureleg?"

"Eli Tureleg, yes."

"That's an elven name."

"I believe his grandfather was an elf." Knew it for a fact, actually, but I figured a little ambiguity was best.

"I don't like elves," he said, the scowl deepening. "We've talked about this. I don't want 'em in the Watch."

"You don't have to like him," I replied. "We have talked about this. Diversity is good. Besides, he's mostly human."

"He's still part elf. You can't trust elves. He'd probably kill his own mother for a shillin'."

About this time the penguin discretely decided to continue taking minutes of the meeting from a spot beneath the far end of the conference table. I soldiered on. "In fact, he requested that we forward a portion of his retainer to his mother. We checked. We're quite certain she's still alive."

"Retainer?" Charpe asked.

"The city only hired him as a consultant. He's a private contractor. You decide when to call him in."

"He won't be joinin' the Watch?" The scowl was replaced by puzzlement.

"Nope. He prefers to remain independent." Which was true. Plus he already made more that the city could offer to pay him. "Given that we don't expect the Watch to need a detective full time, it seems a win-win situation," for values of win that don't include happy orcs, anyway.

"The Watch isn't good enough for him?" A vein in Charpe's forehead started to pulse. "He prefers to remain independent. Isn't that just like a bleedin' elf!"

"You said didn't want any elves in the Watch!" I'd raised my voice on that, which would've probably aggravated the situation with a human, but orcs tend to respect yelling. The next level of escalation with orcs is physical assault, but Mrs. Machina didn't raise no stupid kids.

"It's the principle of the thing." His own volume level dropped some, which was a good sign. Then he added, "Besides, we already have a detective."

"What? Who?" Now I was the one puzzled.

"Constable Wolfhunter"

"Has a lot of experience doing this sort of work does he?" Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to. Wolfhunter was a kid, the youngest of orcs in the Watch.

"Not as such, no," said Charpe, "but he's a good tracker, and very keen to learn."

"And who'll be training him?"

"Well... He's read quite a bit... And he's always to first to figure out who did it when the lads are watchin' the television."

"Ah, so he's good at figuring out crimes that have been scripted then?" I paused a moment. Time to appeal to Charpe's professionalism. "Look, Tureleg is a very good detective. We checked. His background is impeccable, and his references all give him high marks. Wolfhunter can learn from him. Give him a chance."

"I still don't trust elves. There has to be someone else."

I shrug. "He was the only one who bid on the contract."

"Bloody hell."

08:00 - Role Call and Morning Briefing

Sergeant Reeves laid a clipboard with his notes for the morning meeting down on the desk at the front of the dayroom, and rapped the desk three times with his knuckles as he asked the group of constables for attention. "Good morning, constables. I would like to start by welcoming the newest members of the Watch into the fold. Would Constables Phissure and Davy would please stand?"

A very green troll and a very white human got up from their seats. "In addition to their normal duties, Constables Phissure and Davy will also act as our forensics team as needed. Well met, gentlemen."

"He's very pale," Dobler whispered to Knobsmasher, nodding towards Davy. "I mean, he's even paler than I am, and I don't get out much."

Knobsmasher never got a chance to reply, as Reeves fixed him with a look while again rapping for silence. The sergeant then picked up his clipboard and continued. "The first advisory is regarding another shop attack by the Kickass Girls yesterday. The owners of the Epicurious Depot gourmet shop in Skep Gardens, Tangley Mews, reports that the aesthetoterrorist gang rampaged through their shop, making off with large quantities of estate bottled olive oil, and leaving in its place supermarket house brand oil."

"They ain't terrorists, sarge," interrupted Knobsmasher. "They's just bored 'ousewifes out for a bit of a lark."

"Tell that to the proprietors, constable," replied the sergeant. "Mr. Peebles reports that one of the women offered to 'whack him upside the head' with an onyx-handled spatula. He was quite distraught. Our intelligence on the group indicates that they merely pose as housewives, and are actually thoroughly ruthless young women." Reeves glanced down at the clipboard again. "The miscreants also left behind an embossed calling card with instructions on the back for folding cloth napkins into decorative swans, and then left the scene in an aqua colored, 1960 Chevy Impala convertible. They are considered armed and extremely annoying."

He checked another item. "We also received an anonymous report of a disturbance at the Singapore Market in Little Saigon. However, when Constable Ragman arrived and questioned the owner, a Mr. Goh, he claimed there had been no such disturbance, and that the caller must have been mistaken. He also asserted that his blackened eye and broken arm were the result of a mishap involving a banana peel and a large melon."

"Funny thing about that, sarge," said Ragman. "I took a look round the alley out back, and didn't see neither a banana peel nor any melon in their trash bins. And that Mr. Goh seemed awful nervous-like, too, if ya know what I mean."

"I think we all do," answered Reeves. "Perhaps it would be best to keep an eye peeled for further non-existent disturbances in the vicinity." He took one last look at the clipboard. "Well, that would appear to be all for this morning. Time to be about our business, constables, and remember..." he paused just a moment for effect, "Let's be especially careful out there."

'Tis the season for reruns:

Just Another Christmas in Sang Sacre

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the town
Not a creature was stirring, not even a clown.
The party was over, the bar was now closed,
And snowflakes fell gently as everyone dozed.

The penguin was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of herring bits danced in his head,
So I sat in my study late into the night,
And caught up on the board by the monitor's light.

I typed up a note to be posted in Natter,
When out from the street there arose a great clatter.
I went to the window, and peeked though the blind,
Without an idea about what I would find.

The moonlight lit up all the new-fallen snow,
It was bright as midday, the world seemed aglow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a honking great sleigh with a single reindeer.

But that was no reindeer, 'twas a dog name of Max.
And the back of the sleigh held a great pile of sacks,
And a furry green driver, the reins in his clinch,
I knew in a moment it must be the Grinch.

"We must stop! We must stop!"
His cadence kept drumming
"We must stop! We must stop
This Christmas from coming!
Now wait by the front porch,
I'll go through the door.
We've done all the houses,
There's just this one more."

And the Grinch then hopped down from his elegant ride,
Then he twirled on his heel, and he tip-toed inside.
He gathered up presents, and filled up a sack
And the ornaments, also, were soon in his pack.

The Grinch had been careful so he wouldn't be heard,
But he had not reckoned with the ears of a bird,
So there in the doorway, a penguin quite small,
Was asking why Santa was taking this haul.

But, you know, that old Grinch was so smart and so slick,
That he thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.
"Why my sweet little bird," —the fake Santa Claus lied —
"There's a light on this tree that won't light on one side."

So he got him a drink, and he patted his head,
And the trusting young penguin went back to his bed.
The Grinch grabbed his pack, and he turned round to flee,
And that's when he saw —unexpectedly —me.

His eyes, now they narrowed, his expression was wary,
His cheeks drained of color, his face wasn't merry.
His mouth came to life, and he muttered, "Oh, bugger..."
Because he had noticed my Louisville Slugger.
He looked all around for a way back outside,
Or at the very least a safe place he could hide.
I moved ever closer as I brandished my bat,
And I said to the Grinch, "It's time we had a chat."

So, converse there we did, I did not raise my voice.
At the end of our chat, I gave him a fair choice.
He could put back the presents, the trees, and the lights,
Or I'd call up a preacher to read him last rites.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And I followed along, to make sure he'd not shirk.
He replaced all the stockings, the gifts, and the trees,
He brought back the roasts and the holiday cheese.

He when he had finished, with the sky turning gray,
He called out for Max, and climbed into his sleigh.
And I yelled after him, 'ere he slunk out of sight,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

::applause, applause!::

The alley behind Egg Chen's restaurant was extraordinarily tidy for an alley, with nary a dustbin out of place or a piece of litter on the ground. Rats would starve to death in this particular alley, except that most rats are also smart enough to move onto to greener, filthier pastures if they can't find anything to eat in their local ecosystem. In fact, the only thing seemingly keeping Sang Sacre Style magazine from doing an eight page photo spread of the alley in its annual "Best of Blood" edition was that right smack in the middle of all that tidiness lay a dead body leaking real blood all over the nice clean cobbles.

Captain Charpe surveyed the scene with Sergeant Chopper. The victim was slim, and lay face down, its face hidden under a mop long blonde hair. A dark green cloak covered most of the body, except for the brown leather boots on its feet. Parts of the body were bent in ways that shouldn't normally be possible. The blood was red, as most blood is, and there was a lot of it. "Well, he certainly didn't slip on a banana peel. Who called it in, Pit?"

"The owner's daughter heard a noise, thought it was a delivery, an' looked out the back door..." Chopper paused to sneeze. "Sorry, sir," he said as he ran the back of his hand underneath his nose, and then wiped the hand on the side of his pant leg. "'Twas the daughter that called it in. Wolfhunter and Miranda got here first. Checked for signs of life, they did, but there weren't any. Soon as I got here, I sent 'em off to have a quick look 'round the area, especially up on the roof of yon empty buildin'." He pointed a thumb towards the building across the alley from the restaurant. "Then I called for forensics and the meat wagon."

Charpe grunted approval, then knelt down next to the body to take a closer look. He'd referred to the victim as "he," but he wasn't even sure about that yet, given that all he could see of it was the hair and the blood. The victim did appear rather taller than most females, but not by much. He sniffed the air, and a puzzled look came over his face. He took a pen from his pocket and used it to push the victim's hair back from the side of its head. The face definitely looked more male than female, although there was no beard nor even stubble. Pushing the hair back further revealed a pointed ear. "Bloody hell," Charpe muttered, a bit surprised. "He's a bloody elf."

"That he is, sir, an' drippin' all over these wonderful clean cobblestones, too," said Chopper, now wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Very funny, sergeant," Charpe said sarcastically as he stood back up. "Somethin's not right, though."

"You mean apart from his bein' dead an' all, sir?"

"No, I mean he doesn't smell right." Charpe leaned over and sniffed again. An orc's nose is a far more sensitive odor detection device than that of a human. "He looks like an elf, and dresses like an elf, but he doesn't smell right."

"Dead things do smell different, sir. An' there's all the blood."

"I've smelled my share of dead things, sergeant, and that's not it. Besides, he hasn't been dead long enough. Don't you smell anything odd?"

"Sorry, sir, I can't smell a thing. It's this bit of a cold I've caught." Chopper looked sheepish, turned away to sneeze again, then continued, "How do you mean 'odd'?"

"I don't know, Pit. He does smell a bit like an elf. That's why I looked closer. But the scent is wrong somehow, like there's somethin' missin'." He sniffed yet again.

"Pity we don't have anyone on call who knows anythin' about elves, sir. Oh, wait, we do."

"Yah, I was afraid you'd remember that. Bloody hell!" Charpe thumbed his radio, and told Sergeant Reeves to make a call.

My pop always used to say that nothing good can ever come of hanging out in an alley full of orcs. Of course, he'd never been in a situation where the orcs in question were clients. He was a detective, too, among other things, but the clientele he served tended to run in somewhat posher circles than your average orc did. That said, I'm not sure a dark alley full of orcs is any more dangerous than a well-lit boardroom full of bankers and lawyers.

There were more than just orcs in this particular alley. There was a troll to start with, along with a couple of humans, one of whom was almost certainly a vampire. I don't recall pop ever mentioning trolls or vampires, but I suspect that if he'd thought of it, they'd have been included on his list of contraindications for entering alleys as well. Sometimes it's hard to be thorough when passing along one's accumulated wisdom to the next generation. Still, the current denizens of the alley were all wearing the uniform of the Watch, so I felt fairly confident that I wasn't about to be torn limb from limb. Well, at least not until the orcs went off duty.

Then there was the body, about which the troll was dutifully marking an outline with a piece of chalk. Now pop had a genuine knack for stumbling across bodies, a trait I apparently didn't inherit, The jury's still out on whether that's a plus or a minus. I mean, stumbling over a corpse almost never ends well for somebody, and more often than not it's the stumbler who takes it on the chin. There are endless questions from suspicious, unsympathetic orcs, followed by metric tons of paperwork, not to mention the laundry bills for cleaning blood stains out of one's clothes. It can get even worse if the depositor of said body still happens to be in the vicinity. On the other hand, maybe if I'd stumbled over the occasional body or three, my financial situation wouldn't be in such bad shape that I had to take a gig working with persons having a pathological hatred for elves and their kinfolk. And just maybe I wouldn't be walking into an alley full of orcs, vampires, and trolls.

This consulting job seemed like a good idea at the time. The retainer was decent, and I figured the workload would be light. There's never been much actual crime in the Sang Sacre, and crimes that would require any sort of detective work are even rarer still. Disturbances of the peace tend more towards the occasional supernatural manifestation or invading demon army, that sort of thing, events that the orcs of the Watch are well suited to handle. I figured it'd be easy money. Now it looked like I'd have to earn it.

I only knew one of the constables in the alley. The good news was that the orc most likely to rip off one my arms and use it as a bludgeon, Captain Charpe, who also happened to be my boss on this job, didn't seem to be around. The orc I recognized was Sergeant Chopper, which was another plus. Of all the orcs in the watch, he's the one most likely to have descriptions like genial or likeable hung on him. Good thing, too. Chopper was smaller than the troll, but not by much; nobody in his right mind wanted to find out how far his geniality stretched. We'd gotten along well enough on the few occasions we'd met in the course of business. He even let my buy him a beer at Milo's one time.

Chopper was standing just inside the crime scene tape that was strung across the entrance to the alley, talking to the other orc and the female constable. The vampire was taking photographs of the scene. Yup, this was the new Watch; it's not just for orcs anymore. He sent the pair off in the direction of the empty building, then noticed me as I approached. He turned towards me, and let loose one heck of a sneeze. "Gesundheit, sergeant. How's life treating ya?"