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02 Dec 2006
By [Ronny]

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The Wolf Master of Bimmel

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The Wolf-Master of Bimmel

The Monster stood atop the prey.
Not at night but in the day.
His teeth were barred and shone so bright
His glowing eyes aimed to sun and light.
The hands so firm held the meat to the floor
As fang into neck rudely bore
And as the gruesome deed was done
And the creature had enjoyed his fun
The prey rose and sincerely asked;
“Why in murder do you bask?”
The Monster gave a fragile smile
All Godliness to defile
“There is no reason”
I heard him say
“I’ve been a monster everyday””
Robert Liam Traylor, 1894
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“For a start” Boyne began, flicking through the pages casually “Dimmet gives his age at 72 but by the records on file there was no “Rufus Dimmet” who were born in 1934 so I think we can assume that the name is false”.
Boyne flipped quickly to the back and pointed at something which seemed of great importance “ah, but in 1933 a boy was born in Efforwich called…ah, where is it? Got it, he was called John Dimmik”.
“So?” Chris said irritably “the man is clearly different”.
“Possibly” Bill frowned “but this theory is all we’ve got. You see, in 1949 this lad tried to join the army under the name “John Dimmit” but was dismissed on grounds of ill health, then, a year later the records show that his mother, Patricia Dimmik, died and then there is a eleven year gap until anything else is heard from him and in 1960 a man is taken into custody on vagrancy charges and calls himself William Joe Dimmet”.
“What does this tell us?” Chris sighed rather angrily.
“He likes to change his name” Boyne said lightly.
“I never would have guessed”.
“Just calm down and listen, the records after 1960 dry up again and this Dimmet disappears from all records but in 1963 there is a rather…peculiar murder. A woman in London was found dead in a back alley, someone had bitten half her face off, maybe it’s unconnected but the killer was never found and assumed to be just an untraceable homeless man high on drugs”.
“So that’s where it all began” Chris said to himself, looking bitterly at the bandaged stump where his hand once stood “he was a nutter even then”.
“If it was him, remember, this file has just been thrown together in the last few hours, who knows if it’s true or not?”
“Oh, it’s true. I’m sure it’s true, who else but Dimmet would do something like that?”
“But then” Bill continued, as if he had not even heard what the Detective said “in 1984 a man called Remus Dimmet lands a job at Efforwich Zoo” Boyne pulled out a picture “look, it’s definitely him”.
It was indeed, the man was undoubtedly younger, his black, greasy hair slicked back but the eyes remained those of the man they now sought. A cold, icy hatred, uncompromising and without mirth or compassion, the smile a mockery of real emotions or humanity.
“He worked at that zoo until March of ’85 when they found that he had tranquilised one of the rhinoceri and…well. Why don’t you read it for yourself?”
Bill pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to Stride.
The picture was startling despite the lack of colour, a rhino on its side lay dead in a pool of blood and innards, its horn hewn off and its legs rendered little more than bloody stumps.
“Jesus Christ” Chris wretched, handing the clipping back to Boyne with a cry of revulsion “how could he do that?”
“We don’t know” Bill shrugged “he was never caught and that night he left Efforwich and his job, he even left a confession telling them how he butchered the poor beast”.
Chris shook his head, he didn’t want to hear any more, when he heard of Dimmet’s crimes he just remembered that awful night, the cleavers shining in the moon as he felt his bone and flesh being hacked away, his screams pleading to an uncaring demon. Shaking, holding back tears, he placed his head in his hand.
“No more” he begged quietly “no more Bill, please…just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it but…can we stop talking about him?”
Boyne frowned and put the file back in the cabinet.
“No worries” he replied, feigning concern “we can’t afford to talk all day anyways”.
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20th December 2006

Boyne and a group of his fellow officers stood outside the wooden hut, the woodland in a sombre silence as the forensics team busily unearthed all the horrors the priest had hoarded in his back garden.
“Was there any sign of him?” Bill asked one of the armed officers.
“Just his dogs” came the terse response “damn mutts nearly took my arm off, in the end we sent ‘em both to the PDSA”.
“Should’ve shot them” Boyne muttered “with an owner like that I doubt they’ll ever find a loving home. But tell me, where do you think he is? Because I am really up the creek on this one”.
The officer shook his head and walked away in disgust, this man was utterly clueless but that is what happens when flatterers and liars are allowed into the halls of power.
Bill sighed and entered the wooden shack rather apprehensively, a photographer was crouched over a displaced arm and attempting not to vomit, she had already seen enough torsos, heads on poles and jars of blood to last a lifetime.
“Anything you may have missed?” Bill asked, not truly knowing what to do.
She barely even looked up and handed him a plastic evidence bag, within it a sheet of bloodied, muddied paper, the writing was hurried and made with sloppy, careless strokes which read thusly;

“Sergeant, Sergeant don’t be so bold
Don’t leave wits and reason in the cold
Oh my Sergeant, my Sergeant don’t be so bold
For in the future I have foretold
Your wife and children shall all be culled
- The Wolf of Uweton”

“Charming” Boyne spat “very bloody charming, what a sweetheart” he threw the evidence carelessly to the floor and stormed out of the shack, calling as he did so “someone! Someone get over here! Right now damn it!”
“Yes sergeant” one man groaned rather indifferently “what is it now?”
Boyne suddenly sprung into action, pacing back and forth, his hands waving around madly “all right, I want a search of all homeless shelters within Bimmel, I want a sweep of all major roadsides where hitchhikers may operate, tell Efforwich Zoo to be on the lookout”.
“Efforwich Zoo Sergeant?”
“We’re working with a maniac here officer, we need to begin thinking like him. He sliced up three of our colleagues, he’s clearly desperate, just tell them to be a little bit careful in case he heads there. I want the church closed and I want a sniper on the building opposite in case they spot him”.
The screws were beginning to tighten.
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But what of Hallums? Whilst the police were scouring the town for Rufus Dimmet the disgraced businessman was attempting to get out of town. Unfortunately one of Britain’s most successful men suddenly found himself short on friends.
For the papers were very quick to jump on the whole sordid tale, Hallums was consorting with vile murderers, selling human meat to normal men, women and children and trying to kill Detectives. No one would help him, no one now respected him and as his picture was plastered in every national paper and his story told on every news broadcast. In short, were he to walk around in public without a disguise of some sort he would undoubtedly be either arrested or lynched and neither were an option he cared too much for.
But Hallums was not completely defenceless and still held one very important trump card; money.
And he could always count on being able to convince even the most sickened associate to do his bidding whilst he was still able to pay them a handsome sum. He knew as well as you or I that even if people hated him they wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to make themselves slightly less pathetic, monetarily speaking.
And so he stood in the house of Jennie Rothman, the doddering old woman who happened to have a spare room to rent.
“Oh, hello dear” she had smiled upon first setting eyes on him “are you here about the room”.
“Sure” he had replied, already taking out his wallet and putting one foot in the doorframe “name’s Jim Weimar, I’m ready to move in today”.
“Well” the old lady murmured “there are other people who -”
When Hallums started peeling off £50 notes she soon stopped talking and Craig had found himself somewhere to hide out.
In that short time he had done what he could to conceal his true identity, having discarded his glasses in favour of contact lenses, shorn off what hair he had and neglected to shave. It was a ruse he knew could not last forever. Any disguise could not be expected to withstand constant scrutiny and inspection.
He needed an escape plan and he had already had something in mind.
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21st December 2006

Boyne was woken at four ‘o clock in the morning by the sound of smashing glass and, drawing away from his wife, headed downstairs to discover that one of the windows in his living room had been destroyed, a brick lay on the floor and tied to it was a grubby, rain soaked shoe box.
In the distance hurried footsteps echoed down the road.
“Who the hell did this?” he practically screamed, kicking away the debris, but in his mind he had a pretty good idea, the robed monster who’d robbed a man of his hand and foot and stole something more valuable from over twenty other poor souls.
Gingerly, and using the sleeves of his shirt as gloves, he picked up the shoebox and sat on his sofa. After removing the brick he held the box to his ear and shook it, at least it wasn’t ticking.
He ripped off the lid and immediately threw the accursed thing as far away as possible with a cry of terror.
“Oh sweet Jesus” he thought hysterically, his pulse racing “there are rats, he sent rats”.
Two rats and three mice to be accurate.
All of which had their heads cut off.
“What’s wrong daddy?” He heard his son calling, tiny footsteps marching down the stairs.
“Go back to bed!” He ordered.
“But I heard a–”
“Now!”
As his son climbed back to bed Bill Boyne regained his feeble courage and peered closer at the lifeless brown and grey shapes, a folded piece of paper was underneath them, spotted with tiny droplets of blood.
He didn’t pluck it from the floor, he could read what it said perfectly well;

Dead rodents for a dead Sergeant.
Isn’t it sad?
That his baby boy, his loving son
Is soon to lose his Dad?
So soon he’ll be without you
So soon he’ll be alone
But whatever is the boy supposed to do?
When his father’s naught but bone?
Let me tell you what he’ll do.
Let me tell you how he’ll cry.
First you, then him.
Both be torn,
Both shall die
- The Wolf of Uweton”

Bill didn’t curse, he didn’t spit or rant.
The Sergeant merely put his head in his hands and prayed it would soon end and the wretch would perish.

Later in the day Chris Stride sat behind his familiar desk, it had been another sleepless night for him, another feast of torments as grinning priests and obese demons chopped away his dignity.
But all that he tried to banish from thought, work was all that kept him sane and he now had a lot of work.
Tracking down two maniacs was a lot harder than it would at first seem because so many things had to be taken into account, there needed to be armed guards but strangely the locals got edgy around men with machine guns and rifles. Homes had to be searched but then everyone screamed of how their human rights had been abused. They told the press how Dimmet masqueraded as a priest but were slapped with accusations of religious discrimination.
How could they be expected to solve a case when their hands were shackled behind their backs?
It didn’t matter that Hallums and the old man had collaborated in over twenty murders and over twenty cases of cannibalism, the rights of such scumbags were what really seemed to matter to the masses. But he had to persevere and continue as he had always done.
And on that day he had a fresh murder on his hands, some poor old man without a roof over his head had been found sliced up in a back alley near the dockyards.
But the strangest thing was that the corpse had been stripped.
Chris had a pretty good idea why and if the old bastard really thought that some fancy new threads would stop justice being done he was sorely mistaken.
The already stretched police force was given word that they were to look out for any suspicious looking homeless men.
But elsewhere a very different operation was gaining momentum.
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The fat, stubbled man with the small watery eyes entered the Bimmel dockyard.
“Hello?” He called out as he walked through the wooden buildings and hanging boats “hello? Anyone here?”
From somewhere there was the sound of someone moving about rather uncomfortably “hello?” The man repeated rather cunningly “my name’s Jim Weimar” he lied “I’m here to rent a boat”.
When again no one replied the fat little man chuckled ever so slightly, this was going to be a lot easier than he thought, those cops may have been watching the bridge and the streets but they didn’t control the sea, all he had to do was keep moving and make his way to France where he hoped to purchase a new identity.
Craig Hallums made his way out of the building and towards one of the boats which lay beside the wooden pier where customers took out their boats.
“Perfect” he sighed with relief as the sea air penetrated his wide nostrils.
“The only thing that is “perfect”” said a sneering voice from behind him “is the ludicrousness of our attempts at concealment”.
Craig jumped like a man who had just been electrocuted and turned around, he knew that voice instinctively but standing before him was not who he expected.
It was just an old tramp, an old, hobbled man with fingerless gloves, a woollen hat and dirt engrained face.
“What do you want?” Hallums snapped tersely.
“Are you a complete imbecile?” The tramp asked in way of response “coming out in the open and as fat as ever, did you even put any thought into what would happen if you got arrested?”
“I don’t know any Hallums” Craig again lied, beginning to sweat but the old tramp whisked off his hat, straightened his back and wiped the grime from his face, standing at long last as Rufus Dimmet, albeit Rufus Dimmet with chopped hair and an emerging beard.
“Enough stalling” the old man sneered “I have taken control of this dockyard and it shall remain in my pocket until my plan has been completed and we can both get out of the country”.
“Plan?” Hallums squinted “what plan?”
The disgraced and defiled priest gave a tiny smile “just a little composition” he chuckled “just a tiny little idea”.
But the ancient, bitter eyes remained as cold and wrathful as ever.
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22nd December 2006

Sergeant Boyne, good Ol’ Bill
I‘ve been musing
Who to kill.
Not because you’re losing
Not because you’re weak
But because you’re my foe
It is blood I seek.
Blood from the wife
Blood from her beau
Blood for the Priest,
Blood for the slave
Flesh for a feast
Flesh from a knave
Fear me not
From worry be saved.
I shall have my banquet
As you lie in the grave.

- The Wolf of Uweton”“Again?” Stride asked as from his wheelchair he spotted the crude note that had been fastened on the wooden door of Sergeant Boyne “good God, how much longer can this continue?”
The officer who stood next to Chris shook his head “who the hell knows? The sooner we catch this idiot the better”.
“But” Chris interrupted “how do we know that Dimmet’s been leaving these notes? Couldn’t it just be a copycat? Wouldn’t it be stupid for him to stick his head out of the gutter? And how the hell did he learn where Boyne lives?”
But before any of these questions could be answered Bill came bounding out of his house, red in the face and weary in the eyes.
“All right people!” He bellowed “this has gone on for long enough, I want to be able to sleep in my home without fear of attack and that is why -”
One of the officers butted in rather aggressively, speaking what was on everyone else’s mind “Sergeant” he cried “if you are about to tell us that you want a 24-7 guard on your home you can stop right there”.
Boyne merely glowered at the man audacious enough to challenge him.
“We’re stretched as it is, Efforwich isn’t helping, London isn’t helping. We are completely alone here. But we still do what is necessary, we patrol the streets, we survey the church like you asked, we have people on the phone day and night in case anyone spots those two, we are doing everything and anything to bring the criminals into custody. And now you want us to guard your house? What about my house?” he pointed to the woman next to him “what about Jen? Or Roy? Oh, don’t forget Phil either. Y’see Sergeant, if we are protecting your house then our houses are vulnerable and we won’t have the manpower to do our jobs and find the son of a bitch you want protection from”.
Bill simply shook his head.
“Let’s all calm down” Stride said quietly “I think the most important thing we can do is keep calm and see if Dimmet left any fingerprints on the paper…assuming it was him”.
Boyne just shook his head and went back inside his home, his officers did not seem to be as terrified of this maniac as he was.
He had been getting harassed almost every night, he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the taunting, the wordplay, the scornful glances of his officers.
And he knew that should he ever be given a shot at the priest he would take it. And take it with a big grin on his face too.
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“Bimmel Police Station, you have reached the 100% confidential line which is strictly for those who have information pertaining to the location of Rufus Dimmet or Craig Hallums. If you have any relevant information please press “1” and you will be put through to one of our officers”.
After pressing “1” there was a long dial tone, so many were ringing to express their concern and badger whomever they could that for a while it seemed as if no one would answer.
Suddenly there was a tiny click! and a thick Yorkshire voice said rather groggily “hello, Bimmel Police Station, how may we help?”
“I have information about Dimmet” the caller said in a low, secretive voice.
The officer sighed, everybody had information, what was it this time? Aliens? Bigfoot? Hell, Hallums and Dimmet could have been eaten by the Loch Ness Monster if such “information” was to be believed.
“Is this genuine information?” The officer asked rather curtly.
The man gave a snort of laughter, his voice shaking in fear “what do you mean?” He asked, his voice still whisper-quiet.
“I mean” the policeman snapped “does this have anything to do with extraterrestrials, magic robots, pot, dope, smoke, crack, smack, snow, e, the regime of Pol Pot or your personal sexual orientation?”
“Of course not!”
The officer let out another sigh, this time one of relief “all right then. Sorry, but we get all sorts calling up this number, it’s madness. Anyway, what did you have to say?”
The voice on the other end grew even lower, as if terribly afraid that someone would hear his dreadful news “I saw Dimmet, at least I think it was him”.
“Where?”
“The Bimmel Dockyards” the man answered “I don’t know what he was doing there but he got himself inside pretty quickly”.
“Could you describe him?” The officer asked, pulling out a pad of paper and pen.
“Bald. Wearing dirty jeans and a black jumper”.
“Bald?” The officer interrupted rather sceptically “are you sure it was him?”
“Of course not!” The caller hissed “but I’m quite convinced that the man I saw was Rufus Dimmet, I’d know his face from anywhere”.
“All right. Thank you” the officer hung up and gave the message to Boyne who had been rather shaken since the events of that morning.
“Could be a hoax” he said morosely “send three men down there, if it’s genuine they can radio for armed support”.

The three men stood before the wooden entrance of the dockyard, not choosing to clamber over the wire mesh which acted as makeshift walls to stop any old fool getting at the boats.
They knocked on the doors even though the sign clearly stated that it was;

“CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”

They could guess why. The owner, a low-level scumbag by the name of Bo Bridges had been bought in before on possession of Class A drugs but for a feckless, lazy stoner he could sure as hell get himself a good lawyer and so the dockyard continued to bring in the green…and the white.
“Bridges!” One of the policemen shouted, banging his fist against the wooden door which was matted with old stickers and graffiti “open up! It’s the Bimmel Police!”
There was no answer save for the squawking of a seagull as he flew overheard and across the glistening sea.
“What should we do?” Said one anxiously.
“Just break the damn door open” Another suggested but the other two looked rather uneasy at the thought, they could get sued for criminal damage.
Again they banged on the door, thinking of no other option and realised something rather odd. The door was unlocked and after a ferocious fist beating creaked open.
The three officers walked in, the hanging boats on either side unpainted and untended, the small counter devoid of its till but still enjoying the company of a rack of sunglasses.
“Hello?” They called out “Bimmel Police!”
From somewhere there was a small shuffling noise but nothing in way of an answer.
“I swear to God” said one angrily “if this is another hoax I’m retiring tomorrow”.
“Well” another answered evenly “that drugged-up beatnik is usually here but now he isn’t? The front door is unlocked” he pointed to the entrance to the pier which was likewise open “look at that, that’s open too. Dimmet may have left but something isn’t right here”.
“All right” the grumbling policeman growled “fine. Let’s go check near the boats, see if the old man’s trying to swim out of Bimmel”.
“Wait” another smirked rather superiorly “why wouldn’t he just take a boat and ride away? Why would he swim?”
With a collective chuckle they all made their way towards the pier.
But as they passed the wooden boats which hung off the wall they all suddenly felt as they were trapped under the wheels of an oncoming truck and fell in a bloody heap onto the floorboards.
From their bleary eyes they saw two men emerging from the boats, with wrenches and oars in hand.
Both assailants dropped to the floor and stood gloatingly over their victims.
One was tall, one was fat.
“Finish them off” came a voice from the grey shapes and black dots before them “just do it quickly all right Craig?”
The wounded police saw and felt no more.
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23rd December 2006

THE BIMMEL ECHO

“WHERE IS DIMMET?”


Today marks yet another morbid chapter in the life of this town. As three policemen sent to investigate the missing murderer Rufus Dimmet are themselves lost without a trace the streets are plagued with silence at a time of year when people are traditionally celebrating the upcoming Christmas festivities.
There is a pervading sense of unease and many feel that no one is entirely safe from the actions of a man many had trusted for years. Recently the death of an unidentified homeless man has raised fears that even the lowest level of society may be targeted.
However, we at The Bimmel Echo wish to shed some light on this most peculiar of cases and have enlisted the help of well known criminologist Dr. Wilhelm Bahn to analyse the awful events of the last few days in his own unique way:

THE WOLF SCALP
When police raided the house in Uweton Woods they found the scalp of a wolf and Detective Christopher Stride confirmed that Dimmet wore it as he ate the remains of his victims.
Dr. Bahn says…
This clearly reveals a lot about Dimmet’s psyche, it is not enough for him to kill others, he has to posses them wholly, this clearly manifests itself in the scalp as well as the bodies found around his house

CANNIBALISM
Dimmet has also been exposed as a cannibal after over 20 bodies were found in and around his house, it is also suspected that he was dealing in human meat with disgraced businessman Craig Hallums.
Dr. Bahn says…
It is quite normal that a man who for so long basks in murder becomes rather blasé about his gruesome exploits yet the addiction to the lifestyle is so strong that they can not stop willingly. The aspect of selling off human meat is incredibly disturbing and shows that Dimmet is a very amoral man not constrained by modern social norms, I would even go as far as to call him more of a Machiavellian businessman than typical lawbreaker

DUAL IDENTITY
In the most chilling aspect of the case Rufus Dimmet has posed as a priest successfully since 1986 whilst committing sporadic murders, even going as far as to speak out against the violence in his sermons. Many have claimed that this is proof of a split-personality disorder.
Dr. Bahn says…
This does in no way point to MPD, according to Detective Stride Dimmet gave several signs of knowing fully well what he was doing and admitted portraying a false image in front of others. A sufferer of multiple personality disorder is often unaware of their alternate personality but Dimmet is not. This instead demonstrates to me that from the moment he arrived in Bimmel he was set on creating a façade in order to disparage any possible suspicion that he was a murderer. Again, this is a clear indication of a stunningly manipulative criminal mind

And although this grim evaluation may disturb some the police are only too aware of the type of man they are up against. Special thanks to Dr. Bahn whose book “Might Is Right: Dealing With The Criminally Insane” is out on the 9th January.
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“Crap, utter crap” Stride sneered, throwing the paper aside as he sat in his lonely home, trying to resist the urge to drown himself in the bowl of cereal before him. Maybe he was just peeved about having to learn how to walk all over again, about now having to make do with just one hand and one foot or maybe he was just agitated about the fact that Dimmet had still not been found.
With his one hand he slicked back his head of non-existent hair “criminologists!” He thought contemptuously, wondering what University Dr. Bachman had been kicked out from “they don’t need this mans brain unless it’s splattered over a wall”.
Wearily he looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, it was time to go to work.
He hopped off his seat and reached for his wooden cane the Doctor had given him. He looked at it rather sadly, biting his bottom lip “so this is it?” He said sadly “this is how I wind down my years? As a cripple. Only a cripple, not a father, not a husband. A cripple”.
Shaking his head he made for the door, those hens and quacks at the hospital said he should be driving but not driving would mean not going to work and not going to work would mean more hours of obsessing of just how cruel God must be to reduce him to a pathetic shell of a man.

When he inched into the police station he was, as was usual nowadays, met with the same mix of feigned respect and real pity he knew to despise.
Same every morning.
“Detective! How are you?”
“Can I get anything for you Detective?”
“How’s life treating you Chris?”
Nod. Smile. Walk away. It wasn’t their fault and he was as patient as possible, he couldn’t rightly blame them for checking up on a wounded colleague could he?
When he got to his desk he was exhausted but mostly by the tedious cat-and-mouse theatrics, how in Gods name could Dimmet kill three policemen and still be at large? It was laughable.
He looked over the records once more, at least six men and women had been bought up on vagrancy charges but none were Dimmet, from the helpline there had been no genuine news and the whole embarrassing quagmire was putting them on a path that led straight to the poorhouse.
But as he was mulling over the damage a 70-something cannibal and morbidly obese cannibal-sympathiser could actually do he suddenly heard Boyne crashing through the door of the station, first to leave and last to arrive as always.
“God damn it” the Irishman seethed “gad damn it! God damn him! And God damn his little bitch Hallums too!”
Stride rolled his eyes somewhat “what is it Bill?” he asked.
Boyne just shook his head and marched fiercely into his office, slamming the door so loudly that the whole room shook.
“What was that about?” Chris asked one of the female officers.
“Well” she said quietly lest the Sergeant heard her discussing such vile business “Dimmet struck again”.
Stride snorted as he often did when he found something to be funny and pathetic all at once “lemme’ guess” he jeered “another poem?”
She shook her head sadly “Rick, Daryl and Tommy”.
Chris went suddenly white “what did Dimmet do?” He whispered, a sickness rising in his stomach.
“All three bodies were left on his front garden”.
“Jesus Christ”.
She shrugged her shoulders, no tears on show but her voice on the verge of cracking with grief “their heads were caved in. Bodies stripped like that tramp. And that…that scum sucking bastard left a note”.
Chris rested his head in one hand, he never knew those men very well, never chatted to them out of work, never knew what they were like or how they acted but he did know enough to realise that when three of your brethren turn up dead it isn’t exactly the right time to throw a party.
“What did the note say?” He asked.
““Merry Christmas”” she seethed, her teeth gritted, shining, vengeful tears emerging at the corner of each eye ““Merry Christmas Sergeant””
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December 24th 2006

Stride stood alone on the luscious green grass, flowers under his feet and the wind whistling in his hair.
“Nice place” he heard himself say “good place to raise a family”.
In the distance he saw a great crowd standing together, their backs concealing what they gazed upon.
“Hey!” He yelled but they did not answer, his right hand waving he shouted again “hey you! What’re you doing?”
He could see that their hands rose as if bidding at an auction.
“Don’t be scared” Chris called out, walking toward the enigmatic group “I’m Sergeant Bill Stride from the Bimmel Police Department”.
When he reached them he saw that they were all looking at a table and upon its wooden flat was a body, its arms stretched and dangling obscenely.
Stride clicked his fingers at the withered face but the eyes did not blink.
“Dead” he shrugged “oh well, anyone up for a game of football?”
The crowd did not speak.
“Anyone?” He asked again.
Suddenly and rather unexpectedly he heard a mans voice, the voice of a hundred salesmen and a million televangelists “Hello!” It called out from the sky “and welcome back, I hope you had a nice cup of tea and are now in the mood for some more crap that was too low brow for Channel Five”.
“Am I on TV?” Chris asked.
“That’s right lads and…well, let’s face it, not too many women watch this show do they? Anyway, it’s day 5 in the Field and after Tom’s unexpected departure yesterday we have another evictee who the fieldmates are looking at right now”.
Stride looked squarely at the face of the corpse, it seemed very familiar, too familiar.
“That’s right!” The voice gloated “Officer Sirhc Edirts is the latest victim of “Who Wants To Be a Corpse”!”
The crowd stared at the dead face.
They just looked and looked.
Their eyes like a flame in the night.
Bang!
Stride suddenly heard a noise, not from the sky, not in the field, it was just there.
Bang!
“Careful! Careful!” A hollow sound seemed to resonate as the words entered the ears of the Detective.
Bang!
Stride opened his eyes, there was no field, he was still a cripple, too damaged to even walk up the stairs, his head still bereft of a courtly mane.
It was all a dream.
Just a dream.
But as he sat up on the sofa he realised something unsettling.
There was someone banging on his door.
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Re: The Wolf Master of Bimmel

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“Who’s there?” Chris yelled out, rolling off the sofa and reaching for his cane.
The door shuddered again.
Stride picked up his mobile phone which lay at his feet rather carelessly and dialled 999.
“Come on!” he raged as the door was hit again.
“Sorry” the operator said in her rosy, comfortable voice “this line is busy, please try again later”.
With a cry of rage he threw the phone away and hobbled toward the front door.
The noise was growing louder, two shapes were illuminated by the streetlights.
“Go away!” he screamed, deciding to call their bluff “I’ve called the police!”
Suddenly they stopped and it appeared as if they would stop and crawl back under whatever rock they had emerged from.
“Really?” One of them mocked and he instantly recognised the voice.
Like Faustus before him Detective Chris Stride was about to be taken to hell by his own personal Mephistopheles.
“Dimmet” he muttered, hopping away until his back was against a wall and he could hold out his cane to fight off the inevitable attack.
“Open this door” the false priest ordered.
Chris shook his head, his heart racing, his mind failing to catch its second wind.
“Open the bloody door!” Hallums screeched like a siren luring unwary sailors to their doom, one fat hand slapping against the glass.
“Open the door! Open the goddamn door! Open the door!”
Dimmet was kicking now, each powerful strike matching his cruel words, the silky voice now not as calm as it had once been, indeed, it was as if a grey shroud had been drawn back and there the real creature stood, baneful and ugly.
The wooden frame shook.
Chris clutched the wooden cane with terror, frozen stiff as the kicks kept coming.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“We’re coming!” Hallums jeered as the door again buckled and shook like a boxer about to fall “we’re coming!”
Bang!
The final kick came like thunder from the sky, the door swung open, wooden chunks and splinters falling to the doormat.
Dimmet strode in, or at least someone like Dimmet for he wore a policeman’s uniform and his cropped hair was dyed black but the eyes remained the same.
“Drop the cane” he hissed, Hallums in his ill-fitting uniform standing behind his associate and fellow conspirator “you are coming with us”.
Stride hit out vainly but they would not be denied.
The last thing he remembered was the sight of a black baton making a beeline for his jaw.
The day had just begun but already it seemed as if fate had decided to make this Christmas the last Detective Stride would ever enjoy.
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“Seagulls”.
They yelled out, flying freely in the air as if answering Dimmet’s call.
“Yes” the old man sneered “they truly are the stupidest birds ever to be forced upon this pitiable little island ad if I had the guns I’d shoot them all”.
Stride opened his eyes and tried to rub his throbbing jaw with his missing hand, the first thing he saw was another face staring right at him.
It was a young man, no more than 23 and with the smell of ********* around him. He wore a green waistcoat which was adorned with fishing hooks and a few small knives but why he didn’t use them to escape was anyone’s guess.
“All right?” The other captive mouthed and Chris gave a tiny nod in way of an answer but he was clearly not in the best of health, his mouth was swollen and bleeding and he was lying face down on the pier.
“I see” Dimmet gloated from above “that you are now awake. So then Detective I feel that I must introduce you to Mr. Bo Bridges, the owner and proprietor of this “dockyard” if it can so be called. Tell me Bo, why does this place only have speedboats?”
“Dude” he muttered “I have got a splitting headache and can’t be -”
Dimmet kicked the young man in the ribs and answered for him “it’s so you can get your drugs in and out of the country with relative ease isn’t it? You are really just a petty smuggler but I’ll admit that you did well to survive this long, many others were not so fortunate”.
Stride frowned, sickened at this snake who so readily shed his skin.
“But I am afraid that your luck is soon to end Mr. Bridges” Dimmet sighed “you see, I and Hallums are soon to leave these shores for pastures new but before we went I needed to leave these ungrateful bastards a proper Christmas present, something to remember me by if you catch my drift”.
From his boat Hallums gave a snort “forget it Rufus” he implored “just do what you have to so we can get the hell outta’ here all right?”
“You just keep that engine running” Dimmet said coolly “I just wanted to give Detective Stride an idea of what to expect”.
Chris’ eyes widened in growing horror, he wondered if he could escape by rolling into the sea but remembered rather sadly that he was not only gravely wounded but never learnt to swim. Who was he to start playing Aquaman?
“But what is your fate?” Dimmet continued, his voice level and calm “well, first I am going to cripple Mr. Bridges and then, in front of his eyes, I am going to lift you from your feet and skin you alive”.
Stride looked madly from side to side like a poor beast mesmerised by the headlights of an oncoming car, he knew he had to leave but was simply incapable.
“And there it is” the old man concluded, clapping his hands together “that’s all there is to it. No plot, no megalomaniacal scheme to blow up the Houses of Parliament, no desperate cry for attention because of some prepubescent trauma. This is all I have to offer you Detective; Blood, flesh and pain”.
“Then just give it to him!” Hallums cried.
“Oh no Craig” Dimmet chuckled ever so slightly “you see I am guilty of a little treachery, this party is not only you two. No, no, no, I went to the trouble of inviting Sergeant Boyne too”.
Stride could hear sudden, angry steps and saw the feet of Dimmet moving back a few paces.
“Now Craig” the cannibal said carefully “try to remain calm”.
“Remain calm?! REMAIN CALM?!!” Hallums literally screamed “do you know how badly you have just screwed me over? Do you have any idea? Any idea at all as to what you have done?”
“Yes” Dimmet said dryly “of course I do”.
“This is madness” Craig scoffed “you have actually invited the police, the Sergeant himself to this little party! Are you insane?”
Rufus Dimmet drew in a sharp breath “you can throw names around all you want Mr. Hallums” he jeered “but if I am insane then you are clearly a fool for catering to the whims of a madman aren’t you? Sorry, I just destroyed your whole argument didn’t I?”
There was silence and Stride could not tell who was more angry, him or Hallums.
“Craig” the old man said in a much softer, gentler voice as if he was a parent disciplining an unruly child “Stride will show up and I will kill him and any others he has chosen to bring along. Trust me, not even I am foolhardy enough to bring a knife to a gunfight. Now, go wait in the boat”.
Mousy, embarrassed footsteps slowly flittered out of earshot.
“I’m here” an Irish voice suddenly called out and Stride knew that the fly had been ensnared by the vile spider’s web.
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Re: The Wolf Master of Bimmel

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Dimmet stood on the wooden planks before his two prone victims and stared directly at the Sergeant.
“You came” he smiled kindly “good man. Whatever else becomes of you I can never say that you lacked guts”.
Bill merely shook his head in fury, his thin face growing a slow burning scarlet. All this time, all the taunting, all the harassment and the corpses, those dead faces just staring and staring, the horror of his son as he saw the bloodied, mangled bodies.
And what was worse was that the old man and his little friend were wearing the clothes of those they had slain, specks of blood on the rolled up white sleeves.
They faces bearing a mocking, spurious grin.
Boyne clenched his fists, a line had been crossed and he was not just going to sit back and let that happen.
Like a bull charging a matador the Irishman strode recklessly towards Dimmet, reckless but not defenceless.
“You sure you want to do that?” Dimmet mocked as his foe came closer “think of your wife! I assure you that Detective Stride does, every night.”
Boyne gritted his teeth and ignored the taunt, he had business which could not be circumvented.
He could smell the bastard, smell the blood and feel the long years of decay and sin, could see the conceit and arrogance in those hateful, reptilian eyes.
Bill Boyne raised his fist but as he did he screamed out in a vain, ignorant terror.
“A gun” he thought “a gun! A gun! The old man has a gun!”
Dimmet had pulled out the shoddily modified replica handgun and in a flash the Irishman was flung backwards and lay on the wooden floorboards, writhing and crying out.
“Well then” the old devil smirked, shrugging his broad shoulders “that took the fight out of you eh? C’mon lad, did you really think that this would have a happy ending? I’m no dragon and you are most certainly no crusading white knight. Just another little dog I’ve had to put down. The valour was great but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever faced a problem that can’t be solved by a bullet in the gut”.
Then there came a sound which no one believed, Stride had to shake his head to make sure he was hearing it properly.
Boyne was laughing, he was dying but the mad son of a bitch was actually laughing.
“Mind sharing the joke?” Hallums sneered from the safety of his boat.
Bill popped his head up, it was deathly white, his eyes were rolling but with a final effort he croaked “the joke is that you two ugly ponces thought I’d come alone”.
Dimmet let out a last shot and Boyne fell back dead, the blood and bone speckling Stride like some putrid rain.
Footsteps, shouting, the sound of cars and vans screeching to a halt.
Bill Boyne had made only one good move as Sergeant.
He had sent in the cavalry.
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Stride saw Bridges sit up and, more cautiously, did the same and saw a sight that both terrified and emboldened him.
Dimmet, with his gun poised maniacally, was trying to face down a team of around 30 armed policemen, all with better guns, better protection and better morale. Dimmet had murdered three policemen and was now parading around in their clothes and on top of that he had just gunned down their Sergeant in cold blood.
Some wanted to kill him, others wanted to let him rot in prison but the one common factor was that not a soul wanted to back down, when a fire spreads further than you intended it is not an easy feat to extinguish it.
Dimmet meanwhile did not look as confident as once he did, he was not some witless buffoon with a death wish, he was a planner, a tactician but strangely he did not perceive that a policeman would bring others to aid him, maybe he thought he could kill them all.
His eyes darted to and fro like a cornered rat analysing its chances of escape.
“Let’s keep calm” he hurriedly said, small beads of sweat appearing on his wrinkled forehead “you have just lost a good Sergeant and I…I can sympathise, I really can, I just wasted a bullet on a man who was going to die anyway”.
The guns rattled furiously, they were just begging to be given a chance to kill this beast but who would really gun down an old man? The public response would be deafening.
Dimmet began to slowly back away towards the boat.
“Stop!” They ordered but at a snail-like pace he continued his retreat.
“Sorry to leave” he mocked, his lips quivering in terror “but you know what they say about corpses and time don’t you? No? Why not ask Sergeant Boyne?”
“STOP!” They repeated.
Dimmet though would do no such thing and with a wild shout of desperation flung himself into the boat and threw his gun at the officers. “Drive! Drive!” he ordered and as Hallums rode away Stride felt a hail of bullets fly above his head.

Chris was lifted to his feet by knowing arms and looked angrily at the fleeing criminals, would they simply escape justice? Would they just be allowed to leave after all those who had suffered at their hands?
“Bridges!” He cried, breaking free of the care of his friends “get a boat and follow those bastards!”
Bo didn’t need to be told twice, he prided himself on facing life with a smile and a joke but Dimmet had slapped the grin away and silenced all laughter. He had beaten him, and imprisoned him.
“Let’s go!” he raged, jumping into the boat he knew to be the fastest and starting the engine, the blades at the back spinning into life.
Stride fell in to the back of the speedboat, knowing that for good or ill this would be the end of the tale.
“Get help” he told the officers “if any of you can drive one of these things I suggest you follow us”.
And with that bridges leapt into the fight, the boat smashing the waves in its search of the old man and his accomplice.
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Re: The Wolf Master of Bimmel

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You ... what ???
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Please adress all comments to the Commentary section. And I mean that, if you have something to say I will be gald to speak with you in that topic. I'll be waiting, assuming you actually have some genuine criticisms to make.
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Boundless, tireless, merciless.
Stride and Bridges sped after their quarry, the pier soon becoming a dot in the distance.
The Detective could barely think of anything but vengeance, personal vengeance. For those sleepless nights, for those bitter tears, for how utterly, irreparably wretched he felt. There was room for nothing else, he had been crippled, he had been degraded, he was now a freak because of those actions on that cold December night.
If he could wrap his one hand around that ghastly throat he would wring it till the monster died.
“Dimmet first” he thought doggedly “then Hallums. Dimmet first, Hallums later”.
In the distance he could see their boat, a small plume of black smoke rising from where one of the bullets hit its hull.
Bo laughed insanely “we’re getting closer! I can smell them from here!” With one hand he reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, using them both in one fluid movement.
Stride saw the shapes in the boat growing closer, Hallums driving like a feeble old woman and Dimmet slouched over, fending off the water with his hands.
Stride rose to his knees and called out in a voice more hateful and steely than he had ever used before “Dimmet! I’m going to rip your goddamn head off and **** on the corpse!”
He saw the old head rise in astonishment, the eyes half closed like some hideous reptile waiting for its prey “Hallums” Stride saw him say “get us the hell out of here – now”.
Bridges laughed as the cigarette dangled from his stubbled, cut mouth “oh no you don’t! I own that shop! You can’t just take the place over and expect to get away with it!”
And as Hallums tried to speed away Bridges, in a move of suicidal glee, crashed his boat into their opponent’s vehicle until they were so close that Stride could see the whites of Dimmet’s eyes.
“Get us out of here!” Dimmet cried but Hallums was powerless now, the boat had been shot up, battered and was now naught but a smoking, dying shell.
Stride saw that his enemy was not facing him, his eyes were on Hallums and his mouth spitting desperate commands to flee.
The Detective, still on his knees, reached over and with no theatrics or taunts simply punched Dimmet in the side of his head.
“Jesus, you just punched an OAP!” Bo chuckled “nice!”
Dimmet stumbled back and for an instant seemed poised to fall into the water until he gained control of himself and, with a savage cry, leapt at the man he had crippled and mutilated so readily, his fists flailing, his crazed eyes betraying his lawman’s uniform.
For the next few moments Stride could not see, could not breath, there was only the desperate brawl between him and an enemy who seemed set upon getting as far away from the carnage he had caused as possible. Their fists and skulls and feet swung and hit, crashed and burned, hated and were hated in return. At the end both lay exhausted and battered, Stride with bite marks on his eyebrow and cheek, Dimmet’s left eye already starting to close as the wild waters drenched one and all only for the thickening black smoke to dry them off.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Hallums screamed, pounding whatever part of the boat he could get at “it’s stopped responding! This thing’s gone dead!”
Stride saw Dimmet’s eyes widen and a flicker of excitement pass over his colourless lips ““gone dead” Craig?” He whispered, standing decisively and marching over to the fat shape in the drivers seat “you couldn’t even get us out of the country” he chastised, grabbing his ally by the shoulders.
Stride looked on with disgust, he knew what was coming but Hallums had made his bed and was about to bleed all over the nice new sheets.
“Consider this your six weeks notice” Dimmet growled “I never want to see, hear, smell, telepathically communicate with or tolerate you anymore. Our partnership is over, our alliance is over” suddenly, rabidly, he bit into the back of Hallums’ neck and tore out a large chunk of flesh and bone, the businessman writhed and fell into the water “make friends with the fish” he mocked before gracelessly jumping onto the boat he knew could take him to freedom.
“Just like a parasite” the Detective thought grimly “moving from one place to the next”.
Stride looked up, Satan himself was grinning at another poor soul soon to be lost.

“I have saved you the trouble of giving that fat piece of crap a trial” Dimmet sneered, kicking away the lifeless boat with one foot “but now we have to decide my fate don’t we?”
Stride looked up, his eyes burning, his beard matted with blood from Boyne, Dimmet and himself “you ain’t kidding” he seethed.
The old man nodded politely and, as easily as a lioness picking up her cub, hauled Detective Stride to his foot and looked him squarely in the eyes.
“No prison for me” he said firmly “no prison, no grave, no burial at sea like our dear friend Craig. I will leave this land and its awful peoples and you can’t do a damn thing to stop me”.
Stride actually smiled now, his eyes twinkling “hell” he admitted “maybe you’re right Rufus, y’know, maybe…maybe I can’t stop you but I can damn sure stop your children”.
Dimmet raised his eyebrows “but Chris, the thing about that is that I’m -”
Suddenly he stopped talking, his breath completely left him and his eyes burned in his skull as a well placed knee ensured a future of celibacy.
Free of his grip Stride hopped on his one good leg and head-butted that old face until the wretch fell to his knees and then onto his side as if he had just been shot.
Bo again chuckled “cool moves man, I’m taking us back to the dockyard”.
But Chris could not hear him, he too fell to his knees and punched the prone priest, for all the pain, for all the crap and all the humiliation, he punched whatever he could, bypassing the screams of pain and the hands which appealed for mercy.
His vengeance was swift, his wrath total and unpitying.
“You robbed me of my life!” He screamed, eyes bulging “you took my dignity away! You took it and tore it up and flushed it down the bloody toilet!”
But as he said this and as the small tears of rage emerged he beheld the whole of Dimmet, almost like a vampire rising from death itself, sprung up and clasped the Detective around the throat, shaking him, the crooked and stained teeth barred in preparation of a feast. Stride felt the grip growing tighter, his head was almost weightless as it was bounced on the floor like a basketball. His vision was starting to blur, his hand losing the will to strike out and claw to freedom. It was a sensation similar to going to sleep and his eyes flickered like a man on the verge of slumber. But as he saw Dimmet release him and, clearly thinking that the deed was done, make his way towards Bo Detective Stride got his wits back, shaking his arms to encourage the blood to start flowing once more.
Dimmet though had not noticed this and, in great pain, limped towards the driver.
“Stride is dead” he hissed “now turn this boat around unless you want to share his fate”.
Bridges just kept on driving, as if he had not heard the order.
“You want to die? Is that it?” Dimmet croaked, one spindly hand grasping the young mans shoulder firmly “if so I can easily oblige you”.
Bo now looked at his unruly passenger, seeing Stride still helpless on his back “you want me to turn around?” he smiled desperately, attempting to be brave and hide his fear “that it?”
Dimmet nodded.
Bridges took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew out the smoke “no problem man, don’t want no trouble”.
Dimmet sighed, touching his wounds rather timidly.
“Hey Dimmet” Bo smirked “I just got one question for you”.
“What?”
“How will you know where I’m taking you?”
Dimmet gritted his teeth “little idiot, what kind of question is that?!”
Bridges took his hand off the wheel and turned to face his oppressor “lemme’ finish” he grinned “how will you know where we’re going…if you can’t see?”
He went for the eyes with the cigarette but Dimmet saw it coming for despite his injuries he still maintained his wits and quickly snatched the pathetic weapon from the unfriendly hands of the driver.
“No, no, no” he cautioned severely “if I have to kill all three of us I will. Don’t try that crap again. Now, just quickly I want you to look at Stride, go on, this isn’t a trick”.
Bridges bit his lips and looked into the eyes of the devil, they seemed to shine and shimmer so gracefully that one would never accuse him of lying, if he was honest about anything it was the evil in his nature.
Bo looked behind him and saw the Detective on the floor, motionless, blood on his face and his mouth dangling open.
“Oh God, oh God” he muttered, looking back at the sea and turning the boat around “you killed him, you sick bastard, you killed him”.
Dimmet stood still for a moment, the slight hint of a smile emerging on his face and the arms folded in glee “sick eh?” He chuckled “you think I’m sick Mr. Bridges? Oh dear me, we’ll have to change that won’t we?” And with a mean roar of laughter he plucked from Bo one of the knives which hung from his waistcoat.
“Oh yes, yes, yes” he cackled, the sharp eyes bulging fanatically as though he were beyond all reason or reckoning “I will change that Mr. Bridges, I will change that”.
He threw the knife in the air and caught it on the return as if he were showing off and with a wink and a swagger turned around only to be struck in the face by the heel of a boot.
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Stride rose to his knees and smiled as he saw the old man howl in pain, grasping his nose and mouth all at once, the knife still in his hand.
“Dumb psycho” the Detective growled, shaking his arms still and getting to his one foot with enormous difficulty “tonight you’re going to be enjoying some shut eye along with Hallums, Hoffa and a hell of a lot of fish”.
Dimmet looked up with an almost feral rage, his mouth curled, the long nose compacted and snorting like a diseased rat.
“Or a wolf” Chris thought, looking on with scorn, he would dance on the grave of this monster, he would spit on the corpse, this object of filth before him had been left alive for far too long.
“Let’s finish this” he scowled.
Dimmet squared his shoulders bowed his head and with the clinical precision of a sniper threw the knife into the belly of Chris Stride.
“Consider it finished” Dimmet frowned.
The Detective looked down and saw, quite calmly, that warm blood was drenching his legs. “Oh crap” he wailed, falling down in one horrible twisting motion but still looking at the man who dealt the deadly wound.
“This is it?” He sighed, his voice trailing off into an involuntary whisper “this is how you kill me Dimmet? You don’t fight like a man?”
The old beast turned his head to the side rather quizzically “what did you say?”
Stride tried to stand but again fell into a bloody heap, pointing a dripping finger at the victorious monster “congrats, congrats” he sneered “you don’t fight like a man but at least you throw like a girl”.
Dimmet’s mouth stayed open, the bottom lip quivering and a spot of saliva forming at each side of his mouth.
“A girl?” He said quietly “you say that I throw like a girl?”
The Detective put up his one hand rather apologetically, his mouth spitting and drooling hideously “no, no, no” he stammered “that’s a bit sexist ain’t it? Can’t have that can we? Rufus, don’t worry, you don’t throw like a girl. You throw like a bitch”.
His attempts at political correctness were not as successful as he imagined.
“Is that so?” Dimmet seethed, his stark eyes engulfed in shadow “well, maybe throwing a knife isn’t enough to convince you of my prowess eh? I need something else, something heavier, something that bleeds and begs for mercy. And as the driver is indisposed and I am not in the least bit suicidal I think you are the perfect candidate Chris”.
Spitefully he reached down and tore the knife from the Detectives stomach, Stride screamed in agony as his dying eyes saw parts of himself flying into the air and falling back to earth with a squelch.
Dimmet picked up his victim by the scruff of the neck and marched him towards the back of the boat.
“The blades” Stride thought weakly “the propeller blades, why do I have a feeling that this is really going to hurt?”
Dimmet pushed his enemy towards the spinning, dicing shards of metal, his face a mask of utter contempt, his eyes half closed in twisted joy.
Chris saw the blades getting closer and his heart seeming to move further away as it slowed down, why not let it happen? Why not end the pain? He would die anyway, why resist the inevitable? The question that mattered the most to him though was the one that always nagged at his sanity; “If you die what will you lose?”
“No, no, no” he thought dizzily “I have to survive, I can still live through this” but he almost certainly couldn’t. A knife in the belly was not exactly known for its positive repercussions.
As Dimmet was pushing and pulling Detective Stride had, quite unintentionally, grabbed the old mans belt if only to keep himself on his feet.
Dimmet meanwhile was stuck trying to move quickly deadening weight into the jaws of a most savage demise.
And as the blood from the wound poured and poured Dimmet pushed and pushed.
“You’ll see!” He raged, his voice descending into unintelligible growls and hissings “you’ll see just how far I can throw you when your legs are picking up your spine! You spoilt a damn good thing! I had it made you pig! I had it made! But no, you had to pull through and live! How in Gods name is that fair?! And then you call me a bitch? Your mother’s a bitch you self-serving bastard!”
“Just let go” Stride thought as the oratory bile was poured into his ears “you’ve had your chips, you’ve played your cards and lost. It’s over Chris, you had a good run but now it’s time to say “Bon Voyage” to this town and this little life you’ve made yourself, if you can actually call your pitiful existence a “life””.
But he just held on to the belt, held on and ignored his better judgement, his knuckles whitened, the leather cut into his flesh but still he persevered and not even he himself would ever be able to tell you why. But then, when it seemed as though the ongoing farce would last forever, fate showed the world the dénouement of the whole sorry saga. For Bridges, as he drove manically, saw a jagged rock poking from the sea like a crocodile waiting to devour its prey and swerved to avoid it.
And as the boat suddenly turned Dimmet lost his footing and slipped on the pooling blood and thrashing waters and with him came Stride, marching to death together. The propeller blades screeched and sagged and sighed as blood, flesh and bone were thrown into the air until the entire boat and Bridges himself was covered in limbs and gore.
The driver looked back and saw the sorry scene for himself, his face shaking as he frantically swiped a lump of bone from his shoulder only to find that his hands were sullied too, and his legs, and his chest and his lips.
“God, God, God” he rambled, heading back to the pier and turning on the radio to take his mind off the horror he had just experienced.
From the boat they heard the song “Luna” playing, it seemed as though they’d have to class Dimmet’s demise as “Death by irony”.

In the end they were only able to bury a leg at Stride’s funeral and ironically that one bloodied leg was given more respect than the man it came from.
No one ever found Dimmet’s remains though but on Christmas Day 2006 it was noted that the stray dogs at the local kennels were given a special meal courtesy of the Bimmel Police Department.
At least in death Dimmet could make someone happy.
And those hounds, at least, had a very Merry Christmas.
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Re: The Wolf Master of Bimmel

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[Ronny]

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Epilogue

But as the Monster tried to flee
And end this tragic history
There emerged a man much like him
Full of rage
Full of sin.
And I saw them fight
Oh I saw them roar!
Under moonlight
With tooth and claw.
And at the end
I beheld that both had won
Fulfilling now their true desire
To enter Valhalla clothed in fire.
Both now bled
Both were dead.
This fallen hero
This thing of bale.
A monster born.
A monster bred
.”
Robert Liam Traylor, 1894
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Re: The Wolf Master of Bimmel

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