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October 3rd, 1952

Several bullpups were found in the bushes on Mainstreet Avenue, just across a costume shop. All of the victims had some sort of body part either cut off or put out. Half of a torn note was left at the scene near the bodies, reading:

An eye

The horrible

Their dues shall

October the 31st

*The Scene*

The night was frigid and stank of the corpses that lay beneath the very moon and the light through which the bushes gave way. Several police cars surrounded the area, their owners either directing the flow of traffic away from the scene or standing around the bodies, talking amoungst themselves about the gruesome scene.

A siren yells as two detectives drive up onto the the scene: Detective Smith, a detective of fifteen, long years of brutal case after brutal case, and a bulldog himself, age thirty-four. His partner, riding shotgun, a recently assigned black cat who gave up becoming a laywer to persue a career in law enforcment, named Ryan, age twenty-one. Both of these men step out of the car, the black cat shivering from the near below freezing weather.

"Jesus, it's fucking cold out! It's only October, 'the hell is that crap?" The hot-headed detective wraps his arms around himself to keep warm, in vain.

"Whaddya' excepct? We're way up north, rookie. Bring a jacket next time, and quit complaining, or I'll wash your mouth out with soap." The older bulldog threatened, causing the younger black cat to frown in irritation.

When they approach the scene, Ryan stops in his tracks, staring in horror at the mutilated bodies. Words could not describe the carnage the three bodies showed: missing eyes, broken fingers, limbs chopped off, and the faces had most likely seen better times, judging by the fact they were near unrecognizable. Ryan began to realize that the actual murder couldn't have taken place here: too many men, too much time, and too many people would have been around, buying costumes and candy from the Creatures and Creepers store a couple parking lots from across the road.

"What do we 'got?" Smith asks calmly, yet staring at the corpses.

"Three bodies, battered and missing parts. All of them appear to be bulldogs, sir." A young police officer debriefs.

"Any clues?"

"Just half a torn note, sir." The officer hands over the note to Smith, who scans over it in a cursory fashion.

"What does it say?" Ryan tries to read over Smith's shoulder impatiently.

"Gibberish, that's what." Smith pushes the note onto Ryan's chest, Ryan barely catching it.

The black cat reads over the the torn note, equally befuddled, but more determined than Smith.

"Looks like a riddle." He comments, checking the back of the note, but finding nothing useful.

"Sounds like a horrible poet." Smith cleans out his ear, clearly not interested in the note.

"Well, it's the only clue we have right now, 'better log it in my notepad." Ryan whips out his notpad, scribbling down the evidence, where it was found, and some guesses as to what it could be.

Smith crouches down to one of bodies, shining a flashlight on the face of the victim. The face appears to have been smashed in with a blunt weapon, but the weapon is to be nowhere to be seen. The one intruiging detail is the vic's right hand, namely, the odd glove it dons. He grabs the tip of the glove and tries to tug it off, but it stays firmly in place. After trying to pry it from the victim's hands with all of his strength, his hand slips, sending him backwards a bit, and causing him to huff angrily.

"Hey, furball, come help me with this thing!" The bulldog barks, quickly becoming impacient with the glove.

"Aww, does the poor 'wittle puppy need help getting his mittens off?" Ryan retaliates with a grin spreading across his face.

Smith glares at Ryan, and smiles in a threatening way.

"Very funny, Ryan. Say that again, and I'll bite your ass." The older detective goes back to tugging and yanking on the gloves, wondering if the murderer used super glue on it.

"You dogs and your asses, I don't even g-...you do realize that thing has a button, right? All you have to do is-"

*click* *SLIIICK*

And the glove came off, causing the older bulldog to fall onto his back. After two of the policmen near the scene and Ryan jump back, yelling in surprise, Smith angles his head up to the glove: which is filled with upright nails. Upon closer examination, and sitting upright, the glove looks more like a horrible mini-book cover, as it splits in half until it reachs the tips of the fingers, which have been chopped of along with the victim's thumb. There are holes in the glove that allow the nails to come through, but the nails must have caught on the gromits, causing the glove to tent, which is why it look so weird at first, and why they didn't see the nails sticking out.

"Looks like someone's been getting a little too into S and M." Ryan grimly quips.

"I don't think they are seeking any sort of pleasure out of this...so who called in the bodies?" Smith turns to the police officer after brushing himself off.

"Mrs-...or Miss Lane, now that she's widowed. She's a florist in a gated community. She came by to pick up her husband from the costume store across the street, looked around when she couldn't find him, and instead found him..well...here, with the other bodies." The officer gestures to the body that had been wearing the glove.

"She went back to her apartment in San Naldo. It's owned by Regell Community, Room 204, just off Brasnic Road and Arlen Street up north. They have a really fancy gate at the entrance, you can't miss it."

"...Arlen...Street! Got it, thank you for services. We'll take it from here. Make sure we get that autopsy soon!" Ryan finishes writing down the adress, moving towards the car.

"No prob', 's my job." The officer tips his hat.

"Chief'll contact you as soon as it comes back!"

"Good. Smith, let's go! I'm hungry, and I know you wouldn't want me to wreck your precious car, so start driving before I do!" The cat shouts, smacking his palm on the wheel and honking at Smith a few times.

"Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it already. By the way, you still owe me from yesterday's dinner." Smith gets into the driver seat, starts the car, and begins pulling out from the scene.

"Now Smith, you know as well as I do that I hardly keep any of the money I earn!" Ryan chuckles, turning out his pockets.

"No worries, I'll just take it out of your next paycheck." Smith turns the car around, and starts driving towards the Steak 'n Bacon Diner, unphased by Ryan's half-assed excuse.

Before Ryan could retaliate, a red pickup jumped into their lane from the next intersection down and began to speed up way beyond the limit.

"Tell ya' what, if you can pop this bastard's tires, tonight's dinner will be free of charge." Smith switched on the siren, accelerating towards the speeding pickup.

"Well, I guess I can't miss now, can I?" Ryan grins from ear to ear, pulling his .338 Smith and Wesson Revolver from its holster, looking outside the window, and aiming the revolver at one of the rear tires.

*Steak 'N Bacon Diner, 10:30 P.M.*

The two detective walked in, the younger one hanging his head low in shame, while the older one was staggering in an attempt to catch his breath from laughing so hard.

"That was horrible! You didn't even come near to hitting those tires! The only thing you managed to shoot was that poor little dove back on Elmer Road, that was way off to the side! I mean...how..." Smith bursts out into another fit of laughter.

"My aim was off, okay? Don't rub it in." Ryan's ears points towards the ground as he takes a booth seat.

"You're telling me! You almost hit that old lady back there, too!" The bulldog chuckles uncontrollably while seating himself across from Ryan.

"Ryaaaaan~!" A sweet, cheery voice calls out.

A beautiful vixen with streaming red hair and blue eyes skips towards Ryan's booth, wearing a short, red skirt, and a white button-up shirt: the diner's uniform.

"It's so good to see you again!!" She throws her arms around the cat, practically tackling him in the process.

"Ryan, you sly little-! Have you been hiding your beautiful girlfriend from me this whole time?" Smith elbows Ryan lightly in the ribs.

"Stop that! And she's not my girlfriend, she's just a childhood friend, is all...get off of me already!" Ryan struggles to remove the vixen's arms from himself.

"Ry-Ry~...I can always cut your food budget..." The vixen teased evily.

Ryan froze in sheer terror, for Ryan's only weakiness other than less of blood, sharp or blunt objects, and anything moving as fast or faster than a car, was hunger. Having such a weird metabolism, Ryan eats as much of anything he wants with out gaining a single pound, but never really grew that tall after hitting puberty, and food is energy, and without energy he wouldn't be as alive anymore as he is now.

"...Please don't..." Ryan huffs.

"Don't what?"

"Cut my food budget..."

"Pu-pu-pu..."

"...Pudding pie." Ryan manges to utter, as a small part of himself dies, and his night suddenly goes past Mexico and hits Antarctica in terms of shitiness.

"Good boy! Well, my name is Miranda, and I'll be your waitress for tonight. Are you gentlemen ready to order?" Miranda clicks her pen and waits for the detectives to respond.

"Yes, I'll take the Bacon Deluxe Sub." Smith points towards the item in the menu.

"Okay...and you, Ry-Ry~?" Miranda giggles, her tail fwipping back and forth at the name.

Ryan, however, closes his menu and sets it on the table, his eyes darting back to the vixen with a serious glare.

"Information."

To this, Smith cocks a confused brow towards his partner in crime-fighting, but stays silent.

"Well, that'll cost ya' a lil' extra tonight...unless your partner would be willing to foot a fifty?"

"Sorry, missy, but he's-"

"Deal. Open up a tab, and he'll get you paid as soon as the next paycheck comes in."

"Wh- hey!" The bulldog protests.

"Now, now, honey, you know I don't do tabs anymore." Miranda folds her arms.

"But, I would be willing to do it...for a ki-"

"C'mon, Miranda, can't you give me a break?" Ryan attempts to persuade her from ruining his night any further.

"May I remind you about that time when, oh, you know, you shot me?" Miranda reminds him tersely.

"You did what!?" Smith practically gasps.

"That was an accident, and you know it!" Ryan hissed back at her.

"You're lucky I didn't press charges! And now my shoulder aches everytime it rains!"

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, you shot her!?" Smith steps on his own foot to keep himself from laughing.

Ryan swings his head about, looking around himslef to make sure no one else was within earshot of them.

"It was my first shooting incident. April 1st, 1949, some time after I joined law enforcment. Some guy got drunk at a bar and pulled a gun on everyone inside. When I arrived at the scene, he was holding her hostage, yelling out gibberish, threatening to shoot her. I was scared shitless, but I did what I was taught to do: I pulled out my revolver and warned him to put the gun down. He didn't, so I took the shot. The recoil bounced my aim from his chest to her right shoulder. After she woke up in the hospital, she hugged me, tears n' all, saying 'You came back, you came back!' -I moved out of state as a kid and moved back when I joined law enforcment-, and my reply was...was......'I'm sorry, but who are you again?'" He explained, looking away from the two.

Smith could no longer hold it, and thus went into an absolute fit of laughter, slapping his knee, the table, so on and so forth. It took him about two minutes to compose himself, and to pick himself off the floor.

"Hahahah, haaah....continue." Smith wiped the tears from his eyes, chuckling at Ryan's expense.

"They had to get the entire staff of doctors just to pry her hands off of my neck." The cat huffs.

"Still not too good of a shot these days, huh?"

"Why, what other person did he put a round through this time?" Miranda leans towards Smith.

"I'll tell ya'...if you give us the 'information' first." Smith proposes.

Miranda goes silent in thought, only to speak again a few seconds later.

"Well, alright, but let me come back with your order first. 'Manager's gonna be wondering where I've been!" She skates to the back of the diner in a hurry.

"So what's the deal with her?" Smith leans back, watching the waitress disappear into the kitchen and out again with another person's order.

"Ex-journalist. She used to run a small part of a barely read newspaper that went out of business a while back, submitting stories about incidents well before they get brodcasted, snooping around on private property, a lot of controversial jib-jab, partly the reason why anyone bothered to read it. Her career as a journalist went down in flames shortly after the bar shooting as she was forced to quit her job and had to go into Crime Witness Protection. The newspaper died a week before it was safe to go out into public again, and no other newspaper or station would hire her," Ryan fiddles subconciously with the salt shaker.

"So she turned to me and said 'Either you let me help you do your job, or I let you starve.' Mind you, I was still an intern then, so I wasn't getting any cash and I had already spent all my savings trying to keep myself fed. The offer was a win-win for the both of us: I could solve cases that much easier and not have to worry about starving, and she could do what she loved to do while working the tables."

(More, coming soon!)