[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer
Somewhere in south-central England.
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The Case of the River of Blood
An MPY Kuudere Detective Agency One-shot
Olympe Viola Reese often liked to go away in early autumn, while the days were still long, summer’s pleasant heat had moderated to mists and mellow fruitfulness, and accommodation was cheaper because all the young-uns were back at school. She didn’t need to worry about Coins, of course. It was just easier to book things on a whim when there was less competition.
So, on a mid-September weekend when the agency was quiet, Olympe checked herself into a self-catering apartment in the small, picturesque town of Much Marcle in the Mellow West, far enough from Lord Yuzu’s lair at Cowley Court that there was no chance of running into him by accident.
Dinner at a cosy bistrot was accompanied by rather more of the local wine than was good for the young detective. She staggered home, drank a pint of water, and threw herself into bed naked without taking off her make-up. As a result, a call of nature woke her in the middle of the night. The moon was streaming through the windows she had forgotten to curtain, so she did not bother to switch on the light. She went to the bathroom, took three aspirin, and relieved herself. She was gurning in the mirror at her smeared face, splashing it with cold water, when she realised that the lavatory cistern was making a Goddessawful racket and didn’t seem to want to fill itself up. The gurgling went on and on.
“Oh fucc!” Olympe moaned. “I hate en-suite bathrooms. Where am I going to get a plumber at this time of night?”
She went to fetch her phone, closing the door in the hope it would mute the sound of rushing water. Curiously though, the noise actually seemed louder in the bedroom. In fact, Olympe realised, it was coming from the road outside. She slid up the sash window and leant out.
Under the moonlight, a flood of red liquid coursed and chuckled down the street!
*That’s different!* Olympe thought. *A river of blood?* She did a double-take at the scene, then checked her phone to see if it was Halloween or a full moon, either of which might lead to dire occurrences. Even worse if they co-incided. But it was neither.
The mysterious stream was not far below her window. She leant farther out and managed to scoop up some of the liquid in her cupped palm. Bringing it to her nostrils, she sniffed cautiously.
*Not blood but wine! Quite a good one by the nose,* she realised.
Olympe sipped tentatively.
*Ummm, not bad! Rather tannic -- it must be young -- full bodied, long finish. Good fruit expression. Notes of chocolate and tobacco. I should have a glass.* She fetched a tooth mug and dipped it into the Bacchanalian flow.
That was the moment the rug slipped under her.
“Ow!”
The wine-dark sea, or rather the wine, swallowed Olympe with a plop. She immediately felt colder than she liked. Mindful of the capsize training she had done as a rower, she waited to bob to the surface and recover from the shock. She looked around to see where she was being carried.
The red river rolled down the street, fast enough that Olympe couldn’t swim against it. She didn’t want to swim to the banks either, which comprised of the walls of buildings with all sorts of hazardous excrescences -- signs, bollards, railings, and who knows what else. Olympe dropped her tooth mug but kept hold of her phone, and tried to paddle in the middle of the stream. She waited for her chance to reach safety.
*It must stop somewhere,* she told herself. *Rivers of wine never go on endlessly except in the Land of Cockaigne.*
Lights went on in the houses, and windows were thrown open as the townspeople woke up to the odd flood. Some of them shouted to her, others simply stared.
*Obviously I look like a gorgeous naiad,* Olympe thought smugly. *But I wish I could be rescued.*
The street widened into a square, the rate of flow decreased, and Olympe’s feet brushed ground. She slogged her way towards the higher side of the piazza, and managed to get onto dry pavement. Dripping and cold, she wondered what to do next.
With a squeal of brakes, a Royal Mail delivery boi skidded his electric bakfiets to a halt before he could plunge into the winey lake.
“Phew!” the messenger exclaimed. “That were a close one an’ all. Where’s all this wine came from anyhow?” he muttered.
“Oh hai!” Olympe said in greeting as she stepped forward. “I wonder if you might give me a lift home?”
The boi stared at her, his mouth agape. Olympe felt she was worth being stared at, so she stood proud. But in fact, her whole nude body was stained purplish-red. She looked as if she had been boiled like a lobster.
“Do be a sweety!” she implored, “I’m sure it’s not far.”
“Sorry Mizz. Official parcels only,” the postboi told her, looking another way.
“Wait a hot minute.” Olympe wiped the wine off her phone, which still worked fine because, ever since an incident in Chicago, she always bought handsets with the best waterproofing. She tapped furiously.
“Here!” She held the screen towards the messenger like a talisman. It glowed with a vital QR code. “I’ve bought enough stamps to post myself, so now you have to take me. Don’t refuse, because I know your boss, the superintendent. I can put in a good word for you if you’re kind and helpful. What’s your name? I’m Olympe.”
Several seconds passed, then the postboi huffed a sigh.
“I’m Pat,” he said. “Well, I’ll just have to process you into the system, Mizz Olympe, to make it all official like.” He scanned her QR code and printed a valid postage sticker, then… “Excuse me,” Pat said. He gently teased Olympe’s now deep strawberry blonde hair away from her forehead, where he fixed the barcode. He scanned it with a beep, and gave her a receipt for herself.
“All set, Mizz Olympe. I'll get you stowed.” He picked her up with great care, nestled her in the bike’s cargo box, and draped a tarpaulin over her.
The river of wine had abated, so Pat set off back up the same street Olympe had swum down earlier. On the short ride, Pat said it was the first time he had delivered an actual someone. Olympe told him it was in fact the second time she had been delivered. “That’s how I know the superintendent,” she said. “But I don’t want it to become a habit. Being a parcel, I mean.”
He set her on the front steps of her house, whipped out a smartphone, and snapped a photo before she could stop him.
“What’s that for!?” Olympe cried. She liked to avoid cameras because undercover work got harder if your face was widely known. “If you put that on Chitter, I’ll… Well, I don’t know what I’ll do but you’ll regret it.”
“It’s just for proof of safe delivery. It’ll be wiped from the system after 30 days.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, Pat. Well. Thank you very much for helping me home.”
“Just doing my duty, Mizz Olympe.” He saluted, jumped into the saddle, and pedalled away.
Olympe waved after him. *What a nice boi!* she thought. *I’ll see if I can’t do him some good.* Then she climbed in through the open bedroom window, had a shower, and went back to bed, where she lay awake for a while wondering what she would do for excitement the next day.
THE END
Inspired by a recent news headline
Portuguese town flooded by river of ‘good quality’ red wine.
2.2 million litres of wine leaked from the vats of a local winery.
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