The Case of the Poisoned Fang or How Mongo's Bite Got Infected
It was cold and late when Mongo stumbled in. "Help, I've been shot," were the unsaid words he didn't cry as he lay down on the bed. My wife, startled by his ragged appearance, started combing his matted fur.
"What's this hard knot? Wheew. This stinks. Come look at this."
I went. Looked. It was bad. Mongo's back had a big hole oozing foul smelling crud. Really foul smelling crud.
"You hold him down, I'll go to work on him," the dame said. She came back with some scissors and gauze. She started snipping hair while Mongo writhed around, trying to escape. "Stop that, we're trying to help," she cried.
Mongo wasn't having any pity. He didn't want our help. He just wanted a slug of his favorite drink and a nice warm body to curl up with. We weren't letting that happen. Instead, he got a haircut. A bad haircut.
We finally saw where he'd been wounded. He wouldn't tell us where or how or by whom, but we could make a few guesses. It would take a mighty mean character to put a hole in his back like that. The hole was obviously infected already. It was oozing green goo that made us want to retch.
My doll cleaned the wound. She got the goo out and we could see a little blood welling from the hole. "Is that a worm," she shrieked. "I didn't see nothing," said I. I looked closer, but not too close. I didn't see a worm, but I didn't want to see one, either.
"You better take him to Dr. Expensive in the morning," I quipped. "Quit griping about how expensive the vet is. If you don't like her, find another vet," was the stinging reply. I don't take on extra work, so I rolled with this one.
When Mongo came back the next afternoon, I thought the Doc had mistaken him for a monk. He had a round place shaved out of his hair. However, Doc's investigative work had revealed another clue: it wasn't one hole, but two. Who did we know who could and would put two holes in his back like that.
The holes were round. It was obvious that it was done by a small caliber weapon. Really small caliber. We couldn't find a gun, smoking or otherwise. Then we started looking at the suspects. They all had fangs. Big, presumably poisoned, fangs.
We started reviewing the facts: Mongo was new to this town. He'd rolled in here with his buddy Peter and his girl Rosie. The three of them walked in and acted like they owned the joint. That made the natives angry. They'd owned this street and everything on it for years. Who could it be?
Minnie? No, Minnie was only interested in Furs, Food, and Sleep. She didn't hang with the gangs that ruled the roost, she kept to herself--like she was better than the rest.
Annabelle? Probably not. Annabelle was suffering from a severe allergy attack that had left her nose clogged and her eyes weepy. She'd just been to the Doc, too. She wasn't feeling up to GBH.
That left four suspects, all with grudges against the noobs. These were the the dons and a donnette that had maintained order for years. Lets look at them.
The Her Cat. She'd mellowed with age, but in her youth, she had been known as Fang. She resented outsiders. And she didn't like people who didn't look like her. In fact, she didn't like anybody very much. Anything that disturbed her routine made her lash out at those around her. But she generally didn't go out of her way to start a fight. If you walked up, she'd slap you, but she wouldn't hunt you down.
The Foot. He was one of the youngest, still unsure of his place. He'd come in out of the cold, but still didn't seem happy with the way things were run. He might harm you, but he'd give plenty of warning first.
Minkus. Minkus was the oldest don. He was generally mellow, but when he had a little catnip under his belt, he could still be rowdy. More than once he'd been asked to leave the club after harassing the other patrons. He might stab you in a dark alley, but he'd be hopped up on something.
Syd the Squid. Sydney Vicious lived up to her name. She was young and mean and tough. When she wasn't clawing the walls, she was chasing the others with claws out. She was the baby. She probably felt the most threatened. She'd been acting mean and meaner since the new guys rolled into town. Maybe, but still, there was no bloody fang, no smoking gun.
In the end, we resorted to drugs. If no one would tell us what happened, we'd treat them all the same. A trip to the pharmacy and they were all trippin' to the tune of Dr. Feliway. If they won't tell us who done it, we'll make them all happy campers. We don't care if they want to go camping or not.