There is an old Grantonian proverb: Late nights make for early mornings.
This certainly holds true as this Day dawns in its feeble, hung-over attempt at glory.
There is, as has become customary, a commotion in the Granton town square. It is outside the old boarding house Colonel Qalyn calls home.
Yes, a constable is vomiting outside the front door.
The Mayor grumpily leads a sparse procession of villagers in, not even bothering to keep them clear of what promises to be a grisly crime scene.
The Colonel is not present. His spartan quarters are in disarray.
There is a collection of medals scattered across the bed -- a Purple Heart, a Humanitarian Service Medal, a Bronze Star -- and a selection of walking sticks, all broken. An army issue Springfield carbine lays on the floor, apparently fired once.
Beside it, an unusual tool:
"It's got 'US Army' stamped on the handle," says Mayor McGrant. "And by goodness, it's got blood on the blade."
He begins to rise and then halts.
"What's this? What's this? A TRAPDOOR?"
Yes, indeed... beneath the writing desk is a small trapdoor, hanging ominously open. Filing down the stairs, the assembled Grantonians - Maominstoat, iszabelle, Whisky Priestess, bengali in platforms, lolita nation - find themselves in a root cellar, lined with shelves.
On the shelves, iszabelle spies several packages:
Hanging on the wall, Maominstoat admires a print:
The Mayor, however, notices one of the shelves is askew. It swings freely on a hidden hinge... and behind it, a secret chamber. Sterile. Cold. Gleaming. Lined with surgical tools. At the center of the room is a picnic table converted into a surgical table.
And atop the makeshift surgical table is a remarkable likeness of Leonardo DaVinci's famed Vitruvian Man:
The medium of the artwork: the deceased body of Colonel Qalyn, United States Army Medical Corps, Ret'd.... Granton's Doctor!
The Mayor gasps.
"Whoever did this... they're in this room right now! And... there are more of them then there are of us!!
"As Mayor of this town, I move that we throw ourselves immediately on the mercy of the Mafia! What else can we do?
"Well, Mafia, how about it?" |
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