Book X: The Legend of Ratfink

Alright. . . fine. I'll tell the story of Ratfink. . . On one condition: you do not go looking for him. He was a smart kid. Too smart. He designed the sewage system, the radio towers, a lot of the architecture, he always had something in his hands to fidget with. It helped him cope with the forest. One day, they promoted him to scout, so he could go anywhere and do anything unsupervised, mostly because no one could manage to keep him in check anyway. He made friends with the King's son. Real good friends, actually. He warned Ratfink that soon the son of the King will drown in Iron. Terrified of this prediction, Ratfink did everything in his power to stop their plan. He stole radios, he recruited people, and he set up base somewhere in the forest. Then one day, his nerves got the best of him and he went out walking at night. His lantern ran out of fuel quicker than usual. That's when the shadows took him... But, do you want to know what I think happened? I think the cloaks took him in his sleep. They threw him into the catacombs of the very sewage system he built and sealed the entrance. Legend says his whine can be heard all around the forest, wailing and moaning for help. . . But don't give into his cry, 'less ya might end up down there with him.

Book IX: Pome

Whenst, as it were, a cloudy, not partially, but fully. Eyed be a mug forsooth its comeuppance. Ivory liquids, sugared, splash. Tooketh mine waxed tool, not foregoing the flame. Mahogany platforms seated a pure and undefined vessel, by which mine mental spill might combine and yet nary a drop, despite. Doth winds above mirror mine tempest below? A perfect storm, but not for me, but for ye. Ye, thief of myself. Who'll'm'pt do it? Mine or thine? Who'll'm'pt shall seal their blade first? Something tells me, the answer lies.

Book VIII: The only good detective is a free detective

That's right, there I was. There. Not here, not somewhere else. There. In my jail cell. And not only was it a jail cell, it was mine. Not only was it mine, but I was in it. The jail cell that is. My latest caper left much to be desired, that is to say, I desired much to not be inside this jail cell. But it's not any old jail cell, no, this jail cell had me in it. Are you starting to connect the dots?

I had to get outta there. That is to say, where I was, that blasted jail cell. That cell that had contained me for a time. The time that I had spent in that jail cell. This one. I'm still inside that jail cell to this day. But that's about to change. My charges were never read to me, my Miranda rights were never read to me, no one has even spoken to me since they put me in this cell. Never mind the fact that every time someone tried to talk to me, I plug my ears and went "nananananana" until they stopped. That's besides the point. They didn't tell me anything. And so here I was, in there.

I had a plan. I met this fine gentleman in my cell, with whom I shared the space with which me and him were there inside of the cell together. He was a fine gentleman, a reliable fellow. Always got himself into this cell on time. Always brushed his teeth, and, at the strike of night, he was asleep. Very predictable. Just what I needed. A little predictability. Something this cold, dark, damp, dirty, dull, flat, gray, boring, sad, square, putrid, ugly, smelly, tragic, blasted cell lacked in quantities hitherto very a lot. That is to say, I didn't like it in this cell. But thankfully, I had a plan.

Me and my fellow cell-mate, that is to say, the aforementioned gentleman with unprecedented predictability, had noticed something. Every night before bed, those darn coppers would report back to the warden everything they'd seen throughout the day. They'd even report about people too. Certain people especially. Especially the people that caused the most raucous. The kind of raucous that causes a little too much trouble for those coppers. The kind of trouble that would drive those cops to the point of telling the warden about it. And believe you me, the officers had much to say. The warden would listen to these things too. All day it seemed. All day during the night, because they were always watching during the day, never relaying things to the Warden until nightfall, that was the time those blasted coppers would just tell the Warden all that they had seen that day. Which is what lead us to make a plan.

The gentleman and I schemed and schemed and planned for a very long time. It felt like a lot of time, but who's counting? That's when it hit me. The jail cell. It was all making sense. We had to get outta there. But how? After much planning, it hit us like a ton of bricks. So many damn bricks, I thought I was gonna die. But thankfully, the Black Detective doesn't die. He doesn't die. That's me. I doesn't die. No. The Black Detective comes up with plans. Yes. And that's when it hit me. Like a ton of bricks, this plan hit me. It hurt even worse the second time. Thankfully, my cell-mate, the gentleman, resuscitated me. Good ol' predictable gentleman. He's the kind of guy you'd want if you were trying to get out of this blasted, no-good jail cell. And that's when it hit me. Or should I say, it almost hit me. I caught it just in time. So long as I live, I won't let a single good idea get the better of me.

It was at that point it started to rain. Just my luck. A rainstorm in the middle of an escape, which might require some sort of cover. An environmental advantage that could covertly conceal our attempts at escape. It's always times like these I get the short end of the stick. How can I think with all this rain and smog clouding up the jail? I can only think in complete silence, darkness, and without any sound. But here I was, roughing it with this gentleman. He's asleep, but I know he's planning with me. I guess we don't always have ideal circumstances to deal with. Not only that but the jail keeper dropped his keys in front of our door three hours ago. It's been three hours and he still hasn't come back to get them. I might even have to stay up in case the officer comes by to collect them. I can't plan my escape on zero hours of sleep. Even the Black Detective needs his beddy bye. What drives me up the wall too is that there's a big drill running at maximum volume next to my bed. It's grinding into this wall like you wouldn't believe. A man can't possibly plan his escape under these conditions. Some sort of construction. But to me, it looks like destruction. The wall has crumbled to the point of no longer being there. I began to think, "shouldn't someone be here to keep watch over all this construction?"

And that's when it hit me. The darn drill hit me. It hurt a lot. I was trying to turn it off. I can't sleep with all this drilling and rain and sound of jail cell keys in my pocket as I pace, thinking of ways to escape unnoticed. My gentleman friend began to look more and more like a cardboard cutout with every passing moment. I knew it couldn't be true. Probably some sort of hallucination. Some sort of trick on the eyes. Some sort of illusion. Some sort of game these eyeballs of mine were playing. But he really did look like a cardboard cutout. That darn gentlejailcellmate, maybe he wasn't so predictable after all.

I'd given it my best effort. But escape was impossible. My best bet at this point was to kiss up to the Warden and play for good boy points, maybe become teachers pet. Get a biscuit here and there and roll over like the good boy I am. Maybe shake hands and do a little spin. I'd even speak and fetch if the Warden saw fit. Little would he know, all that would lead to my early release. Meanwhile the drill has stopped and my whole wall was completely broken. Being on the first floor wasn't easy either. Just about anybody could just waltz straight into this jail from off the highway. The security cameras were broken by the drill. I was horrified. Someone had to fix those darn, bl