Sentence The Twohundredandthirtyseventh
“How did he get here?” cried Tavish, catching his first sight of the latest apparition in the cavern; “you know him?” asked Bernie; “he's a stain on Edinburgh's civic pride, that Man,” said Tavish, displaying a bitterness not not normally heard in his voice, “Assistant Chief Constable Duncan Doubleday, or DoubleCross to anyone who's had the misfortune to work with him; he has his fingers in every piece of corruption, of vice and depravity you'll find under the mask of respectability the City wears; he's more bibulous than W C Fields ever was, owns several hectads populated by thieves, fences, prostitutes of all ages, drug dealers and crack-houses, money launderers fronted by granite and marble banking houses; even my brother Pherson, who shot me, hadn't a good word to say about ACC DoubleCross and Pherson is Emeritus Professor of Criminology at the Uni, so he's smelt many a stink in the Capital and when you hear a Nocturne playing in your head and Ladies of the Night are plying their trade, behind them, behind the Pimps and Ponces, the Puppetmaster pulling their strings is Old DoubleCross,” he spat phlegm onto the rock floor; “but if he's a Police Officer,” asked Tammy, “how does he get away with it?” and Tavish grunted, then said: “he has enough dirt on every bent Politician, Lawyer, Copper and Judge, not to mention Businessmen, Tax Dodgers, Givers and Takers of Bribes and Kickbacks and Insider Traders in anything that can be bought and sold, from Cobbles and Gratings lifted after dark from the High Street, to pre-pubescent boys and girls from Eastern Europe or The Philippines and Thailand; his Mentor was Martin Elginbrod – not the present one, his Father – when DoubleCross was a DI in Vice and first got a taste for the more extreme forms of Paedophilia, his tastes were guided and refined and access made easier by Elginbrod and his friends, including Jimmy Savile, one of whose people opened a Specialist Club financed by a Russian
Oilygarch, former KGB Handler, Boris Goodenuv, they all had a predilection for young boys and girls and The Club – named, incidentally, The Gents which should give you an idea of the kind of place it was - gave them a safe place to practice what they preached and act out their fantasies and suddenly young DI Doubleday was right in the centre of the action, but instead of collaring the lot of them he became one of their most dedicated members and they had him by the short and curlies – oh, he was made, set up for a life of unbridled sex with anyone he fancied, and they had a noose around his neck – when Elginbrod's fingers snapped, Doubleday's heels clicked – he was their Gopher, Finder, Fixer and Minder and his pockets were lined with cash and condoms”; “so how do you know all this about him?” asked Tammy, back home the Chief Investigative Reporter on The Scotsman whose finest virtue was that most of the words which issued from her mouth were framed as Questions, suddenly realising that there was a gap – nay a chasm - in her knowledge of what was supposed by her colleagues and friends to be her Mastermind Specialist Subject – The Underworld of Scotland's Capital City – which was not a picturesque reference to the network of streets, closes, nooks, crannies and oubliettes still existing far beneath the cobbles and tartanalia of The Royal Mile and it's fine buildings, homes of Scotland's National emblems of – Crown, Commerce, Religion, Law, Governance, and Militaria!
“How did he get here?” cried Tavish, catching his first sight of the latest apparition in the cavern; “you know him?” asked Bernie; “he's a stain on Edinburgh's civic pride, that Man,” said Tavish, displaying a bitterness not not normally heard in his voice, “Assistant Chief Constable Duncan Doubleday, or DoubleCross to anyone who's had the misfortune to work with him; he has his fingers in every piece of corruption, of vice and depravity you'll find under the mask of respectability the City wears; he's more bibulous than W C Fields ever was, owns several hectads populated by thieves, fences, prostitutes of all ages, drug dealers and crack-houses, money launderers fronted by granite and marble banking houses; even my brother Pherson, who shot me, hadn't a good word to say about ACC DoubleCross and Pherson is Emeritus Professor of Criminology at the Uni, so he's smelt many a stink in the Capital and when you hear a Nocturne playing in your head and Ladies of the Night are plying their trade, behind them, behind the Pimps and Ponces, the Puppetmaster pulling their strings is Old DoubleCross,” he spat phlegm onto the rock floor; “but if he's a Police Officer,” asked Tammy, “how does he get away with it?” and Tavish grunted, then said: “he has enough dirt on every bent Politician, Lawyer, Copper and Judge, not to mention Businessmen, Tax Dodgers, Givers and Takers of Bribes and Kickbacks and Insider Traders in anything that can be bought and sold, from Cobbles and Gratings lifted after dark from the High Street, to pre-pubescent boys and girls from Eastern Europe or The Philippines and Thailand; his Mentor was Martin Elginbrod – not the present one, his Father – when DoubleCross was a DI in Vice and first got a taste for the more extreme forms of Paedophilia, his tastes were guided and refined and access made easier by Elginbrod and his friends, including Jimmy Savile, one of whose people opened a Specialist Club financed by a Russian
Oilygarch, former KGB Handler, Boris Goodenuv, they all had a predilection for young boys and girls and The Club – named, incidentally, The Gents which should give you an idea of the kind of place it was - gave them a safe place to practice what they preached and act out their fantasies and suddenly young DI Doubleday was right in the centre of the action, but instead of collaring the lot of them he became one of their most dedicated members and they had him by the short and curlies – oh, he was made, set up for a life of unbridled sex with anyone he fancied, and they had a noose around his neck – when Elginbrod's fingers snapped, Doubleday's heels clicked – he was their Gopher, Finder, Fixer and Minder and his pockets were lined with cash and condoms”; “so how do you know all this about him?” asked Tammy, back home the Chief Investigative Reporter on The Scotsman whose finest virtue was that most of the words which issued from her mouth were framed as Questions, suddenly realising that there was a gap – nay a chasm - in her knowledge of what was supposed by her colleagues and friends to be her Mastermind Specialist Subject – The Underworld of Scotland's Capital City – which was not a picturesque reference to the network of streets, closes, nooks, crannies and oubliettes still existing far beneath the cobbles and tartanalia of The Royal Mile and it's fine buildings, homes of Scotland's National emblems of – Crown, Commerce, Religion, Law, Governance, and Militaria!
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