Sentence The Onehundredandseventeenth
And at just about the time that The Lady with her sails a-billowing, it's figurehead jutting proudly forward and aimed directly towards The Bass Rock which rose massively from the sparkling sea under a brazen sun which glinted bronze off Ginger Goldfish's Irn Bru locks and as spun gold from the blonde curls of Theresa Somerville, at just about this time, as I say, allowing for the slight difference in true time between the seas east of Gullane and the Capital City clustered around it's own two prominences – The Seat Of Arthur in Holyrood Park and the mighty Castle Rock, topped with it's very own impregnable fortress, at just about this time, when the diligent officers of The Grassmarket and Cowgate Community Policing Hub sat around the conference table in their back office and passed around their most recent reports on the interviews held with Angus Og of The Bog (who, after more x-rays, CAT Scans, MRI Scans, and other delicate, if thorough, examinations, including a very informative chat with the perfusionist who had monitored him during the most major of the operations he had been subjected to, had been declared fit and well and was discharged from Edinburgh Royal Infirmary – still referred to as The New Royal, by citizens who, for generations had been treated at The Old Royal and in fact many of whom had been born and died there – into the care of his three cousins, the sisters, Bunty and Dixie O'Hooligan and their cousin, Bernie Westwater, and was presently residing at the flat of Bernie and her partner Tammy Shanter which was where he had been interviewed by the iridescent WPC Isa Urquhart and Sergeant Goldy Brevity and, despite his provocative flirting with the WPC, had given a fairly detailed account of the day on which his friend and cousin Robbie Ratho had been found brutally murdered in an oubliette deep in the bowels of the High Street by person or persons so far unknown but who had evidently left one tiny clue, the imprint of a size twelve boot in the slime of the oubliette which had been identified from it's pattern as a Police Scotland Standard Issue Model A1 Beat Boot, but with a very specific identifying detail, the angled rim of a five-pence coin apparently embedded in the heel, which when (not if) the boot was discovered would instantly place it's wearer in the oubliette at the time of the heinous crime; and, to repeat, at just about the same time, the wearer of that particular boot and it's pair, was
treading towards the Grassmarket, where he turned up a mean and narrow close almost opposite the Community Policing Hub and used one of the keys from his trouser pocket to unlock and enter a third floor back flat which he instantly perceived to be empty – quite the opposite of what should be, so he quickly climbed two further flights of stairs to a fifth floor back flat, which he accessed using the other key in his possession and brusquely perceived it also as being empty; sitting on the bed he telephoned his employer and informed him of his discoveries which had brought him a realisation of such queer entelechy – that what he dreaded would be, was - and his employer – as he expected – became apoplectic with an intense rage, screaming down the line to the handset which the man in the flat held some inches away from his head, “fucking find them, you hear, if you have to go to Gehenna and back, even to Bathgate and back, just fucking find them!”
And at just about the time that The Lady with her sails a-billowing, it's figurehead jutting proudly forward and aimed directly towards The Bass Rock which rose massively from the sparkling sea under a brazen sun which glinted bronze off Ginger Goldfish's Irn Bru locks and as spun gold from the blonde curls of Theresa Somerville, at just about this time, as I say, allowing for the slight difference in true time between the seas east of Gullane and the Capital City clustered around it's own two prominences – The Seat Of Arthur in Holyrood Park and the mighty Castle Rock, topped with it's very own impregnable fortress, at just about this time, when the diligent officers of The Grassmarket and Cowgate Community Policing Hub sat around the conference table in their back office and passed around their most recent reports on the interviews held with Angus Og of The Bog (who, after more x-rays, CAT Scans, MRI Scans, and other delicate, if thorough, examinations, including a very informative chat with the perfusionist who had monitored him during the most major of the operations he had been subjected to, had been declared fit and well and was discharged from Edinburgh Royal Infirmary – still referred to as The New Royal, by citizens who, for generations had been treated at The Old Royal and in fact many of whom had been born and died there – into the care of his three cousins, the sisters, Bunty and Dixie O'Hooligan and their cousin, Bernie Westwater, and was presently residing at the flat of Bernie and her partner Tammy Shanter which was where he had been interviewed by the iridescent WPC Isa Urquhart and Sergeant Goldy Brevity and, despite his provocative flirting with the WPC, had given a fairly detailed account of the day on which his friend and cousin Robbie Ratho had been found brutally murdered in an oubliette deep in the bowels of the High Street by person or persons so far unknown but who had evidently left one tiny clue, the imprint of a size twelve boot in the slime of the oubliette which had been identified from it's pattern as a Police Scotland Standard Issue Model A1 Beat Boot, but with a very specific identifying detail, the angled rim of a five-pence coin apparently embedded in the heel, which when (not if) the boot was discovered would instantly place it's wearer in the oubliette at the time of the heinous crime; and, to repeat, at just about the same time, the wearer of that particular boot and it's pair, was
treading towards the Grassmarket, where he turned up a mean and narrow close almost opposite the Community Policing Hub and used one of the keys from his trouser pocket to unlock and enter a third floor back flat which he instantly perceived to be empty – quite the opposite of what should be, so he quickly climbed two further flights of stairs to a fifth floor back flat, which he accessed using the other key in his possession and brusquely perceived it also as being empty; sitting on the bed he telephoned his employer and informed him of his discoveries which had brought him a realisation of such queer entelechy – that what he dreaded would be, was - and his employer – as he expected – became apoplectic with an intense rage, screaming down the line to the handset which the man in the flat held some inches away from his head, “fucking find them, you hear, if you have to go to Gehenna and back, even to Bathgate and back, just fucking find them!”
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