Episode 13: Bloatmingle - the Fugitive has stopped Fugitting.

Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard...

Bloatmingle and Spiggot have apprehended the evil Doctor Peasmold and the nasally-challenged Tommy. Accidentally, but they got 'em anyway. Unfortunately, the treacherous Fittock - who turned out to be Humplock - has made good his escape. Their ruminations at 37 Dead Man's Wharf have been rudely interrupted, however, by the sudden appearance of not one, but two apparitions. One of them has leapt into Bloatmingle's arms...

“Humplock...?” Bloatmingle gawped in disbelief. The man was naked but for a pair of red and white stripy socks, his Metropolitan Police issue clodhoppers and a rather fetching leopardskin pattern posing pouch. He had bite marks on his buttocks.

“Just keep her away from me, I tell you, keep her away...”

Bloatmingle and Spiggot stared at the second apparition. The long, matted red hair. The large blue eye. The small blue eye. The bright red lipstick which would have been perfectly applied, had it not missed her mouth by one and a half inches. But, most telling of all, the unlaced corset flapping in the breeze to reveal a hairy chest of an unusual topographical nature.

“Dorothy Knickerthwaite...!” breathed Bloatmingle.

Humplock was still weeping and gibbering uncontrollably. “I'm giving myself up, yes, giving myself up. Pleeeease put me in prison. Put me in prison. I'll be safe there...” He glanced over his shoulder at Dorothy Knickerthwaite and screamed again. Mrs Knickerthwaite had stopped in her tracks, however. She just stood still, taking in her surroundings and shaking her head.

“Would someone mind tellin' me what the ****'s goin' on?” she demanded loudly in a shrill cockney accent. “And where the ****'s my ration book?”

“Please, dear lady,” intoned Bloatmingle, putting himself in mind of the suave and dashing Anton Walbrook in “Dangerous Moonlight”, one of Mrs Bloatmingle’s favourite films. So favourite in fact that more than once when he and the love of his life were being, erm, affectionate in the marital darkness, Bloatmingle had heard her squeal “Anton, Anton!” in her lovely bass profundo.

But here his specialist Police training kicked in and he put all thoughts from his mind save that of calming the rampant lipsticked harpy who even now was eying him in a sultry cross-eyed fashion.

“Please dear lady, calm yourself. I am a Police Officer. You are quite safe now”, drawled Bloatmingle, still in Walbrook mode. He cleared his throat and said again, “You’re quite safe now.”

 

Dorothy Knickerthwaite (for it is she) crouched, gathering the burst corset around her not inconsiderable self.  “But you’re not!” she gritted and began to sidle towards Bloatmingle, slightly dragging one leg. She was a truly magnificent woman, thought Bloatmingle, his lightning-quick, trained Police mind wondering what might next transpire. Dorothy Knickerthwaite advanced and began whistling “You are My Heart’s Delight” through the fingers of her left hand. Her heaving breasts (a Land where Veet had never been) heaved.

The whistling stopped. Bloatmingle was aware of a certain type of trouser activity, but again he focused on the job in hand. Dorothy Knickerthwaite gazed into Bloatmingle’s eyes – a siren’s gaze – the gaze of the Femme Fatale! “You are mine!” shrilled Dorothy and lunged forward. “Quick! Spiggot! Your truncheon!” shouted Bloatmingle as he realised that what he could feel in his pocket was not his truncheon, which must have been misplaced in the melee.

For once in his life, Constable Spiggot did not hesitate. He tossed his rarely used staff across the room and Bloatmingle caught it expertly using the difficult reverse wrist Thrames-McDowell Expert Catch catch. He felt Dorothy Knickerthwaite’s hot breath on his cheek – a seductive waft of Corned Beef and Rennies – and his mind reeled. “God, this woman could be mine!” he thought, but yet again the iron vice which was his Policeman’s mind snapped shut and he laid Mrs Knickerthwaite out with a smart blow to the left temple.

“Cor!” said Spiggot. “That was a close shave an’ no mistake!” intoned the young Bobby. “Cor? Close shave an’ no mistake?”

“Who writes his stuff?” thought Bloatmingle, gently heaving the helpless Mrs Knickerthwaite onto a mysteriously convenient upright piano transporter.