CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – “MOODY BLUE”

At 1758 hours, Norlin found space to lean against on the backwall of the Trouble Factory Auditorium while a still-fuming Captain Modesty paced before an enormous PV playing hectic commercials for night courses at Man Ray University, with the sound off. Whirling, the Captain snarled various choice oaths... not a few taking the name of Jeremiah Jezekial Jates in vain... then seized the com with both hands and proceeded to lower the boom upon his troops.

"You'll work late, this evening, unpaid," Modesty fumed, "and, as a consequence of all this morning's incompetence which has subjected the Trouble Factory to a multitude of Compliance violations, certain legal action in the Court of Flux and... worst of all... negative publicity. Need I remind you..." and he threw up his arms, as if appealing to a Heaven that had forsaken law and order, "...the lifestyle policeman's work is ever-perilous! In protecting citizens from themselves, we are ever at a risk of crossing some invisible, yet all-too-tangible frontier whereupon the grudging acceptance of our dominion gives way to covert, even blatant, resistance? Bister... it's time... show us how bad the damage has been!"

Lieutenant Bister activated the PV's audio, and the grumbling vanished as completely as that robber outside the window of the Third-Fifth Bank (pursued so fruitlessly by Norlin and Henry Hat). The enormous heads of Mr. Simple and Honey Markell bobbed and smirked with juvenile glee.

"At the top of the news..." Simple read, from some offstage placard, no doubt, "...more fumbling and bumbling at the Trouble Factory. A small boy, an Opran..."

"I think he means orphan," Honey giggled..

"An orphan... employed by the Jatesville Journal... which, like this station, is a subsidiary of the Media Corporation... has been criminally abused by law enforcement bullies. Compliance rules flouted, and a dangerous predator doing business openly under the noses of the law... all for his provision of dubious information, based on an occult fantasy! Honey?" Mr. Simple scowled.

"We'll also bring you Scotty Satellite with inside dope on this afternoon's daring heist at the Specimen Depository."

"Don't call it dope, Honey..." Anchorman Simple smiled wickedly, "some genius at the Trouble Factory might get ideas, take you away and all the nice people out there will find Spitta at the desk tomorrow, or Pammy Herring..."

"The inside skinny, then? A slender frame earns the public’s acclaim! With full biographies of little Butch and his brutalization at the hands of a Trouble Factory gone renegade, and our action profile of the rogue informer whose web of lies has placed prosecutions of Barataria's worst criminals in jeopardy. Can you bear to know the ghastly secrets lurking at the heart of... dog prostitution? With Mr. Forward's sports and weather."

"A cold blast moving southeast from WestAmerica will send temperatures plunging with a chance of snow, sleet or a wintry mix... cold as the hearts of those despicable uniformed kebs who roughed-up poor little Butch... pardon the French..."

Mr. Simple shook his head. "More after these important messages..."

Bister killed the sound as the host image of the PV showed a krajjit laboratory, while popups for sailboats and sunscreen filled its periphery, and Captain Modesty, even redder with outrage, resumed his scourging. Meanwhile, Dr. Skark and his teatray, the Blue and Gray Men and perhaps a dozen officers drafted for emergency testing... hebes and clones, alike, even a few of the larger, surlier mutes John Crum kept on hand for crowd control... stealthily infiltrated the auditorium.

"Brutalizers! Child abusers! Imbecile recipients of tainted intelligence from an animal-pandering felon..." the Captain raged, "...well, there is more, and you will stay here, watching every jatesk’ballin’ minute of it. Kebbin' media... what about the nighttime weddings we conduct and, did you see... not a kebbin' word about Mrs. Hanzik's Dalmatian recovered and returned to her after three years' durance? All down the toilet due to criminal incompetence... well, I'm delighted to inform you that there will be no Jatesday bonus on the Trouble Factory's fifteen percent cut of civil forfeitures imposed on LCs this year. These sanctions will be imposed to fortify our Treasury in anticipation of severe monetary judgements ahead, plus our Law Firm expenses. Nobody's gettin' a kebbin' sou... and, pursuant to Compliance Doctrine provision 82-14, I've authorized Dr. Skark to take samples from every kebbin' dook in this room! There may be substance abuse behind these mortifying behavioral caprices... or not... but you will stay, and there will be pain. You will piss, and you will watch Jates Television until the Doctor, WJAD-News and I say you can leave..."

So, having drawn the conclusion that the risks of staying exceeded those of slipping out of the auditorium, Norlin slunk back to C-Squad, huddling in the cold, smelly basement room with the lights out, ignoring the poundings on his door until he could be sure that the unwanted visitors had gone away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – “MOODY BLUE”

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