Horseman 4: Aisosceles II
The last horseman, clomping down the last of the cardinal points
Doing the bidding of no man, ignoring the places where the Cardinal points
Mummifying men with a single stare – he possesses the eye of the cockatrice
Introductions are for mortals, yet I indulge – I. Am. @UluthriX
And so our tale begins
In the city of Lagos, city of the busy and the harassed
Oshodi is the geography specific
In the cradle of the commissioner – who was, and is not
The man wrote
Murder, he wrote.
Aisosceles, the young forensic psychologist, was awoken quite annoyingly this selfsame day. Swearing colorfully, and in six different local dialects, he opened the door to reveal a swarthy policeman. “Wetin happen again?” he asked, quite rudely.
“Murder,” said the policeman. “The commissioner has been killed.”
The commissioner hath written in blood,
And now four men were with the cops
Suspected criminals – with unhelpful alibis
For they all lived alone, and could not account for their whereabouts
On the day the slain man was, well, slain.
“The commissioner was found dead in his home, with his face severely disfigured beyond recognition,” Swarthy said. Aisosceles nodded distractedly, for he wasn’t really listening. He stared at the commissioner’s body, and he smiled.
“Where is his mackintosh?” he asked.
“What mackintosh?” the bewildered policeman had a question for Aisosceles’ question.
All four men proclaimed innocence
Their artificially grey-haired attorneys formed a phalanx
And the baton carriers were kept at bay
They are innocent, Aisosceles said.
We are? Involuntary questions.
Yes, Aisosceles replied. You all are, that is, excepting one.
Caro Ada-Ada was the name of the commissioner’s handmaid, and it was she whom had caught Aisosceles’ eye. She fidgeted underneath his insectoid gaze, and she cast furtive glances at the door of the interrogation room.
“The commissioner, he was a good man, wasn’t he?”
She nodded jerkily.
“It is easy to see why you would empathize with him?”
“I don’t understand…what empathize means.”
Sure you don’t, thought Aisosceles as he pulled out a dictionary from underneath his agbada.
The commissioner is a lover of art, he observed.
Yes, gushed the gap-toothed servant. Yes.
Said he – Everything he owns is a masterpiece
Tell me now, how far with your master piss?
I comprehend not, the exasperated subservient sighed.
“Your master was a bed-wetter,” sighed Aisosceles. “I observed the faint rings on his old bed sheets. I expect that you changed the sheets yourself, seeing as we found his mackintosh in your room.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” the handmaid said.
“Ah, come on. We know your master’s bed was freshly pissed in early this morning. Now, it leaves me confused: Do dead men take bathroom breaks even when they’re dead?”
Caro paled worse than an anemic albino.
Aisosceles smiled triumphantly. “Your phone, Miss? I want to make just one call.”
Simplicity in complexity is the mantra
Owing money, the commissioner needed to disappear
It was only a small matter to find a man of similar build
– And have him killed, his face mangled to prevent recognition
The people who needed to be bribed had been bribed
All of them, that was, except Aisosceles.
Only one person had the commissioner’s new number
And it was his girlfriend, Caro Ada-Ada