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Murder on the Mire
Detective Inspector, Homicide, Jack Plod would like to sleep. Sleep, no longer filled with the thundering hoof-beats in the nightmares of his past.
The bodies released from the muddy grip of the mire fleer in his face throughout the long nights, to the constant post-punk soundtrack of an awful 1980's Indie band - when life was easier.
What secret does the redhead hide?
How low can the bucolic go?
How perverse the master and servant?
How many young women must die?
Where one murder might be considered a sermon, how deep must a perversion be to differentiate one from the other?
Detective Inspector Plod can smell the difference.
He can taste the smell of "serial..."
Detective Inspector, Homicide, Jack Plod would like to sleep. Sleep, no longer filled with the thundering hoof-beats in the nightmares of his past.
The bodies released from the muddy grip of the mire fleer in his face throughout the long nights, to the constant post-punk soundtrack of an awful 1980's Indie band - when life was easier.
What secret does the redhead hide?
How low can the bucolic go?
How perverse the master and servant?
How many young women must die?
Where one murder might be considered a sermon, how deep must a perversion be to differentiate one from the other?
Detective Inspector Plod can smell the difference.
He can taste the smell of "serial..."
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