Sunday sent the usual chores to do. Cutting grass, cleaning car and then ironing. The ironing came later after I went a little mad. Having read that Frank Zappa wrote a song called “The Illinois Enema Bandit” which was based on a real life criminal who, in the forties, assaulted women then gave them an enema.
Although in reality this would have been a frightening ordeal which included rape I thought I could use this, in a less violent and hopefully humorous way. I spent the afternoon sketching these chapters:
June 2007. Mercantile Avenue, Winchester. The call to the police had come after a series of odd noises had been heard emanating from number 43. At first the neighbours, not wanting to appear pushy, had ignored the grunts and groans that could be heard suspecting that Nicholas Nipplegrip, a local politician, had been entertaining one of his gentlemen friends. However, after the weekend had passed and the squeals had stopped, an odious smell had assailed the street which was patently coming from said MP’s house.
At first WPC Millicent Peashod had placed the 999 call from Mister and Mrs Dimdruff, number 45, into the pending tray but shortly after a similar series of calls followed from other residents in the street all complaining of the same odd sounds and a noisome unpleasantness.
When the police arrived in the shape of two long serving members of the constabulary they eyed the house up and down. There were no sounds now but there was a distinctly unpleasant smell. WPC Vesper Highlot turned to her portly colleague Harry Honk.
“Is that gas?”
“I don’t reckon so.”
“So what do you think it is?”
“Dunno but it don’t ‘alf pong.”
“Shall we take a look inside?”
“Strictly speakin’ we should have a warrant but since it could be suspicious circumstances I guess we could take a peek.”
The officers of the law approached the front door which was firmly shut. Harry pushed against it but it stayed closed. Vesper knocked three or four times calling out at the same time but there was no response. The pair then decided to go round to the back and see if they had any luck there. The garden of Nicholas Nipplegrip was a neat affair. Trim borders ran in a square around a lush green lawn. In the centre of which a bird bath, a little too ornate, stood. PC Honk approached the kitchen door which opened with a creak. The smell was awful now. It was an organic stink reminiscent of rotting vegeatation.
“Hello?” called out the policeman.
There was no response.
“Hello?” called out Vesper Highlot.
There came a muffled, strangulated cry.
“Come on Vesper,” cried Harry, “someone’s in trouble.”
Harry rushed in followed by Vesper who pulled out her truncheon just in case. As they went from the kitchen down a short corridor so the smell grew worse. The door to the living room was shut and it was from behind this door that the sound of a mans muted cries were coming. PC Harry Honk gripped his truncheon firmly in his hand. Behind him WP Vesper Highlot did the same. With a sudden roar the pair threw the door wide. The sight they saw filled the eyes with horror which the ghastly smell only made worse.
As WPC Highlot and PC Honk made a call for back-up so Detective Chief Inspector Simian Simpering and his erstwhile partner, Detective Sergeant Arnold Drip were emptying their desks.
They had been re-assigned to the Isle of Wight division and so were busily packing. As Drip was lacing his copy of the “Guide to A Policeman’s Duties” into a bulging tea chest so Chief Constable O’Law entered the room. He casually licked his little finger which he then smoothed over his left eyebrow.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he lisped, “I have one final case for you to investigate before you depart across the waters.”
Drip looked at Simpering who ran a finger around the collar of his shirt before responding with his helium like voice.
“Final case, sir?”
“Indeed so Simpering, indeed so. One right up your alley as the say. We have had a call out at number 43, Mercantile Avenue. The chaps are there now. It is a bit of an odd one this involving a local MP so tread carefully.”
Within minutes Simpering and Drip were on their way. When they arrived it was to witness the usual police tape cordon that marked off the house but also an enormous gathering of residents all of whom were holding their noses.
“Bloody awful smell, sir.”
“Dreadful. Let us go in and get it over with.”
As they walked in so the smell assaulted their senses. Nicholas Nipplegrip was now sitting in the kitchen with a blanket cast about his shoulders. WPC Highlot was sitting with him. He looked grey and drawn as he held a steaming cup of coffee in his circling hands. The police woman looked up at Simpering, her face a study in confused horror.
“I have never seen the like before.” she whimpered.
Simpering and Drip left her to look after Nipplegrip as they went toward the living room. Standing outside as if on gourd with a hankie over his nose was PC Honk. He took the cloth away from his face and greeted the senior officers.
“What happened here Harry? Asked Arnold Drip.
“When we opened the door we were greeted by a sight and a smell I have never seen during my time as a copper. Nicholas Nipplegrip was bent over a large table. He was naked but also bound at wrist and ankle with a long hose pipe hanging from his bottom. The hose stretched across the floor whereupon it curled against the living room wall. Upon the wall was running moist excrement. On the same wall was written the words you will see when you have a look.”
Simpering and Drip entered the room holding their breath as they did. Upon the wall was smeared words most foul:
--BEWARE THE WORDS YOU UTTER. --
THE ENEMA BANDIT
DCI Simian Simpering coughed before running his finger around his collar.
“I see why Longarm wanted us on the case.” he said grimly.
DS Arnold Drip could only nod in agreement.
Bernice Bumstroke had arrived home at precisely 11.25. She had been bemused to see as she parked her car in the drive of 29, Mercantile Avenue, two police cars parked outside number 43. There had also been several of her neighbours gathered outside the same house. She had no time to think about this though as she had exciting news to give to her husband Bernard. She opened the front door with a flourish expecting to see him sitting in the living room and was surprised to see he wasn’t. She called out but a flat silence greeted her. She went to the kitchen to see if a note had been left there but there wasn’t. Bernice was aware that Bernard had taken time of work so as to be home when she returned from her appointment. In fairness she was almost an hour earlier than she thought and as Bernard’s car wasn’t in the drive she guessed he must have gone out to the shops. She was a little hurt by this as she really had thought he would wait in for her.
Taking a mug out of a cupboard Bernice put the kettle on. She spooned coffee into the mug before pouring the milk in then the boiling water. She took the mug upstairs to their bedroom placing it onto the dressing table. Then she looked out of the window which overlooked the houses and street behind. To her amazement Bernard’s car was parked in Denise Harmattan’s drive. The Harmattan’s were good friends to Bernice and Bernard and the couples pent most weekends together. Bernice felt certain that Denise would be excited by her news and since Bernard was also round there she could kill two birds with one stone.
The walk was no more than five minutes from her house to the Harmattan’s. Bernice was baffled though when she found the door to the house wide open. She was even more surprised to see a pair of red stilettos lying on the floor. She listened as she heard the sounds of a low moaning coming from the kitchen
The door was wide open. Denise was sitting upon the kitchens work surface with her skirt pulled up around her thighs.. Between her legs with his trousers around his ankles was Bernard. They hadn’t seen Bernice. They were too busy with their illicit passion. Bernice, her hand clutching her mouth to prevent her sobs being heard fled the house. She ran back to her home where she climbed into her car and wept. She sat in her car for long moments with salty tear stinging her eyes. Then she turned the key in the ignition and reversed out of the drive. She had no idea where she was going, probably her Mum’s but she knew she couldn’t stay here. With the news of her pregnancy known only to her she drove away.
Frank Cordwainer had had enough. He couldn’t recollect the times he had arrived home after a hard days work only to find his wife, Velum, drunk as a cat. There always followed the same idle promises, the same lame excuses, and the same hollow threats. Frank was a regular man with regular habits. He liked order in his life He liked his toilet rolls hung so that the paper trailed out rather than tucked in behind. He liked his shirts crisp and clean, his shores bright and black He liked things put back in their proper places. He wasn’t dictatorial in his likes and dislikes in fact he was a little to easy going but he did like a routine life. He didn’t like the way his had been these past fourteen years never knowing if dinner would be ready or even if his wife would be there when he arrived home from the shop. He didn’t mind doing the cooking himself; he was after all more than capable but the not knowing from day to day what he might find that evening caused him endless hours of torment.
He had met Velum when she had been a spunky undergraduate of twenty one. They had got on famously during the summer of 1992 spending virtually every day of that hot season together. He was excited by her wayward ways and the three years between them, him only eighteen had only added to their mutual attraction. He had wilfully over looked her dubious habits putting them down to being the sort of things students did. He even tried snorting cocaine just to impress her but found himself talking nineteen to the dozen and most of it pure drivel. He vowed never to repeat that performance and it was a promise he kept. Velum though seemed to thrive when living life on the edge. She drank, she smoked and she took narcotics. She was the only drug he needed.
Velum was from a wealthy Lancashire family. Her father owned a printing company that specialised in Report and Account’s. No one knew it then but it was a dying trade as virtually all such business was moving to the centre of finance, London. Velum had, following a sparkling time at school where she had shone as a student, taken a place at Winchester University. She had worked hard for the first year but now was more interested in having fun, in getting either high or drunk. She even admitted openly to having slept around. Rather than shock Frank this confession had excited him.
Frank’s family had long been shoemakers. His great grandfather had made shoes for the nobility and it was during this period that the family’s fortunes changed. By the time Frank’s father, Granville Cordwainer, took over as custodian of the shop, Cordwainer Shoefitters had a reputation as pure as silver. Frank, although a smart student, never even considered going to university. He simply did what the Cordwainer’s had done for generations and joined the family business.
When summer ended Velum and Frank had promised to keep in touch. Frank had felt it was a vow Velum would easily break but was wonderfully surprised when she telephoned him a month before Christmas. Frank invited her to his parent’s home where she stayed throughout the course of the festivities. Both of Frank’s parent’s were pleased by their sons association with such a lovely, wealthy girl even if they did think him a little too young for a girl of twenty one.
When the season to be jolly passed Frank had escorted her back to her digs where the pair had slept together. For Frank it was the loss of virginity but for Velum it was something magical. It was the first time sex had meant more than just passing the time. She felt herself deeply attracted to this odd young man three years her junior. She liked his methodical ways, she liked the way he held her hand and insisted on walking her home, she even liked the way he kissed her as if he meant it which of course he did.
In the spring of 1993 the couple had got engaged. Their parents had met and approved of each other. Things looked set for a bright, beautiful future. Up until this point velum had still been sleeping with other men but stopped as soon as the ring was placed on her finger. She truly had fallen in love with Frank and wanted to share her life with him. What she didn’t stop, what she couldn’t stop was drinking. One Sunday in April 1993, having driven up to her parent’s home in Warrington, she, after consuming a bottle of wine had left to go back to Winchester. She lost control of the car as she passed Nottingham. Her Mercedes hit a lorry burying its front into the rear of the larger vehicle. Velum had needed to be cut out of the wreckage before being taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital. Emergency surgery was required and for many long hours doctors fought to keep her alive. The fact they succeeded was testament to their skills but they were unable to repair the damage done to her womb. Velum would never have children. When Frank was told of the accident he rushed to Velum’s side. He didn’t care as her father explained to him that his daughter, soon to be Frank’s wife, would never give birth, his only thoughts were for Velum’s health.
Velum never gained her degree; she never completed her time at university but married Frank, after her health recovered, in the autumn of 1993. Her father bought them a large house by way of a dowry and was secretly grateful that his daughter had the good sense to have found someone like Frank. Unfortunately Frank could not prevent Velum from turning into the alcoholic she now was.
Frank now looked at his wife lying on her side in a heap by the sofa. She was unconscious again. Inebriated by the three bottles of wine she had drunk. It was not an uncommon scene. Velum’s dark, cherubic looks had all but gone replaced by a fat, red faced trollop who was now drooling as she snored. He remembered the way her top lip used to curl when she laughed. It had been an attractive smile, one that engaged his heart and sent his pulse racing. The sight of her now made him want to vomit. He snatched his car keys from the table and left the house.
A moth flapped its dull witted wings about the light, the glow of which fell across Simian Simpering’s desk like a halo. The policeman was studying the notes from the incident at Mercantile Avenue. A man of average height and size had stealthily broken into MP Nicholas Nipplegrip’s house and, without any violence or undue aggression had bound the politician by hand and foot to the dining room table. The unknown man had then, using liberal amounts of KY Jelly, inserted a length of tubing into the MP’s rectum whereupon he had then pumped him full of warm, soapy water. The end result had exploded from the hose onto the wall in a flash of Pollack like excremental art. Then onto the wall, using the self same effluent, the man had daubed the legend:
--BEWARE THE WORDS YOU UTTER. --
THE ENEMA BANDIT
The riddle, as far as Simpering could tell, was what the man had meant? He hadn’t been violent, no undue force used. He had with a certain amount of subdued politeness forced the man to do as instructed before filling him to bursting with liquid. The question was, why? What was the motivation? What was it that drove one human being to do such a thing? Revenge? Not according to Nipplegrip who declared he had no enemies. Of course Simpering knew this was Tommy-rot, everyone had enemies but not the sort to shove lengths of pipe up another mans posterior. There had to be a motive but what on earth could it be?
First things first thought the frog like Simpering. I need clues, something to go on but what?
The only evidence, for there was an alarming lack of clues, was the crude writing using faeces as ink: beware the words you utter. What words? Were there a set of specific words that Nipplegrip had said, maybe in a speech? Or was it a reference of some kind, something biblical perhaps? Simpering poured over a series of reference books but found nothing that lead him to anywhere. He then leafed through a pocket bible he always had but again nothing revealed it self. Of all the cases he had been involved with, apart from the farcical Fekenham one, this was the most confounding.
The only potential for danger or aggression was the gun the man had carried with which to persuade his victim to do as instructed. Why would anyone do such a thing? If only this were not the first case, if only there had been others at least the there would be a pattern. At this point Sergeant Drip walked into the office with a grim look upon his face.
“He has struck again sir.”
“What the Enema Bandit?”
“Another man bound, gagged then given an enema?”
“No, sir, not a man but a woman.”
“A woman, who?”
“The Mayor of Winchester, sir.”
Without another word the pair of detectives left the office to hot foot it straight to the scene of the crime: the Winchester Town Hall. .
Michael H. Kenyon
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Michael Hubert Kenyon (born c. 1944 in Elgin, Illinois) is an American criminal nicknamed the Enema Bandit. He pleaded guilty to a decade-long series of armed robberies of female victims, some of which involved sexual assaults where he would give them enemas. He is also known as the "Champaign Enema Bandit," the "Ski Masked Bandit", and "The Illinois Enema Bandit".
all words and art are copyright © of Russell 'C.J' Duffy. For another side of CJ go here: sOMeThiNg For tHE wEeKeND, SiR?