Poor Clem, if only he knew that project Biggs was being conducted in Szathkeyville. He'd kill the real estate guy who told him that S-ville was a quiet town of less than 1,000 people, with no controversy within miles. Only he can't do that now because in mere seconds a runaway science project stole his life. He felt the large fingers begin to painfully squeeze his left shoulder and he turned to see the horrid creature called Biggs and died right then--before Biggs even began to do the deed that had been engraved into his mind since days after his birth. The large one covered in torn, dirty, shreads for clothes acted in a way that would have made the mad scientists responsible for his putrid existence proud, and the innocent essence of Clem's being was left behind like the dirty shoe and finger found by deputy Tommison Fratzberg while on patrol early the next morning.
Fratzberg swore himself as an officer of the law a mere two and a half months earlier. His rookie days were simple, and his beat was calm, in fact all the beats in Szathkeyville were calm. There was the occasional hooligan, but it was usually just a kid from nearby Franiston out on a late-night drive with friends. Fratzberg had stopped some because they were loud and some because they were parallel parked in front of the old warehouse smoking pot. But Tommison didn't care about that, he would only tell them that curfew was ten PM, and it was 11:30 meaning they should go on their way. None of the kids ever caused a real problem and he knew that, and as long as it stayed that way, he felt his leniency to be of no concern. And on that damp morning he had seen no problems and spent most of the night drinking coffee at the local Dunk 'n Serve--leaving at 6:48 to make a final patrol before heading home to sleep most of the day away. At 6:57 he nearly fainted.
Rookie Deputy Tommison Fratzberg had walked by the alley between the Post Officer and Barber Shop many times before. He had waved to Old Man Satchel many times in the same secure way that Clem did only half a day ago. But the shop wouldn't usually open until 10 and Satchel was probably still at home just getting up, ready to watch the Today Show, ready to complain that Willard Scott retired and he was still cutting hair. But for the first time since Satchel's father opened the shop 87 years earlier, the doors would remain locked, and once Fratzberg saw the walls bordering the alley appearing cleaner than they had ever looked, he knew something wasn't right. In a semicircle extending from each corner the concrete foundations of the two buildings sparkled in white glimmering glory--set apart from the old, dirt ridden walls that followed the old buildings down the rest of the alley. Then, as Fratzberg stepped forward to examine the phenomenon, both shocked and tired, he tripped and fell. Fortunately, he caught himself, but under his right hand was a bloody finger, and at his foot was a dirty tennis shoe--the annoyance that brought him down. Without a thought, he ran to the Dunk 'n Serve and called the station. By day's end, the station's twelve detectives unanimously agreed that the corners of the Post Office and Barber Shop's walls had been licked clean. And for the first time in his life, Old Man Satchel watched TV all day from his house a few miles away.