THE CASE OF CHET MILLERBY AND THE MISSING WEEVIL: Chapter Eight

Inside the matchbox was not, as you might have expected, a weevil of any description – alive or dead.

But there was a very small La-Z-Boy chair, dimly illuminated by a pool of light from a standing angle-poise lamp. At the base of the chair there was a small pile of weevil body-building magazines, and some empty cans of lager. The chair faced a miniature widescreen TV, which was playing “Joe Versus The Volcano” on a loop, with the sound turned down. A chest of drawers stood to the side of the TV, with the drawers all hanging out and ajar, as if somebody had been through them in a great hurry.

“That’s quite a matchbox”, said Chet.

“No weevil, though”, said Tony through his nose. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like to Chet.

“You’re good”, murmured Chet, “you know that? Fancy my job?”

He said it with a smile, but there was a menace in his voice. The greasy patron took a step back from the bar. Chet leaned over and with an easy swing of his paw grabbed Tony by his bowtie, and pulled his head down onto the bar with a thump that rattled the glasses, and made the matchbox jump a little in the air.

“I don’t know anything!” protested Tony, who really was speaking through his nose now.
Chet stuck the can opener into his cheek.

“This can opener is made of pure titanium. It can slice open a man’s skull in thirty seconds. And apparently, that really hurts. Do you want to find out how much?”

Tony grimaced, and spat onto the counter, except owing to the angle, it more dribbled out of his mouth and made him look mentally ill.

“I’m telling you nothing, you dumb cat”

Chet flicked a switch on the can opener, and the jagged teeth began to whirr furiously with a high-pitched whine. He inched it fractionally into Tony’s cheek, and a spray of blood hit the bottles on the back wall.

“Ok! Ok! Please! Don’t touch the nose!”

Chet turned the can-opener off, although the wheels continued to spin for a moment.

“Well?”

“This is all I know, I swear. A man used to come here. He said he had a weevil. He said he had some trouble with wood demons, who claimed the weevil was theirs. I told him-“ He paused.

Chet turned the can opener on again.

“Please! Damn your cat eyes! I told him I couldn’t help him. I told him the only person who might be able to was Big Al.”

Chet let go of his tie, and Tony slumped to the floor in a bloodied daze.

“You disgusting piece of filth. You set him up.”

“I never-“

But Tony’s words echoed to an empty bar, and the sound of his restaurant’s cat flap still swinging in the wind. Chet was long gone, quicker than the wind, hoping he might not be too late...

TO BE CONTINUED