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On a dark, eerie night in the city of Bergen, a sinister-looking full moon cast a heinous glow upon Cathedral Square. Bishop Harvey emerged from the cathedral rectory, locking the door behind him as the rattling of his keys echoed through the night. A black Buick LeSabre stood at attention at the drive, waiting to collect the black-robed prelate, his pectoral cross flopping about as he unceremoniously tossed his briefcase into the back seat and got into the car. "Creepy, McQueeny," Harvey admonished his adjutant and driver, "that's just creepy. What would possess you to do that?"

Unresponsive to the bishop's words, Father McQueeny sat motionless in the driver's seat with two puncture wounds in his neck, lifeless. "Your practical jokes irritate the crap out of me and this one's just beyond the pale, dammit," Bishop Harvey scolded. "Let's Go!" McQueeny remained still. "McQueeney? McQueeny! Thats en..." Bishop Harvey swallowed his words as he looked up to see a man in a long black leather coat standing at his window, his eyes glowing red and blood dripping from his teeth.

"Going somewhere, Padre?" the frightening spectre queried. "Get back, damn you," commanded Harvey, lifting his pectoral cross. As the unwelcome stranger vanished into the night, the bishop was filled with sweaty anxiety as he turned once again to see Father McQueeny's increasingly pale, lifeless visage....

Bishop Harvey: This isn't meant to be insulting in any way, just a little humourous. At least you're still alive!

Bishop Harvey regarded the Priest with fright as rigor mortis began to set in - there would be no saving Father McQueeny. Harvey swore angrily. How would he ever get another priest, and more importantly another driver, now? He eyed the car's controls with fear. "I haven't driven a stick-shift in years, so..."

A quiet footstep behind the car came to his ears with all the force of a thunderclap, instantly reminding him of the gravity of the situation. The Bishop grasped his cross tightly, and cautiously tried to glance at the rear-view mirror without moving. There was nothing that he could see. Suddenly, another footstep. He anxiously peered out the window. Still, nothing. Another footstep sounded, this time evidently much closer to the car. Bishop Harvey began to search the inner pockets of his robe, searching for something, anything.

"No.. thats not it... Aha! Wait.. thats the whiskey...," the Bishop muttered as he began to rifle through his briefcase, "Haha! This is it!" He pulled out his bottle of emergency Holy Water. He mumbled, "Where's a good stake when you need it?" His pen would have to suffice for now. Again he glanced out the window, searching for a shadow. Harvey steeled his resolve, and in an instant, threw open the door and burst out into the night.

Tossing Holy Water randomly and stabbing in the darkness with his pen, Bishop Harvey charged towards the source of the footsteps. Running forward with wild abandon, his efforts were nearly rewarded by a large Cathedral to the face, as narrowly avoided running into the wall. Stopping abruptly and leaning on the wall for support, he tried to regain his strength, only to feel a delicate tap on his shoulder.

He spun around rapidly, and was startled to see...

I'm disregarding the heat-packing fish.

and was startled to see...

...nothing but the wall behind him.

Captain Anderson's office was enclosed with glass walls, muting the sounds of the eternal rush of activity in the detective's office at Precinct 17. "Here's your tea, Father. Sorry, we didn't have any honey left," offered Anderson's secretary. "Oh, oh. Thank you; that's fine. Thanks," replied the shaken bishop.

"So what you're trying to tell me, Bishop," Anderson grunted, "is that a vampire came to the car window and bit your assistant in the neck?" Unable to mask his annoyance with the captain, the bishop impatiently replied, "No, Sherlock Holmes, what I'm trying to tell you is that Shirley Temple came up to the window singing "The Good Ship Lollipop" and stabbed Father McQueeney in the neck with a corn cob holder!" "Alright, Bishop," replied the captain, "let's just keep it cool, okay? I understand you're upset but you have to put yourself in my place. I mean...your story is a bit "Joss Whedon", ya know?"

Saved by the bell, Captain Anderson picked-up the phone to hear the voice of...

the Duke of Brunswick, and from his observations of the Captians expressions Bishop Harvey could see there was a problem. The call couldn't have lasted more then a moment but the silence to which both men sat in was deafening.

"Yes your Highness." The Captian finally said, before hanging up the phone and staring across at the Bishop. The tapping of his pen was the only noise the two men heard as both were almost fearful to break the evening silence.

The just stared at each other in icy silence as they contemplated the happenings, both men curious as to the other, both men wondering what the other knew. Finally the silence was broken by....

...the telephone, ringing the second time in as many minutes.

In his Gagarin Palace office, His Majesty the King was standing, tired and irritated, in his royal nightclothes. He'd been awoken only a few minutes earlier and remained in a very unregal state of mind. Really this was too minor, too common a thing to wake up for at this hour, but his advisors seemed to think there was something to worry about. Didn't those zombies ever sleep?

"Captain. We have a situation we need you to deal with."

"Your Majesty, I-"

"-There's some kind of civil disturbance up in Harburg, umm, town of Stoker." The king glanced at his advisor to confirm the name. "We need you to organise someone to go up there and-

"What's that? No, no Captain. Surely some detective should be dealing with a simple murder case? No, look, these are your orders: Get up there to Stoker, and bring your goons - take control of the situation. There hasn't been a rebellion in Hanover since Brunswick was King and I'm not going to let one happen now. And Captain - no reporters!" He put down the phone.

What the hell was that vampire nonsense Anderson was spouting? Probably drunk again - typical Calorman.

Back in Captain Anderson's glass-walled Bergen office...

...a jarring thunderclap rocked the precinct. The bishop jumped, spilling his tea in his lap as lights flickered and car alarms began to sound in the parking lot. "Marvelous," the bishop moaned, "I just got this cassock back from the dry cleaner. It's a Gammarelli." "It's a what?" inquired Anderson. "A Gammarelli," replied Harvey, "from Rome. Look, never mind. How long is this going to take? I was expecting several important guests for dinner at the Bishop's Residence this evening. I'm going to have to call them now and cancel, I suppose."

Looking up from his police report at Bishop Harvey, Captain Anderson rose from his seat and motioned for an officer to join them in his office. "Are you really busy right now, Rutkowski?" "No sir," replied the officer. "Do me a favor and take Bishop Harvey back to his residence." "I don't really have any more questions for you at the moment, Your Excellency, but I have to ask you not to leave town until we get to the bottom of this. Rutkowski will drive you back to your home." "But what about Father McQueeny, Captain?" "He's been sent to the morgue, Bishop. I'm afraid there's not really much we can do for him at this point. I'm sorry."

"But what if..." the Bishop halted his words considering the absurdness of the question he was about to ask. He considered Father McQueeny's situation and wondered if his assistant wouldn't rise again well before the Last Judgment. "What if what?" Captain Anderson replied. "Nothing," responded Bishop Harvey. "Nevermind. I'd just like to get home. Thank you for your assistance, Captain. I'll remember you in my prayers." "Good night, Bishop. We'll call you when we find something on this weirdo."

Bishop Harvey couldn't focus on his Divine Office that evening. His lips formed the words but his mind was a whirlwind of anxiety and disbelief. He sat motionless in front of an unlit fireplace. "What is the matter with you," the Bishop shouted. "Why, God? Why would you permit a grotesque, clownish Hollywood fiction prove itself true and take the life of your priest?! Why? WHY??? ANSWER ME!!!"

Bishop Harvey threw his office book across the room and looked out the window at the moon as he wiped a tear from his eye. As he gazed out at the night, he was distracted from his interior chaos when he spotted...

Edited for punctuation and readability. TGC

...An all too familiar figure, that of Robert P. Gresham, walking up the driveway.

His heart stopped as he rang the bell, what would he do? He heard the door being opened by the footman and as the minutes went by as if they were years he asked himself: again? Harvey heard the visitor climbing slowly up the stairs until he reached the top of the tower and the door leading into his office. The door opened and he saw that indeed it was Robert. The color drained out of the bishop's skin.

“What do you want, why are you here?”

“What no hello, John?- well, anyways, I’ve come to tell you that we need your help.”

“I’m a respectable person now. I left the cause when Thomas left the throne. I have no quarrel with Alexander or any Gagarin, just those filthy Marchmains.”

“I heard that you had a talk with one of them this very evening.”

“Yes I did have a talk with old Prince Christopher, stuck it that glass box of his, forcing people to call him captain, trying to hold on to the past when he’s nothing more then a mere lieutenant.” He laughs sinisterly.

“I’ve come to talk to you about your former chauffeur.”

“What about the little traitor?”

“He tried to blackmail you and you, pious Bishop Havey, asked the devil (aka me) to save your reputation. So I did it, and now I’ve come to collect my price.”

“And what is the price I’m going to have to pay?”

“Help us bring down the House of Gagarin.”

“ If I don’t?”

“Then you will meet satin sooner then you thought.” John grabs at his cross reflexively.

“What do you wish of me…”

Back at Precinct 17

“Mr. Cyr!!!” Yelled Captain Anderson.
“Yes Sir?” Anderson shuffles his papers his left arm twitching from his nerves: it had been a strange and long night and it wasn’t over yet.
“Yes Cyr at ease. I have orders from His Majesty himself to proceed to a civil disturbance up in Harburg I’m taking you to tag along. It’s up north so make sure you pack for cold weather. It's up in those dreadful mountains. Anyways, we leave tomorrow at midday.” Anderson is clearing off his desk and locking up his sensitive papers.
“Very good, sir.” Cyr said as he wondered what type of automatic weapon to bring. While Anderson was trying to work out a scheme to somehow get funding for a squad of tanks, the phone rang. As the thoughts of tanks were replaced by those of helicopter gunships, he reached for the phone and realised it was the direct line to the palace.

“17th Precinct Captain Anderson.”

“Yes this is...

...Doctor Adamczyk calling from the Bekkenhuis Psychiatric Center. A Captain Anderson phoned complaining that Prince Christopher had escaped again and was in his office again.

"No! No! Noooooooooo! I'll never go back! Never! NEVER!!! Muhahahahahaha!!!" screamed the Prince, dropping the phone and darting out the door like a madman.

"Those frigging royals," Captain Anderson complained. "They're all a bunch of frigging nutcases. That one who just ran out of here...he thinks he's me."

"You're kidding," replied Detective Braden.

"Yeah. We find him here maybe once a month trying to call out the national guard to fix potholes and chase runaway dogs. He's a real piece of work."

"They've got him locked-up in the psych center?" queried Braden.

"Yep. The Marchmains used to keep him locked upstairs at the old palace where he could be alone with his delusions and not embarrass the Royal Family. Well when that last one abdicated in favor of the guy we've got now and the government closed the place up, he just kind of hung around apparently, not realizing that his family was no longer in power. He eventually went mad and could be seen from time-to-time on the balcony shouting something about his family having been assassinated by the Bolsheviks. Eventually the government got wind of the situation and had him sent to the looney bin. But he manages to elude them every now and then and winds up here. I guess his last name was Anderson before he became royalty or something. Freak."

Heading over to his "in" box, Anderson grabbed a file and saw that it contained new information about the McQueeny case.

"Huh. Says here they found a blood-stained Varennese passport on the street near where Father McQueeny was killed the other night. Apparently the blood matches McQueeny's. Guy's name is Armand D'Artagnan."

"D'Artagnan?" interrupted Braden, "You're kidding."

"Nope, continued Anderson, "that's this musketeer's name, alright. It says that inside the passport there was a 20 Louis note with the words 'fiat voluntas tua' written in a circle around King Louis' head. 'Thy will be done'. Hmm. Man. This crap just gets weirder and weirder. Braden, do me a favor and find a contact at the State Ministry in Varennes. And get me the number for Valenciennes Palace, too."

"Damn Varennois," Anderson muttered as he examined the bank note, "what a bunch of euro-trash. They've got great restaurants but they're all a bunch of queers who couldn't fight a war if their nation depended on it. And they're so damn rude!"

"Yeah," replied Braden, "and they still use the guillotine. Sick."

Anderson shook his head, "Those Marchmains were screwey enough when they were in charge here but they've really let things get out of control over there."

"What do you mean?" asked Braden.

"The court is rife with intrigue and debauchery on a scale which would make the Marquis de Sade blush. Ever see Dangerous Liasons?"

"Yeah, with Glenn Close?" answered Braden.

"Right," replied Anderson, "that's the Varennese court; all a bunch of over-sexed, conniving weirdos who have taken-up ruining each other as some sort of sick hobby. They have no respect for their own king and queen, ridiculing them when their backs are turned while being very careful to flatter them to their faces. But then they deserve it. He spends all of his time socializing abroad and she spending money as though it grew on trees. You can almost taste the hunger for change in the air when you walk through the streets of Capet. The flood's a-comin', Braden. The flood's a-comin'.

As Detective Braden left Anderson's office to phone the authorities in Varennes, Captain Anderson thought to himself...

"Oh I wish, I wish I hadn't killed that little fish"...

We interrupt this story for the following appeal:

Ok, chilluns, is it at all conceivable that we might cut the dumb sh*t and just stick to the story? Thanks loads!


So any way, Captain Anderson thought to himself...