Meanwhile, across town, the dashing and rugged American symbolologist Ben Drown was investigating the brutal murder of renowned, celebrated and famous museum curator Jacques Plotte at the British Museum. It wasn't his job or anything, but the police were kinda stuck and therefore threw all protocol out of the window and asked him to lead the investigation.
Plotte had collapsed in a pool of blood in front of a display case full of eighteenth-century porcelain bedpans. In his dying moments he'd managed to smear what looked like a message in his own blood on the front of the case. In rough brown letters (not red, because blood goes brown when it dries, Drown noted sagely) were scrawled the words "OH FUCK". Drown pulled a shamanic mong-face while pondering what this cryptic message could mean.
He was shaken out of his reverie by Plotte's granddaughter, Sexine, who'd rushed to London as soon as she'd heard the terrible news. "'Oo would do such an 'orreeble thing to such an 'armless old man?", she wept, prettily yet snottily.
Plotte had collapsed in a pool of blood in front of a display case full of eighteenth-century porcelain bedpans. In his dying moments he'd managed to smear what looked like a message in his own blood on the front of the case. In rough brown letters (not red, because blood goes brown when it dries, Drown noted sagely) were scrawled the words "OH FUCK". Drown pulled a shamanic mong-face while pondering what this cryptic message could mean.
He was shaken out of his reverie by Plotte's granddaughter, Sexine, who'd rushed to London as soon as she'd heard the terrible news. "'Oo would do such an 'orreeble thing to such an 'armless old man?", she wept, prettily yet snottily.
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