Inspector Pigshit found himself lost in the racing pages of the Daily Record. He completely forgot where he was for a while. With a start, he glanced up and looked around. That’s right: he was in Councillor Fowler’s office, on a murder investigation. Steve and that other bloke – Andy? – were also there. Unlike Councillor Fowler, they weren’t handcuffed.
“You all right, guv?” asked Steve.
“Fine, bro’,” replied Pigshit.
He glanced over at Andy. There was a small badge on his lapel. It said ‘SCROTUM’.
“Why the fuck does that badge say ‘SCROTUM’?”
“It’s the name of a shadowy international crime organisation. Like Spectre, or those THRUSH bastards from The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”
“No. Just kidding. It’s an acronym for the Standing Committee on the Rights of Trades Union Members.”
“But it says ‘SCROTUM’!” said Steve.
“What? Oh … aye,” said Andy, hesitantly, slowly realising the word on his badge meant a part of a man’s todger.
He took off the badge.
“Hey, look!” said Pigshit, pointing to the runners and riders for the 4.10 at Catterick.
“There’s a horse called Raw Scrotum!”
“Fuck yeah,” said Steve. “I reckon we should stick a fiver on that.”
They all laughed. Apart from Councillor Fowler, who was still handcuffed to the radiator, and still very pissed off.