Inspector Poon pulled up gingerly to the curb at ninety miles an hour, scattering a crowd of children playing road hockey with an explosion of screams and car-terror. He lit a cigarette and sat in the car for a minute, waiting patiently for the dashboard to stop spinning.

Sucking on his burnt fingers, Poon eventually got out of the car, crouched under the police tape surrounding the Hathaway Mansion, and walked up the driveway. Police officers mingled outside, drinking coffee and playing tag.

"Oh, Jesus," mumbled Captain Mallory, spotting Poon's trademark lumbering, ungainly, slightly wheezing trot. "Thank God you're here, Poon. I don't think anybody's stolen the corpse's wallet yet." Several officers enjoyed a laugh at this.

"Go fuck your sister, Mallory," said Poon. "My only aim here is solving this case."

"And what case would that be, Poon?" asked Mallory, as another round of titters washed over the crowd.

"You know... this one," replied Poon hesitatingly, pointing vaguely in the direction of the house. "The crime. In the... house. With the perpetrators. And the wallet money."

He darted inside before anyone had the chance to question him further. Entering into the foyer, he surveyed the scene. In one corner of the room, he observed a body with fifteen bullet holes lodged immensely firmly in it. In the other corner, a frantic-eyed man stood, tightly gripping a revolver. He walked over to the frantic-eyed man.

"What have we got here, Detective Fierstein?" he asked knowingly, surveying the room and whipping out his trusy notepad. "You figure homicide?"

"I'm... not a police officer."

"Right." Poon paused to switch tracks. "You, uh, live here or something?"

"No," he replied. "I broke in. I also just shot this man." His eyes seemed to dart everywhere at once, which looked sufficiently repulsive to make Poon look somewhere else for a bit until the man's eyes settled down.

"I see," said Poon, scratching at his stubbled chin. "May I ask you a question, sir?"

The man looked at Poon nervously. "Yes. I just kill thi—"

"Could I borrow... five dollars ?" he asked, firing up a suspecting brow as he pulled his notepad and pencil up to his face.

At this point, Detective Fierstein walked in. "What have you dug up, Poon?" he asked.

"Ah, if it isn't the real Detective Fierstein," said Poon. "Well, for starters, you can tell me why you committed murder and then framed this man to stand in as your exact double."

How did Poon know Fierstein set the whole thing up? He didn't, of course. He was just incredibly high on that most incapacitating of cocaines—the ol' crack cocaine. Fierstein attempted to explain to a confused, gun-weilding Poon that he didn't even slightly resemble the suspect, as he wasn't rake thin, naked, holding a smoking gun or sporting a chest-sized tattoo reading Hathaway Must Die. He went on to further explain that he had a credible alibi for his whereabouts during the Hataway murder, having been in a squad car at the time responding to a call from Hathaway screaming that he was being murdered by a rake-thin tattooed man. He went on to further explain that Poon was a disgrace to the force. Luckily, Poon was too cranked to the nines on cheap smack to fall for Fierstein's clever wordplay. All the excuses in the world couldn't explain why Fierstein, resembling a dark and intensely furious cloud of shrieking bats, looked identical to the suspect, who was also a cloud of shrieking bats. Just as Poon was about to make an arrest, his brain—fearing his heart would seize up from the large quantieis of drugs in his blood stream—released two British pints of endorphins into his body. Poon quickly collapsed into a sweaty, mumbling heap. His revolver, falling out of his hand, mashed onto the floor and fired off a quick round in to Fierstein's thigh. "Agh!" Feristein yelled, grabbing at his leg. "My thigh!" Under duress and losing blood fast, Fierstein frantically confessed to the crime, begging Poon to get up and bring medical attention. Poon, still a little sleepy, fell back asleep. The case was pronounced closed after Fierstein's funeral.