Matt Kane surveyed the scene around him with detached, clinical professionalism. It was one of the worst, most horrifying crime scenes he'd ever seen in his 20 years with the Aluchua County Sheriff's Office (Crime Scene Investigation division). There were at least three bodies here, possibly more -- they'd need to DNA-match all the scattered body parts before they'd be able to get an accurate body count.

"Holy spit, Matt, I ain't seen nothing like this since 'Nam," said Sgt. Edwin "Tex" Abalone. "What kind of sick mind could do this to people?"

"A very sick mind, Sgt. Abalone," said Matt, tucking his sunglasses into his jacket pocket. He slowly picked his way through the dismembered chunks liberally splattered all over the ritzy beach house.

"A nice house like this, Matt, it doesn't seem right for it to be sullied by something as horrible as mass murder and mutilation," said Lt. Desiree DeMarco, Matt's second-in-command in the division. She shook her head sadly, cascading her long blonde hair over her shoulders. "Is there any word on who owns the house?"

"Well, the address belongs to Wallace Wayne Weavil," said Sgt. Abalone. "Says he's some sort of novelist or writer or something like that. Dispatch is tryin' to track him down, but we don't know if he's alive or dead right now."

"We should consider him a suspect until we can prove otherwise," said Lt. DeMarco. "But it's hard to imagine that someone like a writer could cause this much destruction."

"Well, you know what they say, Lt. DeMarco," said Matt Kane, putting his sunglasses back on. He picked up one of the body parts from off the floor. It was a severed, bloody sexual organ, seemingly suffering from an advanced case of rigor mortis. "The penis mightier than the sword."

"Sir, please don't touch that," said the crime scene photographer. "I'll need a few more minutes before we can begin bagging remains."

Matt put the disembodied member back on the floor and walked back to his investigators. "Walk with me, people. I've got a hunch."


When the team got outside the mansion, they were met by Esteban San Diego, swarthy Latino bullet expert, Laura Laputa, head chemist and part-time underwear model, and Dr. Phillip "Oinkers" Pigworth, Chief Medical Examiner and naturalized British guy.

"Sounds like a messy case, Matthew," said Dr. Pigworth. "Might take a while to sort out all the bodies, but I'll have preliminary autopsy findings to you as soon as possible, wot wot."

"Hey, Matt," said Esteban. "I just heard from the homies I used to run with down on Eeeeaaasstsiiiiide that a black-and-white just picked up Weavil flying down the freeway with a van full of coked-up hookers. Heard you might wanna talk to him."

"But first," said Laura. "You got a message to call the President. He says it's urgent. Something about stopping global terrorism."

"I'll have to take that call," said Matt. "I'll rendezvous with you all back at the station house."


Matt got into his Special Edition 2009 Hummer H1 with the optional chain guns, oil slick valve, and cupholder, and dialed the secret number into the White House briefing room.

"Mr. President," he said, taking off his sunglasses as the Leader of the Free World answered his emergency phone. "How can I help you today?"

"Matt, good to hear from ya," said the President, sounding eerily like actor/Senator/Presidential candidate Fred Thompson, which was totally a coincidence, let me tell you. "Looks like there's an increased amount of terrorist chatter going on in the Aluchua County area, and we thought we better let you know, seeing as how your terrorism fighting ratings are still the tops in the country, just from your time with Special Forces during the first Gulf War."

"I'm happy to do anything I can to serve my country," said Matt. "I'll keep my eyes open while I'm working a few other cases. Do you want them alive for a trial or just delivered in the usual scorched body bags?"

Matt and the President enjoyed a hearty laugh together.

"Whatever you gotta do, you do it, Matt," said the President. "We're all trusting you to keep us safe."

"It's a heavy responsibility, Mr. President, but it's one I take very seriously. Now you'll have to excuse me -- we're trying to catch a deranged psycho killer who dismembers people and cuts off their penises."


Matt Kane looked out the window of the interrogation room as Wallace Wayne Weavil was brought in. He took off his sunglasses and squinted out at the view of Gainesville below.

"Wallace Wayne Weavil," said Matt. "You've been a very naughty boy."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Matt Kane," said Weavil, adjusting his tie. "I'm a writer. I write men's adventure fiction and religious testimonials."

"We caught you with a van full of coked-up hookers, Mr. Weavil," said Matt. "Perhaps you'd like to explain that?"

"Of course, it's all very simple and unsuspicious," said Weavil. "I'm a good Christian, and I was taking those coked-up hookers to the St. Trixie Coked-Up Hooker Shelter north of town. It's part of my Christian duty to bring those wayward souls back to the Lord."

"Oh, really?" said Matt, putting his sunglasses back on. "What about the chopped-up bodies in your home? Got an explanation for that?"

"Not really," said Weavil. "I have no idea how they got there or who they were or who killed them. I've been focused on ministering to coked-up hookers and writing men's adventure fiction and religious testimonials."

"Fine, we'll need to check out your story," said Matt, removing his sunglasses again. "But first... Mr. Weavil, are you, by any chance... a terrorist?"

Weavil quickly took a drink of water, then sprayed it back out. "How dare you!" he shouted, shocked. "That's the most insulting thing I've ever heard!"

"Fine, Mr. Weavil," said Matt as he left the room. "But don't leave town, or we'll be forced to give you the hook."

"The hook? What does that even mean?" asked Weavil.


By the time Matt got back to the Aluchua County Sheriff's Office (after stopping to render aid to a motorist in distress, adjusting his sunglasses, and blowing up a crack house), the CSI team was compiling their findings from the murder.

"Talk to me, people," said Matt, removing his sunglasses as he entered the conference room.

"Blood spatter results indicate a single attacker, probably armed with a standard-issue 1949 Army bayonet," said Lt. DeMarco, carefully brushing her blonde tresses. "None of the local army surplus stores have reported selling any in the last few days, though."

"We sent some units out to the St. Trixie Coked-Up Hooker Shelter north of Gainesville," said Sgt. Abalone, spitting tobacco juice into his coffee cup. "They seem to check out okay. The place is chock-full of coked-up hookers and clean-shaven religious men. Nice to see someone looking out for the city's fallen hussy population."

"Bullet casings are inconclusive," said Det. San Diego, glowering darkly as he thought of the years he spent in street gangs. "Could be .38 ammo, could be .22, could be shotgun pellets. This job is too hard."

"Preliminary autopsy reports find at least eight different bodies, Matthew, old bean," said Dr. Pigworth. "Complete DNA testing should take another two hours, so we should have plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa."

"Toxicology shows traces of cordite, cyanide, jet fuel, semi-sweet chocolate, and emu feces at the crime scene," said Det. Laputa, surreptitiously pulling down on her shirt front. "Also, my newest calendar is in the break room. It's way hot this year."

A uniformed beat cop suddenly burst into the room. "Captain!" the cop gasped breathlessly. "Wallace Wayne Weavil has escaped!"

"Okay, people, you heard the man," said Matt, standing up and putting on his sunglasses. "We've got a fugitive to catch. Luckily, we know where he's going -- the Gorge of Death!"


The Gorge of Death.

Two miles north of the Gainesville city limits. Infested with scorpions, poisonous snakes, drug addicts, and Sarah Palin worshipers.

Eleven thousand feet deep. Two thousand feet wide. Sheer unbroken cliff walls, broken only by terribly sharp rocks. Half-filled with hydrochloric acid. Swimming with acid-resistant crocodiles.

And it's all on fire.

The Gorge of Death.

Matt Kane and his team arrived to find that the area was even more dangerous now. Wallace Wayne Weavil was on the far side of the gorge, and he had a rocket launcher.

"You'll never take me, coppers!" Weavil shouted as he shot a flurry of explosive rockets at them. Luckily, the rockets missed, and he hadn't found the Quad Damage, so the splash damage wasn't enough to do more than tear their clothes a little to make them look hot.

"How'd you know that Weavil was behind the murders, Matt?" asked Lt. DeMarco.

"Or that he was one of the terrorists the President warned you about?" asked Sgt. Abalone.

"Or that he was hiding out at the Gorge of Death?" asked Det. San Diego.

"Or that the final autopsy results would show that one of the victims was the publisher of the Gainesville Times-Bandicoot?" asked Dr. Pigworth.

"Or that Desiree and I are both in love with you?" asked Det. Laputa.

"People, people," Matt sighed, putting on his sunglasses. "That's why they pay me the big bucks. Right now, our problem is capturing that fugitive, and our puny police guns don't have the power to get to the other side of the gorge. We've got to get over there before he finds a railgun or BFG."

"But how, Matt?" asked Lt. DeMarco.

"Glad you asked," said Matt, pulling a motorcycle out of the back of his Hummer.

"Wait, Matt, that's completely loco!" said Det. San Diego. "That's the Gorge of Death we're talking about! No one can jump over it and survive!"

"Ah, but you're forgetting, my friend," said Matt. "In addition to being the head of the Aluchua County Sheriff's Office Crime Scene Investigation division, a Gulf War Special Forces veteran, and the top terrorism expert in the country, I'm also the greatest motorcycle stunt rider in the world!"

"Or we could take the road around the gorge," said Dr. Pigworth.

"Det. San Diego, stack up some boards over there so I'll have a ramp to jump off from," said Matt.

"Or we could fly over in the police helicopter," said Dr. Pigworth.

"Sgt. Abalone, let's get some of this brush cleared away so I'll have room to make the jump," said Matt.

"Maybe we could have some officers from Bradford County sneak up behind him?" asked Dr. Pigworth.

"Alright, people, it's do-or-die time. Wish me luck," Matt said.

"Why are we out here anyway? I'm a bloody coroner. Don't we have a proper SWAT team?" asked Dr. Pigworth.

But it was too late for that! Matt revved his engine, took off full-speed, hit Sgt. San Diego's makeshift ramp, triggered the TurboBoost button, and launched into the air! With Weavil's rockets flying around him, with the cheers of his team behind him, with acid-smoke and flames and crocodile roars rising up from below him, it was like Matt was flying in slow motion! But what seemed like minutes only took mere seconds, and he landed safely on the other side!

Matt Kane overleaped the Gorge of Death!

Quickly ditching his motorcycle as he skidded to a halt, Matt dove behind a tree just in time to avoid one of Weavil's rockets. From there, he threw himself into the underbrush as a second rocket incinerated the tree.

"Are you dead yet, Matt Kane?" Weavil shouted. "You'd better pray you're dead, or I'll kill you for sure the minute I see you!"

Matt wisely played possum, grabbed a nearby rock, and tossed it off to Weavil's left. Weavil responded predictably by blasting another rocket in the direction of the stone, and Matt used the noise of the ensuing explosion to cover his own stealthy move to another clump of vegetation behind Weavil.

"You'll never stop the cause of global international terrorism, Kane!" Weavil shouted. "You'll never stop the cause of butchering people and newspaper publishers in your den! You'll never stop the cause of kidnapping coked-up hookers and keeping them in fake coked-up hooker shelters! You'll never stop the cause of men's adventure novels and religious tracts! EVIL ALWAYS WINS, KANE! EVIL ALWAYS WINS!"

"Not today it doesn't," said Matt as he stood up and removed his sunglasses. Weavil spun around, but Matt shot him with his concealed .358 Magnum before he could fire off another rocket. Weavil lurched backwards, stumbled at the edge of the gorge, then tumbled in, screaming. He shot his last rocket into the gorge itself, causing one final explosion of deadly acidic blazing fire.

Matt Kane watched Wallace Wayne Weavil fall until he disappeared into the acid and fire and crocodiles below.

"Burn, baby, burn," he said. He put his sunglasses on.

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