The grave is plain and simple. The natural stone slab is beginning to take on a patina, with greening at the corners. In the center of the rectangular headstone erected perpendicular to the slab, a name is engraved in capital letters: “PALMER”. At the very bottom of the headstone, in smaller letters, on the left reads: “Orpah 1967 – 2010” and on the right: “Jethro 1929 – 2012”. Head bowed, eyes closed, fingers intertwined at stomach level, Ohad recites a short prayer in an almost inaudible voice, of which B., standing slightly back, can only grasp the conclusion. “He’s not here; he’s risen, just as he said he would ”. Then he turns to the cop: “Are your parents still with you, Commissioner?”

“No, they ‘re not.” B.’s eyes linger on the inscriptions at the bottom of the stele.

“She was much younger than him, is that what you’re thinking?”

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Hey, Juchremans! Russia’s attacks on Ukraine are ramping up, Israel continues to “defend” itself by annexing the West Bank, under the tender although (ever so)slightly disapproving gaze of its genocide partner, itself closely monitored by the BMW team, world’s fossil fuel emissions rise and rise but, thank God, Kim Kardashian’s shapewear brand Skims have reached their all time best, hitting $5bn valuation!

Meanwhile, Commissioner B. has had a strange Christmas dream…

*     *     *

That Christmas morning, Commissioner B. had an excuse for feeling sluggish. Two, in fact. The first, purely metabolic, was the empty bottle of “Teeling Brabazon Bottling Series 1” sitting on the coffee table next to an empty glass. As a rule he didn’t drink much but, coming home last night, he needed to get rid of the smell of disinfectant and hospital medicine that Dr. Doux and… “Hot Lips” (see second excuse) had generously passed along to him in Edelman’s overheated office.

The second excuse was the relentless flashbacks of a mind-boggling Christmas dream. A dream inspired by one of his father’s favorite movies, a masterpiece of anti-army dark humor that he himself had discovered with gleeful delight years after its release: “M*A*S*H.” In his remake, the scene where O’Houlihan, the psycho-rigid nurse, ends up getting laid by major Frank Burns (“Frank! Kiss my burning lips!”) took place in the straw of a nativity scene! With him in the role of “Frank Melchior » and Janique Goulard as “Hot Lips.” “Gaspard” Edelman and “Balthazar” Doux didn’t miss a thing, the bastards! They even encouraged him to honor harder and harder the cheeky girl, whose cries of recognition filled the sacred stable.

However, at one point, he had had doubts about the real meaning of his partner’s increasingly loud display of emotion. “Hot Lips” was desperately waving an arm toward the baby Jesus, whose face was turning blue. The divine infant was choking! So much so that, sacrificing the promise of an orgasm she had been eagerly anticipating a second earlier, Janique “Hot Lips” Goulard had energetically pushed him away and rushed to the rescue of the Son of God. Grabbing Baby Jesus by the feet she had shaken Him vigorously, so that He would spit out the indigestible pacifier. That was when it had become obvious that the Sacred Baby was wearing soccer cleats…

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Who cares about Pochtrump, that bigoted BMW puppet of a dictator, and his war criminal buddies, when you can enjoy “Commissioner B. goes south,” chilling out quietly in slippers by the fire, after sweating all day on those motherfucking pyramids?

*     *     *

About a hundred yards down the road from the sign he spotted a small forest path on the right. Was it precognition? Sixth sense? Extreme caution in unfamiliar territory? He slowed down to a crawl. The next second, the reason for this irrational move emerged from the  path. At first, he thought it was a deer or a wild boar. Except that wild boars rarely run on their hind legs. He slammed on the brakes. As surprised as he was, the creature stopped dead in its tracks and stood there, hypnotized by the fog lights. If it wasn’t a boar, it sure had the fur. Long, shaggy hair and a thick beard covered the face that protruded from the thick canvas jacket, buttoned up to the collar.

Before the individual tried to shield them from the sudden light, B. had seen his eyes. They were filled with intense fear. The din coming on his tail made him turn around in panic. Returning to the hood of the car, he stretched out an arm as if to prevent it from starting up again and running him over. Half a second later he had crossed the road and disappeared into the woods on the other side.

Surprisingly for a cop, when forced to choose, Commissioner B.  tended to side with the hunted rather than the hunter.  He figured that by moving forward just a little, he would block the exit from the path…

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Okay people, let’s forget for a moment  we’re here toiling away like Pyramid builders back in ancient Egypt. Haven’t I told you about my friend Commissioner B. ? Want a sample?

*     *     *

Atmosphere. After turning the massage parlor graciously sponsored by his mother-in-law into a brothel, the jealous husband would film his wife/business partner’s services!

“Pictures and sound, gentlemen! Pictures and sound! Decency compels me to skip the pictures…” A lewd chuckle (mingled with a hint of bitterness), “…As for the sound, the conversations of these unscrupulous slanderers leave no doubt as to their willingness to sacrifice their respective families on the altar of their guilty passion.”

But where had this child from the suburbs of Bangkok learned to speak so learnedly? From the local officials who jostled at the door of his exotic bordello? Had the honorable intellectuals, writers, artists, and politicians (some of whom were quick to proclaim,  on television or elsewhere, the indescribable joy of being unbuttoned by a child) given him private lessons?

“The world will know, Commissioner! The world will know all about their plan to run away together! Like thieves! Leaving Port-Léon without anyone knowing! To go and settle in the countryside! That scoundrel of a farang claimed he was about to inherit a castle! A castle, Commissioner! Ah, you should have heard him speculating about his own mother’s death, that good-for-nothing! Date after date, he worked her up into a frenzy, that loose woman…”

“Less than nothing,” “loose woman.” More delightfully vintage expressions gleaned from prostate-dependent gentlemen, fervent believers in essential oil body rubs…

“…Like they were going to start over from scratch… Set up a bed and breakfast, rent out rooms, or whatever… The ‘high life’, as they say…”

As they used to say, dude. It’s about time you brushed up on your linguistic fundamentals. Ask Chef Poiret to set you up with Netflix. Or listen to a little K-pop, may be…

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