“Good God!” exclaimed Sergeant Major General. “It’s horrible!” He drew out a green paisley handkerchief and held it to his lips.
“Quite so, my excellent friend,” said our hero, Kirk Bill, stylish man-about-town and private detective. He gazed with clear grey eyes at the corpse, shaking his fine head of golden curls.
Previously a man in his late prime, one Lord Arthur Benedict Worzleham III lay on his back on the floor, quite dead, staring unseeing at the ceiling. His mouth was twisted into an expression of horror. His chest was a gaping bloody wound, his heart ripped beating from his body! Well, possibly not beating, they couldn’t be sure until Throgmorten the doctor got there to have a look and poke about and make some of his unsavoury jokes. He was a good man, Throgmorten, though never quite the same since the war.
“Father!” A slender lady in an olive-green riding coat of the latest fashion pushed past General’s inept underlings who were supposed to be keeping people like her out of the room. Kirk Bill caught her before she could dip the hem of her skirt in the pool of blood on the floor and held her to his manly chest, sobbing. (She was sobbing, that is, not Kirk Bill, who at the most would only let a solitary tear slide down his cheek and only when severely tested).
“What happened?” she gasped, in between sobs, turning her delicate face up to Kirk Bill’s calm and sympathetic gaze.
“Madam, I’m afraid it appears your father was murdered horribly,” said Sergeant Major General.
“Oh!” she cried. “Who could do such a thing?!”
“Or – what?” said our hero, Kirk Bill, in a quiet tone.
“Good God, man, what do you mean?!” cried Sergeant Major General. “Do you mean some unimaginable alien being came through a hole in the fabric of space-time and sucked this man’s living heart from his body as part of some kind of plot to take over our planet?”
Kirk Bill ignored his friend’s ridiculous suggestion and transferred his steely gaze to the dead man’s hand. It held a crumpled sheet of paper. Lord Worlzeham’s daughter conveniently fainted at this moment allowing him to place her on a nearby divan and retrieve the paper. (Somewhat bloodstained).
“Good God!” Said Sergeant Major General. For the sheet of paper bore only a drawing, of a single, giant, yellow, staring EYE.
TO BE CONTINUED
NB: This story is intended to serve as inspiration to those who would contribute to The Eye of the Tiger Omnibus. It is intentionally bad (no really) so that no-one need feel intimidated.