The Swedish Super Sleuth in The Case of the Regenerating Cruciate

****Based on a true story****

There is a theory that states there are multiple realities that exist side-by-side where all of the decisions you didn’t take play themselves out. Let’s take a look at one of them now….

Chapter 1 – In which we meet our Hero

“As you can see, I identified the murderer by the depth of the parsley had sunk into the butter on that hot day. It had clearly been out for TWO hours, not the thirty minutes as claimed. Therefore, I accuse YOU, David Moyes, of murdering Good Taste”

The imposing figure gestured at the dead Nigerian footballer on the carpet. “Take him away, Inspector Drake!”

The inspector lumbered forward to slap cuffs on the despondent Scot and manhandled him out of the room. The tall figure turned to his assembled guest and flourished “I am Detective Zlatan and The. Case. Is. Closed!”

The room erupted into spontaneous applause. Zlatan bowed, feeding off the crowd’s admiration. I was one of those admiring onlookers. I am Marcus Wedau, Detective Zlatan’s foil and helper. Or, more accurately, the person who hands the Zlatan a towel when he’s finished pumping his latest lover six ways from Sunday. It’s not the best existence, but the sheer number of cases has most jobs beat.

Outside, we caught a cab and retired to our rooms at 221B Zlatan Street. It had been renamed ever since Detective Zlatan had solved a tricky paternity case for the mayor, in which Zlatan had tasted the dead girl’s sex toys and come to the conclusion that she regularly used a strong spermicide and therefore, could not have been pregnant.

That was my first case with Zlatan. The Case of the Daddy Issues. Since then, we had investigated a number of cases which I had posted on my website ‘The Deduction of Zlatan, You Peasants’

I walked into the bedroom, shrugged off my coat and removed my scarf. I turned to find Detective Zlatan a scant inch from my face. He looked at me. Eyes boring into my soul. “Zlat..” I began. “Stop! Say nothing!” Zlatan admonished and continued to stare. “Don’t make it weird, Zlatan” I ventured gamely. Zlatan began to breathe heavily. A grunting, panting giant, face-to-face with me. After a minute or two, he spun away and walked out.

Regaining my composure, for one must make allowances for genius, I followed him out, only to find him in his lunge routine. 100 naked lunges whilst wearing a deer stalker. I sighed and made myself a cup of tea. Bringing the tea back to the sitting room, I indeed sat down and sipped at the hot liquid.

It was going to be a while before Zlatan spoke, he never liked his lunges interrupted, so I was going to have to make myself comfortable…

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