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One day not so long ago, we found ourselves presented with a mystery the size of a golf ball. We took turns hitting it with The Intern’s old clubs, but we soon moved outdoors. The owner of the clubs was mumbling something about a lost game and revenge; he subsequently started randomly swinging at the rest of us. As I was used to his milder forms of abuse (it keeps one’s senses sharp, I say), I ducked and saved my teeth for the day. There was, however, method to his mad and mighty swing as it dawned on us that he was aiming for The Secretary’s maggot-ridden crotch (how the latter had preserved this colony of – frankly – disgusting white worms during his time in the slammer in fact constituted the mystery).

Nevertheless, our mission to unravel the origins of this Mystery of the Maggots – purely out of a heightened sense of self-preservation rather than compassion for the Secretary’s “upper legs” – was rapidly evolving into a full-blown attack (The Treasurer started shouting obscene words in Froggish: “Chargez, chargez!”) on the Havisocks HQ. It was decided by drawing straws out of a hat (while we were all blindfolded, at least that is what the others made me believe) that I would enter the enemy’s HQ through the sewer, leading straight into their living quarters (their President had designed it thusly that the noxious fumes would caress his nostrils through a grate in the middle of his living room. He imagined the stench to be the unwashed masses he was commanding in revolutionary fashion. Bloody Marxist! The Professor was right once more).

Luckily Moreau, that good old chap, let me have his folding gully (he insisted he wouldn’t need it again), which significantly eased my attempts at breaking-and-entering. I quickly removed the grate and climbed into the room. Needless to say I stank royally. Meanwhile, the others had let themselves in through the front door with a key they had taken from me.

Not only was the Intern able to reach the Havisock’s stash of liqueurs – which he carelessly threw bottle-by-bottle in my general direction – he also temporarily knocked our enemy out by peppering him with some industry-strength ether. He had been sniffing it himself for a while now and had built up a fairly high resistance to the hospital-flavoured liquid. Unfortunately, it was not the first time he had dipped his sleeves a bit too deeply, and our operation was about to end in our unceremoniously carrying him out the front door – creating a spectacle that would certainly blow our cover if not our grease-the-coppers money (at once, the Treasurer started furiously scraping some pennies off the Havisock’s floorboards to make up for his failure to budget for this eventuality).

The liqueurs were not unlike my own selection of sirops at home and I was greedily putting them away. It would surely lead to a case of pain in the bowels later that evening, but for now I was as happy as a lion cub licking himself – an image burnt in my memory (Mother once took us to a zoo and would later claim she had educated us “in the ways of the world” when confronted by Father’s lawyers). We all stood there contemplating as to what to do with our bodily hair. The Secretary suggested it would make great food for his pet maggots, but we left him bound up like a sausage at the scene of his crime. The mystery had been solved.