Introducing the incredibly intuitive, impossibly irresistible and infuriatingly insatiable Dr Cornelius Ramus (Dr Ramus Book 1)

By Logan Judge

Introducing Dr Cornelius Ramus. The heartwarming tale of an egotistical git, delivered with all the grace of an intoxicated chimpanzee regurgitating half-chewed chunks of banana.

Born into considerable wealth, and armed with a doctorate almost certainly not obtained via legitimate channels, Dr Cornelius Ramus has fashioned himself a rather lucrative side-line as a private detective who—through a great deal of luck, conniving, and occasional flashes of genuine brilliance—has managed to secure a respectable degree of celebrity status which he habitually exploits to fuel his self-indulgent pastimes, which consist mostly of serial womanizing, drinking, and any other activity that caresses his already over-inflated ego.

Unfortunately, however, his assignments have become a little low-key just lately; book sales are down and invitations to make TV appearances have been slowly diminishing until, thankfully, good fortune conveniently materializes in the form of a note—pinned to a baguette found inserted into the corpse of a celebrity chef—announcing the arrival of a poorly monikered serial killer who is apparently intent on slaughtering yet more celebrities in a city where the shameful crime novel cliché of a local police department are simply too inept to successfully hunt down the perpetrator without the benefit of his ‘expert’ assistance.

Please be aware that this book contains adult themes and a lot of dark humor that is very stupid and extremely gross (“Juvenile and disgusting” according to one disgruntled reader.) Please also be aware that the main character is a sexist pig who you are not supposed to like. If that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to you, please don’t read it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Logan Judge
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370591442

Logan Judge

Having been brought up and educated by a travelling troupe of Tibetan freestyle disco dancers who found him abandoned on the doorstep of the Clacton B&B they were staying in during their, “Tibetan Tooty Fruity”, tour of the South East Coast of England, Logan Judge honed his talents as a story writer after discovering he wasn’t particularly good at disco dancing, or at least, not Tibetan style anyway. Many years later, he has finally achieved his life-long ambition of, not only learning to speak English, but translating one of his earliest novels and making this available to the public at large while he begins the painstaking process of transforming the others. When he’s not writing, Logan’s hobbies include: shark wrestling, tiger tossing (that’s throwing them by the way), and full-contact Morris dancing.

Book preview

Introducing

the incredibly intuitive,

impossibly irresistible

and infuriatingly insatiable

Dr Cornelius Ramus

Logan Judge

LoganJudge.com

Copyright © 2014 by Logan Judge

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Polite Warning

This book is for adults only and contains, among other things, the following: lewd references, sexual innuendo, descriptions of a sexual nature, gross out & toilet humor, toilet humor that neglects the presence of actual toilets, sexual stereotypes (who are, at least, as bad as each other), fairly gruesome deaths, the occasional rude word, and Americanized spelling and punctuation from a British author.

If any of the above is likely to offend you, or is simply not to your taste, I wish you well and would kindly invite you to please exercise your right to not read any further, nor review a book you have not read from start to finish. For the rest of you, I hope you ‘sickos’ enjoy yourselves.

Logan Judge

Legal stuff

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

At the back of the run down studio apartment—about mid-way along a wholly unadorned wall, directly opposite to a kitchenette and only set of windows into the room—two extremely tired and dejected looking individuals stood amid the peeling paint, grime, and who knows what else, involuntarily twitching their nostrils and contorting their faces in silent protest to the foul stench of the smoke as they grudgingly gazed down towards its source.

Biting her lip, Karen Smythe hesitated a moment before awkwardly turning her head just a little towards her companion. Look, I know you’re not keen, but why don’t you just call him and ask?

He’ll say no, said Sergeant Ross, allowing the back of his head to thump against the wall and screwing his eyes as he felt his silver hair stick to a patch of cooking fat. How many times do I have to tell you?

Well, he might not. Not if you tell him you’re getting nowhere and really need help. You said yourself, how much easier it used to be when you could just make one call and have all the investigative work done for you.

Yeah, and I’m wishing I hadn’t now.

Yes, but you did. And you’ve said it many times before.

Look, he has been very useful in the past. I admit that. But, really, what is it with you women and that man?

Tipping her head back—but confident her mousy brown bun was well away from the wall—Karen simply groaned in response.

Apart, of course, from his celebrity status?

Yes, well, I can’t say that doesn’t help, said Karen, continuing to stare at the ceiling, but he’s also an extremely rich, good looking, intelligent, celebrity with a great body. And, he’s so incredibly well spoken. Sounds like one of those English gentleman types that always plays the crazy bad guy in American movies. You know? Pronounces his words properly with no abbreviating and stuff. ‘Do not’ instead of don’t, ‘it is’ instead of it’s, ‘does not’ instead of doesn’t.

Err?

‘Cannot’ instead of can’t.

Ms Smythe, have you finished?

‘What is’ instead of what’s.

Ms Smythe, said the Sergeant, uncharacteristically raising his voice to her.

Oh. Err… Yes, said Karen, her cheeks flushing as she snapped back to reality. And, of course, he’s very good at what he does. Which is the real reason I’d like to meet him.

I won’t be able to get him, and even if I could, I can’t go spending the department’s money nursing your schoolgirl crushes.

It is not a schoolgirl crush, she said indignantly. Any personal interest I may or may not have is purely professional and would only be to serve my career. And, actually, I’m only saying all this to help you. And, talking of nurses and schoolgirls, isn’t that what the two women who turned up to your birthday bash were dressed as? I’m pretty sure they both came out of the department’s budget.

That’s police business, which I’ll remind you, you aren’t. Besides, they were pretty cheap.

Yes, they looked it, but I bet the treatment you needed later wasn’t.

Yeah, well, the department didn’t pay for that, said Sergeant Ross staring awkwardly back towards the floor, hastily retracting his gaze as a result of the foul sight below, and cursing as—yet again—he thumped the back of his head into the sticky patch of cooking fat.

There, you see? You’re getting stressed. I’ve been told time and time again, by the others, you didn’t used to get stressed like this. Not when you used to be able to bring in help.

I’m getting stressed because you won’t let up about it.

You’re getting stressed because we’ve been here for nearly two hours, and your team has turned up precisely nothing. Look, I tell you what. If you call and he says no, I’ll let it go. Won’t mention it again. Promise.

I can’t call him this time of morning.

Ah, you see, you can. I’ve been reliably informed, he’s been up all hours just lately, and apparently, he’s easier to get around at the moment. Don’t know what’s up, but I’m sure you can play it to our… I mean, your advantage.

Well, even if I could, I can’t go asking. He’s definitely not going to accept a request from me. I don’t have a high enough rank. This is something the Captain should be doing, and even then, he’d still say no.

Oh, yes you can ask. You’ve already let out that he owes you for something. And that you have his cell number.

Look, I just can’t. Please trust my judgment on this.

You know, this is the third case in a row I’ve been on with you that’s gone unsolved?

It’s not unsolved yet, and nor are the other two. They’re under investigation.

‘Another case filed under: haven’t got a clue.’ That’s what my colleagues will say when I get back. You know, you have no idea how much they question me. Or the number of excuses I make for you.

Maybe I should just stop bringing you then.

Yeah, but if you did that now, they’d just smell a rat and really start poking their noses in. They have contacts in the police department too you know? If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have me protecting your reputation.

When it comes to my reputation, I’m not sure I really care what your colleagues think.

Well, you should. They’re right bitches and bastards. The kind of people who go to the paper. And you know as well as anyone how much they love stories of police incompetence.

Oh, for the love of God, you’re not going to let up are you?

Smiling delicately at him, Karen fluttered her eye lashes. I’m only doing this for you.

No you’re not, but alright, I’ll call him. Stand close by, so you can hear him saying no and me getting an earful for disturbing him. Hopefully, that’ll be the end of it.

With his antiquated cell phone in the steely grip of his burly left hand, Sergeant Ross employed the middle finger of his right to irritably stab at its buttons before holding it up to his left ear.

Karen leaned in to listen but pulled back a little as she spotted the patch of cooking fat on the back of the Sergeant’s head.

Staring into the highly polished floor to ceiling mirror, the single occupant of the lavishly decorated room sighed as he was greeted by his reflection: a fat, wallowing, shapeless, body propping up a balding head and podgy face, bearing all the tell-tale signs of being battered by years of self-inflicted bitterness, loathing, and the consumption of way too many lavish dinners.

Over the sides of his grotesquely ostentatious hand-carved marble toilet seat, billowed the pale flesh of his flabby ass—a whitish-grey color that, in conjunction with his similarly colored chubby legs, only served to enhance the brilliance of the garishly ornate white porcelain toilet bowl; a product that could only be hailed as a testament to Italian engineering when considering its never ending ability to endure that kind of excessive loading on such a regular basis.

Grumbling to himself, his nostrils twitched in response to something he clearly found highly disagreeable, not too far beneath him this early Monday morning, while he anxiously eyed the open tub of cream he was gripping overly tight in his sweaty left hand as he gingerly fingered a blob out of it with his right.

Reluctantly, he lowered his quivering hand towards his groin, desperately trying to keep the blob of cream in place long enough to complete his mission. Slowly he reached down between his legs, leaning forward so his hand could go back a little, and then—very gently—up, up a little more, up a little more. Target acquired.

In the mirror, he watched as his expression contorted—contorted like the face many people pull when they hear the account of how some historians believe that, back in fourteenth century England, King Edward II was assassinated by having a red-hot poker thrust into his anus, through a horn, so that there would be no visible external damage. Although, if that story is true, it is doubtful that, even to this day, anyone has ever pulled that face more convincingly than King Edward II did.

Squealing at a pitch not to dissimilar to the ring tone of his cell phone, he didn’t at first notice the incoming call, but catching site of the screen flashing in his peripheral vision, he awkwardly wiped away his tears with the back of his right hand and haphazardly smeared the remainder of the cream onto the tops of his thighs before grasping his mobile phone and snorting into it. Are you nearly here?

Err, no, said Sergeant Ross, jerking his head to one side and using a finger to pop the entrance of his ear canal. What do you mean?

Is that Emergency Medical Services?

Err, no.

Well who is it then?

Err, it’s Sergeant Ross.

Who are you?

Err, we met about a year ago. Don’t you remember me?

No.

You said, if I ever needed anything, I should let you know.

I find that highly unlikely.

You said it just before I helped you with a tricky situation you were in.

What situation?

That thing with the Filipino hooker.

Oh… You must be talking about the very unfortunate mix up with that young Asian woman.

I think you found it was still a young man actually.

Look, I’m very busy, but yes, I do vaguely remember you giving me a tiny bit of help.

Yeah, I made it look like you’d spent the weekend in Alabama if you remember?

Yes, yes. I remember that too. What was your name again?

Sergeant Ross.

So what is it you want? And address me properly will you, Sergeant?

Sorry, yes, Your Honor, and I hope I didn’t wake you.

I wasn’t asleep. I’m actually still at my office. You’re not the only person in this city that has to work ungodly hours you know?

Told you he would be awake, said Karen in a whispered voice.

I’ve been to your office, said the Sergeant, furrowing his eyebrows a moment, and I don’t remember it being that echoey, sir. And you sounded quite distressed when you answered. Is everything ok?

I’m in my bathroom.

Oh, dear. Not suffering with the old problem again are you, sir? The Sergeant turned towards Karen and covered the receiver of his cell phone with the palm of his right hand—badly. The Mayor suffers with acute piles. Apparently, in high-season so to speak, it’s like a bunch of grapes hanging out of his—

Sergeant, said the Mayor, so loudly that Sergeant Ross had to use his finger to pop his ear again, you’d be wise to focus on your police work. I happen to be performing important mayoral duties right now and could do without interruptions. What the hell do you want?

Rolling his eyes, Sergeant Ross used his free hand to enact a rudimentary mime of what was presumably supposed to be a giant hemorrhoid hanging from his own backside.

Is there somebody there with you? said the Mayor.

Err, nobody in earshot, sir, said the Sergeant, leaning away from Karen and shielding the receiver of his phone from her sniggering.

Well? What do you want?

Sorry, Your Honor, but I’ve got a problem here. I’m at an incident, and my team just can’t reach any conclusion as to whether it’s a crime scene or not.

And you’re calling me? For that? Someone better be dead, Sergeant. And they better be important.

The Sergeant and Karen turned their gaze to the source of the smoke. Laid on a grubby, part-burned, mattress that had presumably been pushed away from the wall a long time back because of the hole in the ceiling that would let in rain water, but just maybe as a result of recent foul play, was the scorched corpse of a man with his lower half covered by the remains of a charred blanket. He was about two hundred and forty pounds and previously in possession of a full head of ginger hair and a beard—although it was difficult to tell whether the two had been quite that frizzy before they caught alight. In fact, the only thing very clear was that he had departed this world with an expression on his charred face, so ridiculous, he looked like he’d been the victim of a freak flash fire at the World Gurning Championships which—if the fire had not have happened—he was on track to win.

I can safely say the first box is ticked, sir, said the Sergeant, swallowing hard before looking away, but we just can’t figure if this is just an accident or manslaughter or murder.

What are you asking me for?

Well, it wasn’t actually your opinion I’m after, Your Honor, but you might remember I used to be able to bring in some help with things like this?

So, why don’t you? And why are you asking me? Speak to the Captain.

I would, Your Honor, but the problem is that the Captain isn’t available, and more’s to the point, you’ve expressly forbidden the department from using the particular help I need. He held the phone away from his ear in readiness.

Sergeant, I hope you’re not suggesting—

He is extremely good at this sort of thing, sir,

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

With all due respect, Your Honor, we’re tying up forensics and a physician here and—

I’ve told you people before, I’m not—

Expecting the remainder of the sentence, Sergeant Ross waited patiently for a moment, but all he received was a hissing noise that was in fact the sound of air escaping through tightly gritted teeth. Mayor? Your Honor? Are you ok?

Unbeknown to the Sergeant, the Mayor had become so agitated while delivering his previous statement, he had momentarily forgotten the severity of his pile and, without due thought and preparation, had fingered it with a second blob of cream, employing what could only be described as excessive force and was now experiencing a kind of pain possibly not too dissimilar to having the business end of a lit cigar pressed against his sphincter—which, quite coincidentally, was an activity that several of his politician friends had recently been arrested for whilst spending a quiet evening away from their wives at one of the city’s high-class members only gentlemen’s clubs. Still, at least they weren’t caught doing that thing with the nails and short planks of wood that they’d been up to several weeks before.

Mayor? Mayor?

—having that individual work for anything state funded again, said the Mayor in a strained whisper. He’s insolent beyond belief and charges a small fortune.

But, he gets results, sir.

No, Sergeant.

Sergeant Ross turned to Karen shaking his head.

Bring up how much this is costing, said Karen quietly.

Ok, Your Honor, it’s your decision. I just wanted to give you the option because all these guys I’ve got here are actually costing the tax payer more right now than he does, and they’re getting nowhere. I thought you’d want to know. You know, what with the Mayoral election coming up and all.

I said, no.

Sergeant Ross shook his head again.

Say the Press are here, said Karen as quietly as before.

Plus, the Press have arrived, and they’re asking a lot of questions about how crime has been creeping up. And you know what they’re like; they keep bringing up the fact that readers have been writing to them—you know, your electorate—and complaining that, if he gets the job done, then we should be using him. You know how popular is he is with the public.

He’s an egotistical bastard who the public don’t know the truth about. The answer is definitely no. Is that all, Sergeant?

Again, Sergeant Ross shook his head.

Oh, for God’s sake, said Karen, forgetting herself and speaking at normal volume. Tell him the Press will get to hear all about the ladyboy.

Biting his lip, Sergeant Ross scrunched his eyes firmly shut.

There is someone there with you, isn’t there?

She just turned up, Your Honor.

But, she knows something about the unfortunate incident I had no control over?

Err… Just a little, Your Honor.

Right, Sergeant, let me tell you— The Mayor’s cell bleeped with an incoming message. He stopped to read it: ‘Emergency Medical Services at reception but no one to let us up. Will wait 2 min but then must go.’ Sergeant, are you still there?

Sir.

Ok, use him if you want, this one time, and I’ll tell the Captain I Okayed it when he asks, but make sure you and your companion never breathe another word of that incident again, and be very clear, Sergeant, you have used up all favors and seriously burned your bridges with me.

He’s hung up, said Sergeant Ross, putting his cell phone back in his pocket and turning expressionless to Karen. Thank you, Ms Smythe. The Mayor, who couldn’t remember who I was, now remembers exactly who I am and hates me.

What do you think of this lipstick? said Karen, retrieving a compact mirror from her handbag, flipping it open, and beginning to eye her lips critically. Does it make me look sophisticated, or is it a bit, you know, slutty?

Trust me, either way, he won’t mind.

Chapter 2

As if on a quest to find an appreciative ear, the melodic birdsong drifted gently through the wide-open windows, riding gracefully on the cool breeze that puffed its way in from the tranquility of the grounds outside into the otherwise still master bedroom of the mansion house located in one of the most desirable areas of the city.

At the back of the room—exactly mid-way along a sumptuously wallpapered wall with matching cabinets either side of it—sat a solid oak, antique, four-poster bed. And in this bed, laid the tall, slender, figure of a man, flat on his athletic back with his sculpted jaw facing directly upwards, and his short black hair rested upon the silk pillow case beneath. His soft-skinned olive eyelids fluttered serenely under the black organic cotton sleep mask, which he always wore when retired, while his delicate nostrils twitched daintily in response to his gentle inhalation of the cool breeze that had been sweetened by the multitude of flowers and shrubs outside. With each breath his chest softly rose and fell beneath his Mulberry silk blanket as if his diaphragm was following in perfect time with the rhythm of the most melodious strain of the birdsong.

Dreamily, he turned his body just a little, raised his right leg just a fraction, and farted just a bit. But, as has already been declared, it was only a little one and since it made a quite inoffensive sound and was not very smelly, really should not be allowed to tarnish the idyllic picture already painted. Perhaps, in fact, it would have been better to have not mentioned it at all.

On the top of the cabinet, to the right of his bed, sat an original 1950s Belgian polished metal bodied telephone which—without the slightest regard for the dulcet tones of the birdsong—began to ring.

Almost immediately, his torso rose up and forwards in a single perfectly flowing motion as if being drawn by an elaborate collection of pulleys and invisible chains. Once upright, he sat with his head facing directly forwards for a moment in order that he could sample the birdsong, and without the slightest turn of his head or upper body, he gracefully extended his slender, yet muscular, arm to the left—deftly wrapping his long fingers around the handset of the telephone and elegantly returning it to the side of his head.

Good morning, Sergeant Ross, he said with a soft yet commanding, while extremely well-spoken, voice—not sounding the slightest bit like a man who had just that moment been roused from a deep relaxing sleep. How may I be of assistance?

Good morning, Dr Ramus. Sorry if I woke you. Hey, this is a withheld number. How the hell did you know it was me?

Easily, Sergeant. The bird song from outside my bedroom window is exactly five eighths of the way through its daily passage which indicates that, in this week of the year, the current time is somewhere between a quarter past and nineteen minutes past four hundred hours.

Unbeknown to the Sergeant, Dr Ramus had used a finger of his free hand to lift an eye cover of the sleep mask and was covertly peering at the old fashioned clock on the wall in front of him.

It’s four eighteen on the button, but that still doesn’t explain how you knew it was me.

"Sergeant, as you know, I have no family and keep very few acquaintances, and even though we have parted