It was a quiet evening at Voodoo Logic Headquarters [1], and Darren Saturday and Murray @ Midnight were spending it much as they would any other week night - sipping on coffee strong enough that it could have been used as an industrial solvent, and killing time like it owed them money and was refusing to pay.

“There is no way,” said Darren Saturday, ordering another piece of sugar-drenched baklava. It was a specialty of the cafe and was slightly less addictive than crack cocaine [2].

“I’m telling you,” replied Murray @ Midnight. He stared into his cup - the coffee had eaten a hole through the bottom and was sizzling its way through the solid metal surface of the table. “Good coffee,” he added.

“I refuse to believe it,” said Saturday. The baklava arrived, courtesy of Fezzil Al Jolsson, owner of the all night cafe. Fezzil was something of a mystery to the two heroes, since he looked, acted and sounded as caucasion as the next very caucasion person, but responded to any questions about his cultural heritage by saying, “Don’t be bloody daft – of course I’m Middle Eastern. Why would I wear a bloody turban if I wasn’t?” And this was perhaps the most confusing detail of all, since neither Midnight or Saturday had ever seen Fezzil wearing anything on his head other than a faded baseball cap. Then, too, he had a way of saying things like, “It is a wise man who knows when his camel is parked in a tow-away zone.” And then he’d add, “So one of you idiots had better go move it, yeah? Offendi.” All of which sounded Middle Eastern enough, if you ignored the fact that it was delivered in a broad Australian accent.

Saturday began cutting up his slice of baklava with a butter knife, mincing it into a fine gruel. Once this was accomplished he pulled the straw out of his bottle of Triple Mega Potency Sarsaparilla – the one that carried a government warning about its long-lasting effects on testicles – and used it to snort the sweet desert from his plate.

Midnight watched all of this with a slightly bemused expression. He’d once pointed out to his partner that the traditional method of consuming baklava – or any Middle Eastern desert, for that matter – was by eating it, and the more than slightly psychotic hero had screamed, “Jesus, that’s disgusting!” and hadn’t spoken to him for 6 weeks.

6 blissful weeks, sure, Midnight reflected, but it was hard to fight crime when half of your dynamic duo would only speak to you by passing messages through suspects, of the type, “Would you please tell The After Dark Idiot over there that I think we should beat the shit out of you to see if you’ll confess to anything, thank you.” And then what did you do once you had beaten the shit out of your suspect? Usually he was in a coma by then, and completely unable to pass messages back and forth.

“Anyway,” Midnight said as Saturday leaned back in his chair and massaged his nostrils, “how else would I know that she has a birthmark just below her bellybutton in the shape of a love heart?”

Saturday frowned. “Is that the one next to the birthmark in the shape of a Chevy Impala?”

Midnight nodded.

“And two over from the one that looks like a man kicking a donkey?”

“Is that what he’s doing to the donkey?” Midnight said with a look of surprise. “I always thought he was-” but his thoughts on what the man might have been doing to the donkey were lost when Saturday’s mobile phone rang, playing ‘Treat Me Like A Real Girl’ by Gloria Estefan.

Saturday squinted at the tiny screen of his even more tiny mobile phone and waved for Midnight to shut up. “I have to take this,” he said, and swivelled to one side, placing the microscopic phone somewhere near his ear.

“Hi Sweetie,” he said, “how are y-” and that was as far as he got.

“Yes…”

“Yes, I know but-”

“Sure, Sweetie, but remember when I said that-”

“…Crime fighting… No really, Sweetie, we’re, you know, we’re fighting crime… Please stop laughing…”

“Yes, Sweetie, I love you too… Lots… No, I’m not just say-… Really, really lots… Yes, yes that amount of lots, yes… No, I’m not just say-… Okay… Yes, okay… No, it’s… no, it’s no trouble at-… Yes… I love-”, the call came to an end.

Saturday slid the mobile phone into a pocket. He sat quietly for a moment, and then shot a dramatic glance across the table at Midnight.

“We have an emergency,” he said.

“Oh yes?” said Midnight, straightening up out of his trademark slouch. It had been a slow week for the pair, and he was looking forward to breaking some of his knuckles on the rock-hard jaws of Brisbane’s teeming criminal classes. “Who was that? The Chief Of Police?”

Saturday gave his partner A Look. “Who was…? Seriously, Midnight, everyone already knows you’re an idiot, you don’t have to go to such lengths to demonstrate it. That was my wife.”

“Ah,” said Midnight, slouching back down. “I didn’t think you were calling the Chief Of Police ‘Sweetie’ any more. Not after he tried to shoot you that time.”

“That was an accident,” Saturday grated, and then stopped. “I never called the Chief Of Police ‘Sweetie’!”

“Well, huh,” said Midnight, “why would you, after he tried to shoot you? Anyone would understand that. Anyway, what’s the emergency?”

The muscles in Saturday’s neck and jaw performed a complicated tango of aggravation mixed with the seething desire to stab someone with a fork. “We need to get some kitty litter.”

“Fair enough,” said Midnight, who – idiot or not – had learned that when Saturday started fondling the cutlery and dribbling, it was best to go along with whatever he said, no matter how insane it might sound on the surface. “There’s an all night store up on Vulture Street, I’m sure they’ll have some.”

Saturday shot an arm over the table, grabbed a handful of Midnight’s t-shirt, and dragged him out of his chair.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snarled. “Those cats are more difficult to please than royalty. They won’t crap on just anything – it has to be the good stuff!”

“Where are we going to get good kitty litter at this time of night?” Midnight gurgled.

“I have no idea,” said Saturday, releasing his grip on Midnight’s shirt, who fell face first into a puddle of coffee and began screaming as it burned away several layers of his skin. “But we have to find it. And fast! To the Holden Astra!”

***

A little while later, outside on the street.

“Where the hell has it gone?!”

“I guess it must have been towed. Fezzil did warn us. At least, I think he warned us. He was talking about camels, so it was hard to tell.”

“Bastards!!”

And then came the sound of two heroes legging it up the darkened streets of Brisbane’s West End, in desperate search of kitty litter.

To be continued…