After the fiasco of having to erase “Colonel Law,” Wolverine saw the error of his method.  “Why?  Why” he wailed “did I only create one identity?  I should have made several at a go.  Now I must go to the expensive bother of blackmailing a civil servant again to restock my collection of Top Secret identifies.”  

When he spoke to me, he admitted his failure to create more identities had him worried Constance’s misgivings about his readiness for the big time might, just might, have a basis in fact.  But Etonians, he assured me, are quick studies.  “I didn’t climb to where I am now by missing the same questions twice.”  

Wolverine told me another problem that Constance caused him.  She disdained the use of bots to do her killing for her.  And she wasn’t a woman to let her own child’s property become a reserve for riff-raff.  

During a walk about the property, she encountered a filthy, malordorous tramp.  When she ordered him to produce an adequate justification for his being on the property, the sassy tramp told her to screw herself.  That was the last straw for Constance.  Her temper still had an edge from having to confront Wolverine.  So, she drew her ancient and cherished Colt Python from a holster in the small of her back and put a .357 in the tramp’s face and one center mass just to show her sincerity.  Being too royal to dig a hole for the tramp herself, she summoned a Mr Clean.  The bot arrived on the scene.  It showed great design features.  It fed the bum’s body into its incinerator chamber at good speed. Once the body was a heap of DNA-free ash, the bot surveyed the area for traces of the decedent’s DNA, torching any areas that showed any tramp remnants.  

Even though Constance admired the efficiency of this Mr Clean, she admitted to herself that she missed the pleasure of just letting a body rot where she shot it.  A putrifying body is the best “no trespassing” sign.  Ever since seeing a movie on Jimmy Hoffa, Constance also had an adored the old method of hiding a body by making it a cornerstone in a skyscraper. The bots method seemed a wee impersonal.

Gentle readers, you can picture Wolverine’s displeasure.  To my surprise, Peregrine Zoomed me with details of it.  Peretrine viewed the incident as high comedy. 

Wolverine had called Peregrine to complain about Constance.  When he came in on Dead Tramp’s Day from a long day of scheming, he saw Constance sitting in one of his Wegner Oculus Chair in front of his Wegner coffee table cleaning her Python.  An array of her preferred Hoppe’s supplies, a beloved bore snake and q-tips were scattered on his handsome Wegner table.  She was doing a meticulous cleaning of the Python.  Because Wolverine knew full well that Constance disliked dirtying her Pythons by “wasting” ammo on inanimate objects, he asked her, “Who or what is dead?”

“Who knew you were such a humanist,” giggled Constance.  “I suppose nowadays you’ve taken to living on a higher moral plane, now that you’ve got no younger boys at Eton to bugger.”  

Peregrine was laughing as he talked.  “Poor Wolverine.  You know how mums are.  They know how to push a son’s buttons because they installed them. So, you know Wolverine demanded to know whom she had shot dead.”

I was invited to consider Constance’s smile as she said, “Nobody, just some bum.”  

Her description reduced Wolverine to logic.  “If it were a nobody, neither of us would have a mess to clean up.”

“Oh,” she retorted, “Fret not.  Mr Clean took care of the mess. Now the body is indeed nobody,”

As Peregrine told me this, he did a pantomime of Constance reassembling her Python and spinning its cylinder.  He then pantomimed Constance releasing the cylinder and reloading her Python.  

Peregrine then demonstrated Wolverine’s indignation.

In his best Wolverine voice, Peregrine shouted, “I have major concerns and you muck up the works with your amateur kill of vagabond hillbillies?  You know I control the population of local rabble with my bots.  I wonder how many people heard the shot?  You’ve never had any control of your greedy appetite. mummy. It’s gross.”  

To show me Constance’s reply, Peregrine gazed at his nails, gave a toothy smile, then rolled his eyes.

Then Peregrine stopped being funny.  He told he called to tell me that Wolverine told Constance she was obviously bored and would be happier visiting St Louis, a city with good restaurants and almost adequate shopping.  He also me told how happy you would be, Crocky, to see her.

“Happy?” I thought, about as happy somebody is to get a visit from Vlad the Impaler or a nunnery to have a visit from the Marquis de Sade and his entourage.

But if Wolverine wondered how many people heard the shot, it turned out the answer was “only one.”  Uncle Cornpone heard it.