The Death of Jeffrey Winger

oh god what have i done to myself

A mournful scream, a single word, echoes off the sheer stone cliffs of Blageshteveckohcexino Six. The Inspectours voice, full of so much anguish and grief, ricochets around the valley’s bowl.

Jeffrey Winger is dead.

The Inspector kneels beside the human boy’s cold, dead body and wonders where he went wrong. He never much liked Jeffrey, but this is too cruel.

Blood pools around them, warm and sticky, turning the Inspector’s coat a grotesque red, and he lowers his forehead to Jeffrey’s. The human is colder than the Inspector ever was, and stinks of death already. Noble, arrogant Jeffrey, brought low as all men must be in death.

“I will not have it,” the Inspector whispers. “It simply will not do.”

The Inspector is a Space Master. He can do all the things.

He rises from the group, blood dripping from his hands, from his coat. Behind him, he hears Constable Wigglesworth’s nervous shuffle.

Jeffrey’s death will be avenged. But not because Jeffrey was a good person who deserves vengeance. Jeffrey was a dick who really got what he had coming. Not because Jeffrey was wrongfully slaughtered, viciously eviscerated by the cold lasers of the fearsome Blogons. Jeffrey kind of taunted them with his arrogance and brought this whole death business on himself. And certainly not because Jeffrey deserved better, or a second chance, or something equally sappy and sentimental that the Inspector really didn’t believe in.

No. No, Jeffrey’s death will be avenged for one simple, painfully transparent reason: the Inspector really wants an excuse to slaughter some Blogons.

With a hearty shout – something along the lines of For Kayaclasch! – the Inspector brandishes his Sonic Crowbar and hurls himself at the Blogons. Many hours and several thousand dead Blogons later, the Inspector emerges from the smoking, burning wreckage of their fleet, cheerfully whistling.

“Meet your quota, did you?” the Constable asks, giving the Inspector a wary once over.

And what a mess the Inspector is. Covered in the mechanical innards of the dead and dying, oil drips from his cloak, replacing Jeffrey’s blood. Grease smears alter his face, making him look like a garish toe hunter from Gesolopholorious Eighty-Three. “A little short,” the Inspector admits. “But that’s alright.”