PART TWO OF A TWO-PART SERIES

The SDA Rises to the Challenge

Cereal boxes, stakeouts, and threats to the Cap’n’s manhood

I wonder who’s next! Created in NightCafe as imagined by Raine Lore

Previously: The newly re-formed SDA hunts for a Cereal Killer terrorising early-morning breakfasters. Sheila Crumpet, a maverick from North of the Black Stump, assists with the investigation.

Sheila knew a lot of case details, which had been passed on to her by M. Apparently, the AAFFP deemed the Cereal Killer case to be out of their lofty purview because, frankly, it was too silly to waste on real investigators with real sleuthing ability, so they shunted it down the line to the SDA. The widely held belief among AAFFP agents was that the SDA was incapable of resolving anything beyond a missing pension payment.

“I’m solving this case if it kills me,” grumbled Crunch in a fit of pique, “coz I can’t stand this stupid SDA bullshit, and I don’t belong with a bunch of has-been, adult-diaper-wearing nuckfuckles!”

Arthur looked positively offended, and I wondered if there was something he hadn’t been sharing.

“It may well be the death of you if you keep insisting on predawn starts,” laughed Sheila. “The Cereal offender will put an end to your cap’n-ing over your coffee and Weetbix.”

She laughed, slapping Crunch heartily on his back. The sudden pummeling released a cloud of dust and stink that had been happily ensconced in Crunch’s outerwear for God knows how long.

On its immediate release, the rest of us began choking and wheezing.

“I won’t be any nut job’s easy target,” he mumbled, glaring at Sheila for daring to touch him. He patted his sidearm, and I wondered if he was thinking of the killer or Sheila. He glanced up in response to our asthmatic chorus.

“What’s got into you lot? God, I hope I cark it before I get old!”

“No probs,” retorted Sheila between gasps, giving Crunch the evil eye.

By the end of the day, we had summarised the case and planned a course of action.

We knew that the Cereal killer was a local because Sheila’s neatly organised murder board, now resplendent with names, addresses and TOD of the victims, verified they were all local to the area.

The crimes were exactly one week apart, and with careful consideration, Sheila determined that the next one would be in a day or so, and most likely on Wattle Street, about two blocks from the SDA.

“Well…” began Crunch, as he pushed back his chair and deliberately stood on Dingo’s tail. Dingo remained stoically mute, returning the favour with a casual, but vicious nip to Crunch’s exposed ankle. Crunch, however, did not remain stoically silent. He yelped like a six-year-old, then reflexively slammed his knee into the corner of the desk, which tore another screech of pain from his throat.

Arthur and I repressed giggles.

Sheila muttered, “Good dog, Dingo,” whereupon Dingo rose languidly to stand behind Sheila, sensing that protection-by-owner was probably a good option.

“What were you about to say, Cap’n?” asked Arthur, still struggling to remain mirthless, head lowered, feigning intense interest in his shoelaces.

Hopping, rubbing at his mangled ankle whilst glaring at both Sheila and Dingo, Crunch declared, “By God, if I ever get you alone out the back of my shed…”

Dingo’s Revenge. NightCafe and Raine Lore

Sheila shuddered. “No, thank you. Did you have something to add?”

“You all effin’ meet here tomorrow at dawn!” Crunch continued to hop, rub, and throw wretched looks, “Bring your cars. We’re goin’ on a stakeout. Better leave your nasty dog at home, Crumpet.”

Sheila laughed her raucous, dismissive laugh. “And miss out on Dingo’s revenge snacks? I don’t think so, Crunch.” She scratched her forehead, lifting her hat a fraction as she dug for an invisible itch.

Crunch began to herd us out of the shed, through the still-open doorway. I figured he had no lodgings and was planning to stay in the shed overnight.

“See you guys at 10.00am,” Sheila grinned, then threw a leaving comment over her shoulder to Crunch. “This place better be the duck’s nuts when we get here in the mornin’. Don’t forget, M is a cobber of mine.”

Sheila laughed again, setting off a flock of kookaburras roosting in a nearby white gum. The birds’ laughter echoed her own in both cadence and volume.

“See you at 6am,” Sheila whispered. “Better get an early start, but don’t tell Cap’n Guts-ache I said so.”

We agreed an early meetup was warranted, considering we were trying to catch a cereal killer who butchered brekkie eaters at the crack of dawn.

Sheila hoisted herself nimbly into her ute and gunned the engine.

“Up, Dingo!” she hollered.

Her beloved pet sailed effortlessly through the air to land on all fours on the vehicle’s tray just as it was pulling away.

Sheila yelled, “Show off!” and waved exuberantly through her open window as she drifted her way down the road.

“Bloody hell,” laughed Arthur. “The woman is exhausting. Crunch was right, though; she’s as sharp as a tack.”

“She’s a corker,” I agreed, relishing the idea of working the next day with the incredible Sheila.

Sheila discovers mischief afoot

Sheila was waiting in her ute for us to arrive, bang on 6am the next day. The moment she spotted our car, she leapt from her ute and scrambled to our driver’s side window.

I noted that Dingo was sitting on high alert inside the cab.

Sounding breathless, Sheila grabbed Arthur’s arm, urgently nodding to me. “We gotta go look for Crunchy…”

Uh oh, Crunchy? Something was up!

“He’s not here — the shed door is open, a whole new mess spread around from a fight, I reckon. His coffee is still warm. We gotta drive around the neighbourhood. Check out Wattle Street. Follow me!”

She raced back to her ute, gunned it up, performed a reckless U-ey and wrestled the truck to stability as she screeched off down the road.

Arthur was in hot pursuit as I clung desperately to both sides of my seat, my breakfast rose to greet my throat and slid back again. Our coffees wobbled out of their holders, scolding our thighs.

This was bloody bonza! I felt truly alive for the first time in 15 years!

Arthur made an ineffectual swipe at his burning thigh, managing to grin and look gravely concerned at the same time. I knew his emotions were mirroring mine.

“Cap’n Crunch was the next target! The Cereal Killer has ‘im!” he yelled above the protests of our engine.

“He’ll be okay,” I yelled back. “He’s a pretty tough ol’ bugger!”

Arthur nodded, keeping his attention on his horribly rusty driving maneuvers.

Spotting Sheila’s ute pulled in haphazardly ahead, we saw her belting down the road with Dingo matching her pace.

Something was up!

Arthur decided running wasn’t in our aging best interests. He drove to catch up to Sheila, slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing her fleeing backside.

“Keep going!” she screamed, “The bastard has ‘im down there!”

Not at all sure which bastard had which, Arthur gunned it again, passing Sheila until we solved the bastard issue.

Crunch was in full pursuit of a … WTF?? … an anthropomorphic cereal box? The box’s appendages were pumping furiously, quite comically, I thought, but the Cap’n was almost on it. We leapt from our car (if untangling one’s stiff, rheumaticky legs and limping until we unseized counts as leaping) just as Sheila drew level at the exact time of our unseizing.

The next few seconds had our blood banging in our ears. The three of us pounded along (Arthur and I would suffer grievous bodily everything on the morrow) just as Crunch threw himself at the cereal box. He managed a particularly spectacular mid-air tackle, crashing to the ground on top of the Cereal Killer. The killer was immediately crunched, and Crunch was immediately winded.

“That blighter’s well and truly cactus,” muttered Arthur. I was unsure which of the blighters my beloved was referring to, but as the only blighter moaning was the Cap’n, I assumed Arthur meant the mangled box lying beneath said Crunch.

Sheila was sweating, leaning forward and recovering with hands on knees, breathing shallowly.

“Is Crunchy okay?” she managed through gaspy breaths.

I knelt to help the Cap’n just as he revived and spluttered, “Crunchy’s fine,” croaking rancid, death breath into my face.

Sheila delivered a swift kick to Crunch’s still Dingo-damaged ankle.

“God help me, you idiot, if I ever hear you tell of the time I called you Crunchy, you can re-number your testicles!”

As Crunch howled in protest, Sheila turned and made her unhurried way back to her ute, be-jeaned bottom swaying confidently, Dingo pattering along at her unblemished heels.

The Takedown — Image created in NightCafe as imagined by Raine Lore

Prologue:

Crunch was released and promptly disappeared somewhere in the Northern Territory. Crumpet returned to North of the Black Stump with the loveable Dingo. Arthur and I decided to stay on at the SDA with a new mission to find new old recruits. Crumpet had agreed to keep in touch — we had a book to collaborate on.

M made a special appearance at our pristine and beautifully smelling SDA headquarters, although I swear, when the wind blows a certain way, I can still smell Eau de Cap’n Crunch. On those occasions, we abandon the shed and sit outside with the much-washed, dewormed and well-fed Mongrel who had been abandoned to our care.

The upshot of M’s surprise visit was that I was prohibited from writing blog posts. From this point forward, my name and everything associated with it were Top Secret/On a Need-to-Know Basis, and social media didn’t qualify.

I understood the need to keep the verification of anthropomorphic creatures running amok in the community a secret. This horrible reality was now in the hands of a specially appointed Department of WTF. (What to Fear).

When M departed (to North of the Black Stump, I suspected), I sat Arthur down with a nice cup of cocoa and told him I intended to keep writing my erotica, as a novel.

He endured a minor stroke, but stopped fitting when I explained that Sheila had some juicy stuff she would love to see in print. She wanted to remain anonymous, insisting on the stories being labelled FICTION. I told her no problem because that’s how I label all my true stories.

Arthur attempted to object again because of our oaths to King and Country and stuff, but he saw that I was determined to write.

I sat for a moment in deep ponderance. “I think, Maudie Shadwell, for my pseudonym.”

“Mmm,” remarked Arthur, appearing offended. “I see you’ve cleverly dispensed with your real surname — Shatwell to Shadwell.”

“There’s never any room for shatty stuff in erotica, in my opinion,” I sulked.

“But isn’t Maudie Shadwell too close to your own name. I mean, M and his cronies are super sleuths, you know.”

Arthur was probably right.

I had a sudden thought. “How’s about…how’s about Madame Mavis?

It sounds bondagey to me,” mumbled Arthur.

“Ohh, yes, how titillating!” I enthused. “I could take this in a whole new direction with Sheila’s help.”

Arthur’s cheeks pinkened. “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he guffawed.

Sheila Crumpet, larrikin maverick from North ‘Of The Black Stump — Image created in NightCafe © Raine Lore 2026

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