None of us intended to be in the EECS Intermural Soccer Championships. Our only plan was to play a little soccer, lose, then make ironic and funny comments about losing using Monty Python and Comedy Central quotes. Well, Johnny Eighth-floor had wanted to win, but Johnny loves a stupid challenge. He earned his name breaking into the Eighth floor of Soda Hall on a dare, which no one had ever done before, because Soda only has seven floors.

Once we decided to play we had signed up for the usual EECS Co-Ed team, 8 guys and 1 girl. We had argued that since we all had female Everquest characters, we should get an exception for being all male, but then Terry announced she was a girl. Which answered a lot of unresolved questions about Terry, but raised plenty more, believe me.

We wouldn’t have won at all if it weren’t for our star player, the MasterBerator. A semester away from graduating and still several meters shy of ever touching a girl, he was able to convert 22 years of sexual frustration into pure speed and agility. Coach Jurgen would tell him, “OK, penetrate their defenses, work it around a little bit in the end zone, then shoot to score.” Then MB would get this look in his eye and run off. Most of the time the other Goalie wouldn’t even touch a ball he kicked unless there were gloves involved. And EECS Goalies don’t like gloves because they make for chappy hands. MB’s only problem was that he didn’t look to score off a pass, because it “made for a weird metaphor.”

But now we were in the Championship against Team Better then the Crips and Bloods put Together Times a Google. “A Google as in the search engine company, or googol as in a unit of quantity equal to 10100?” we asked. “Both,” they sneered at us. A shiver ran down our hairless chins. They had the best players. Jimmy the Sneed. Rohit the Paladin’s Paladin. Eric the Mirror, so pasty white that in direct sunlight he became impossible to look at without going blind. And worst of all, they had The Babe, the sexiest girl in EECS department, 160 pounds of sheer desire. No one could shoot at The Babe. Our collective masturbation fantasy where we accidentally snuck into the same shower stall would be ruined.

Worst of all, MB was out of the game. He had strained his pelvis making lewd gestures towards female passersby.

And then the game was on. “Octagonal formation!” shouted Coach J, and we all shuffled into position, looking around to make sure we had gotten the angles exactly correct. The Babe helped them out from the backfield by pouting with lipstick on. Fortunately, we had had the foresight to wear special underpants, allowing us to run despite straining erections. I checked one of my watches. Two minutes in. Crap.

The game continued like that for a long time. But with 10 minutes to go, we were all practically collapsing. I even had a charley horse in my left hand, the only part of me that gets any workout. Finally, Terry took matters into her own hands. She marched over to where MB was rocking back and forth, holding an ice pack to a crotch the size of the Two Towers Bonus DVD pack, with 20 hours of special features. Putting his hand on where her boobs probably were, she shouted “There! You touched a girl! Booooooooobs!”

MasterBerator sprung up like a phallic metaphor. Racing onto the field, he grabbed the ball and worked his way past their entire field. He sped past Caffeine Jack, and did such a good juke past Eric the Virgin that he had to add ‘Probably’ to his nickname.

That left only The Babe, who looked cute and determined. And MB was racing right for her. I realized his plan. “Don’t do it, MB! If you run into her, she’ll be in control!” And, in fact, The Babe looked braced for MB, waiting to ensnare his balls. Ball. But then, as he was just about to crash, MB neatly stepped to the side, waited for The Babe to lunge where he had been, then scored on her from behind. 1-0, and time expired. “Was it good for you too?” he asked The Babe innocently, before racing off to a bathroom stall.

And we were Champions. That night we drank until the early AM. I slipped a Mickey into Terry’s drink, but she fished it out and added it to the rest of her Disney collection. Then we called it a night and went back to Cory to finish some coding. I kissed Terry that night, too. Turned out she was a guy all along, but oh well.

The sun crept into my office like a 550 pound man with no legs. It crawled upward on my Gin bottle GAA Winner’s Cup, because I’m a real Winner–and slowly stopped on my eyes. Behind the eyelids two dozen maraca players were turning up the volume, and the steady thud of the headache was starting to sound like my ex-wife stomping up the stairs, asking for her alimony check. I don’t know how she was getting alimony. We don’t have any kids. There’s no room for kids in my life. Then I realized that I don’t know what alimony means. My name is Mister Fields. I’m a Mall Detective.

It was strange that the sun was hitting me, since I was in my office in floor 1 of ShadyDales Mall. The sun hasn’t hit anything in the ‘Dales since Old Man Developer Jenkins decided that all the sin and vice of a suburban Mall could be accomplished much better under fluorescent lighting. I opened my eyes. My Secretary, Karla, was pointing a flashlight right in my face. “Visitor, jackass,” she snapped, using the cute pet name she has for me. I considered calling her “sweetcheeks” or something, but the mall tenant regulations have very strict sexual harassment policies. You have to attend a class and everything.

On cue, Jamba Juice Johnny walked through the door, barely noticing that I looked like the “After” photo in an ad for high caliber revolvers. Triple-J is one of my best weasels. He’s got a face like people wouldn’t stop punching him as a baby, but he knows how to get info. “Mango Jamba?” “Yes,” the patsy will say, only half paying attention. “Vita boost?” “Yes.” “Did you shoot Stevie Strizzis?” “Yes…. What?”

He looked at me soberly, which was good, because I was looking at him alcoholically. “Better get down to Pottery Barn,” he said. I cursed, hangover disappearing like Learningsmith from next to Macy’s. Pottery Barn meant trouble. When someone needed to drop a horribly mangled body, something in the human psyche always says “Put it in front of Pottery Barn.”

By the time I got there, the Mall Cops had beat me to the scene, like I was a red-headed stepchild. It was the sixth worst murder I’d seen in front of the Barn. Both arms torn half off. The eyeballs skewered by inch-thick pokers. The guts were opened up and arranged in a circular fashion around the destroyed torso.

I chewed my Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick thoughtfully.

Mall Cop Forensic Examiner Stacy Williams was there, taking measurements of the chest wounds. Cute kid, Stacy. Blonde. Athletic. 16. She told me once at Applebee’s that she was going to buy a Jetta with her summer job money. I don’t know if she expected to be hip deep in gushing red blood. I had to step back or my Nikes would get wet. They were good Nikes. I got them from Foot Locker for solving the mystery of the New Balance Killings.

Even worse, Mall Cop Lieutenant Atkins was apparently handling this one. 300 cops in this mall and I drew the only one I’d exposed as a slasher pedophile, in the Disney Store Mystery. He was still on the Force, of course. That’s the Teal Wall of Silence for you. More corrupt then a floppy disk from 1984 put through a blender. I knew for a fact that they ran a Gambling and Prostitution ring out of Cinnabon. Client of mine found more then cinammon in his Minibon. The only good cop was my friend Officer Martinson, who was only in the game because being a Mall Cop went back five generations in his family.

“Hey Atkins,” I jeered, “they just released Finding Nemo on DVD. Why don’t you go drool over the crowds at EB while a real detective takes care of this one?”

Atkins smiled, or that is, his facial muscles perked upwards briefly. “Fields, go blow your wad elsewhere. Or better yet, why don’t you take your friend Martinson and book some private time in the Macy’s bathroom.”

“Where is Martinson?” I asked.

“Right there,” he nodded, pointing to the mangled corpse on the floor.

It was Martinson alright. The starched uniform. The heavy features. The way his head was only attached by what was left of his spinal cord. Well, that part was new.

So. A cop-killer. And the cops didn’t care. And I was probably next. My only friend left in the world was a pistol I wasn’t allowed to keep loaded due to stringent shopper safety rules. That and gin. It looked like I was up against a battle for my life.

I took another bite from my Wetzel Pretzel.