MYSTERY: THE STRANGE, INTRIGUING CASE OF THE ERRANT TIT

Special to El Rrun-Rrun

One of the strangest, quirky cases my assistant Doctor W____ and I ever encountered we will call "The Case of the Errant Tit."

The proprietors of a popular watering hole in the dark, meandering streets and alleys in those environs in the inner city called the Jukebox Pub – a bar catering to day drinkers and bohemian spirits who prefer to congregate in establishments that cater to the lower castes, musicians, and other vagrants – called us to investigate a perplexing case. The Pub is one of those establishments where patrons listen to quaint, obscure foreign chanties and sing-alongs with an occasional shout of "Fierro! thrown in during the crescendos of certain songs.

It was during such an occasion that the owners Mr. and Mrs. C_____ noticed a disturbance in the street fronting their business and were surprised to see a well-known wastrel and bon vivant who was confused as to which gender "he" or "she" belonged in full flight. Now we shall call this thing Desmond, or Dolly, as he/she preferred to be called and as it was variously known, and was running down the sidewalk  - high heels flying - away from the chasing gendarmes who shouted at it to stop.

Of course, Desmond, or Dolly, didn't turn back and continued headlong toward the nearby tram station seeking to lose the cops in the milling crowds. He/she did, and after the tumult died down, the police had left, empty handed as usual. 

"How could Dolly outrun us in high heels?," complained a sweaty, pudgy, protector of the public order as the troop walked back toward their substation. 

The owners and some of their customers had gazed at the chase in wonderment and drifted back away from the door when Mrs. C____ looked at the side of the curb and noticed a round gelatinous mass that wiggled on the asphalt. 

"Oh, look," she pointed to her husband. "Dolly dropped one of his tits."

He picked up the unusual object and said "You know, Desmond is now one tit short. How will he/she ply her wares with one half of her bounteous mammary glands missing? I'm sure it will  cramp his/her style as she works the streets. Let's save it for him/her in case he/she comes back looking for it."

And that's how the errant tit came to lie where it is now, the bar counter at the Jukebox, where it quivers to the thumping waves of music awaiting its fleeing transgender owner to join its pair.

So if you happen to see Desmond/Dolly with a noticeable mismatching rack walking the streets of the city as he/she solicits clients, please let him/her know that it awaits its owner at said Jukebox Pub. Until then, the Dr. and I cannot close 'The Case of the Errant Tit and the Fleeing Transgender.'"