Cowering in fear, terrified, the Heavy Hebe backs himself into a corner down inside one of the secret chambers of labyrinthine sublevel 2 under Kyiv’s central synagogue on Shota Rustaveli Street [a synagogue is a Jewish house of worship – Ed.].
The Hebe’s massive arms reach behind him to backwards embrace one of the chamber’s supporting columns, as he watches All-American Detective First Class Jack Step crush under heel yet another expensive and complex technological component of the state-of-the-art satellite spy system licensed to Hebe & Co. by Globalists, Unlimited, for agreed-upon uses.
For ‘over there!’ the Hebe cries out in his mind, ‘lies the master control panel, or what’s left of it – all broken and smashed up by a white-faced maniac with questionable, even highly dubious legal authority to be downstairs in the synagogue at all!’
“You have committed a breaking and entering!”
“Don’t think so, Hebe,” says an eerily pacific Dickerson, as Jack Step continues gleefully smashing equipment all around the synagogue’s subbasement, now regardless of whether that equipment can legitimately be identified as clearly being connected to alleged spying activity, or not, and paying The Great Big Jew no heed.
“Remember, you called us, and then took up our offer to come over…”
If “relish” (not the condiment, but the emotion; although, come to think of it, maybe the condiment as well) could be given a picture in Webster’s Dictionary, it would be Jack Step crushing the last of the satellite uplink spy nodes under his vindictive heels.
And… and… ‘over there!’ the Hebe wails and laments deeply inside himself, as more knobs, buttons, dials, and switches go flying out all over the subcellar floor from under Step’s shoe, ‘unimaginably… inconceivably… lie the mangled parts of the very satellite I’ve been assigned and authorized to use…’
“For, look! Those are undoubtedly pieces of the parabolic antenna satellite dish! And those must be the tragic remains of the power-source solar panels! Aaakh… ooohh…”
The irrefutable verity of what the Heavy Hebe is saying is all but impossible to ignore.
Truly, it is as if the entire satellite licensed to the Hebe’s use has somehow come crashing down out of the high heavens right through the synagogue roof, ending up where it could no further go, on the floor of the historic structure’s subbasement, to join the rest of the spy system’s wreckage now strewn all about the Heavy Hebe, but, seemingly miraculously, leaving the rest of the building undamaged and intact.
Not one to hanker after logic or rational explanations, Step says, albeit a little breathlessly, “Like Cicero said, Hebe, there are no miracles, so we’ll just take this occurrence at face value and leave the explaining for it to some later science – but clearly, it was provoked by your behavior…”
“My behavior?! Where is your warrant?!”
Step ignores the Hebe. He cracks another smile as he looks down upon his work: “I can’t believe what cheap shit all this actually is. Highly sophisticated, my ass.”
“Well, Step, I guess you’ve changed that classification just a little bit…”
Dirk Dickerson, his injured hands unable to have really helped Step much in his frenzy of destruction, mentally notes, not without satisfaction, that Step has done just fine all on his own.
‘Funny,’ Dickerson thinks, ‘it used to piss me off whenever Step’d plagiarize my style… or, come to think of it, steal all my story ideas, or, for that matter, go so far as to cut and paste my entire creative premise and logline into his credentials as a way of then brazenly giving himself license to call all these his own – but not anymore…’
Instead, with back shoulder leant against a wall, his arms crossed before him, Dickerson continues wryly observing the scene, musing upon the Hebe’s complete and helpless paralysis.
‘Hell,’ Dickerson further thinks, ‘this guy’s got five inches and about 200 pounds on Step. He’d have another inch easy if it wasn’t for that extra bow-bent lumbar hollow of his spine – like an old swayback horse.
‘Still, I’ve heard stories about his feats of superhuman athleticism and strength. Step himself has countlessly recounted how “This Great Big Jew” had burst into our offices and lifted up a heavy, standard-issue detective agency desk using but one arm, and yet Step had managed to bend both the Heavy Hebe’s arms behind him like unbaked pretzel dough and throw him back out into the street, where he landed face-down in a puddle of gutter mud, and to this day he remains utterly terrified of Step…’
The swinging door, sneakily camouflaged as a bookcase on its other side, through which Dickerson and Step busted into the synagogue’s subbasement, remains opened into the chamber and largely shaken of the dark volumes of the Talmudic Kabbalah and Zohar, which lie prostrated across the cellar floor, molested and bedeviled.
Like a mourning Judahite mother, the Heavy Hebe yearns to crash to his knees next to the fallen books and gather them up to his gigantic belly to lovingly and tearfully replace them on the shelves, but does not do so for fear of Step.
“Where’s that drycleaning ticket, Rebbe?”
“Wha?!”
“The sales receipt for the laundry – where is it?”
“But I, I… was forced to give up that business some time ago, because of the war… and other circumstances…”
“Why did you kill the Ferret?!”
“Aaakh! It was not me, it was your fellow goy, Steve Kowalski! He killed the Ferret!”
“Yeah, right; as if Kowalski possesses the powers to turn someone into dust…”
“Aaahh, but indeed he does; for we are not talking about some, how shall I put it, normal man, but the Ferret – who was filled… with demons! Thus, when Kowalski cast them out, having nothing else of substance left, the Ferret’s body collapsed in on itself and then flew apart…”
“Cast out demons?! Kowalski came to fight the Ferret, not exorcise him!”
“Nu… and the demons were so scared of the fight, for they saw in Kowalski an innocent fool, they immediately escaped the Ferret; hence, the dust…”
“And did they enter a herd of swine, Rebbe?”
“I… I’m afraid I don’t understand… the reference.”
“Yeah, I bet you don’t. The Ferret had a massive heart attack and fell crashing on his head…”
“Yes, for the heart attack was the demons trying to get out…”
“But you said they fled immediately…”
“Sooo… in any case, it was very fast…
“Hmm, I don’t know Rebbe. It all still sounds awfully suspi-”
Dickerson: Cut out the Looney Tunes, already…
“Nu… I thought maybe some Merrie Melodies… Mel Blanc… Bugs Bunny, perhaps…”
Now, as often happens with any of us while a larger dramatic scene is playing itself out somewhat beyond the boundaries of our own very limited involvement and personal concern, even as we have found ourselves in the moment in question as almost a happenstance, and practically due to no fault of our own, Dickerson is very lightly and entirely absentmindedly, with one hand’s thumb and forefinger, leafing through the most recent issue of The Wolf-Street Colonel, the Sunday Righteous Goyim Edition, which he now, with somewhat greater interest, begins to pick up off a giant table.
“Nooo!!!”
Breaking all fearful bonds, the Heavy Hebe lunges at Dickerson in a desperate attempt to snatch the paper away, but severe burn injuries notwithstanding, Dickerson deftly moves out of the charging Hebe’s way, like a matador, and the Hebe, with a truly heart-rending and pitiful groan, crashes bladder-first into the table.
From out of the winged rustle of newspaper pages flying up like a cape in Dickerson’s hand falls a centerfold insert, which Dickerson collects off the floor. He folds it in two and shoves it into an outer suit jacket pocket.
Step, commandeering the rest of the paper from Dickerson (having compassion for his partner’s injured hands), rolls it up lengthwise and clenches it in an angry fist.
“Lookit, Hebe,” Step says, “just stop spying on us, that’s all…” He warningly points the tube of A3 paper at the Hebe, then stuffs the tabloid cylinder into the inside chest pocket of his expensive, charcoal-gray wool suit.
Stepping over books, the detectives exit the room the same way they’d entered it – through the sneaky bookcase door, which creaks on its swivel as Dickerson elbows it aside.
With gorilla hands, the Heavy Hebe caresses and kneads his lower gorilla belly, still grimacing in pain.
Doubled over, the Heavy Hebe no longer holds back, and begins to weep.
xxx
And now, O, Greatly Respected Reader, I civilly ask that you proceed to the next frame to see what chain of incidents of around an hour, and in any case no more than two hours, before, provoked and precipitated the exploits and exertions of the frame you’ve just read…
Filed by Saint Stephan, October 29, 2025