Nothing to see here, move on

"What in the hell do you think happened here?" the gravely voiced officer asked crime scene investigator Blueberry.

Daniel Blueberry was a stone-faced sixty year old senior detective. He'd worked all the big cases that had come through his division. In Southern California, Los Angeles, in particular, that came to a substantial number of name-brand, recognizable murder cases. The Black Dahlia, the OJ Simpson case, Manson et al, and a whole bunch more. You name it, he'd worked it.

An expert in several different martial arts, he stood an imposing six foot three and weighed 235 pounds, most of that muscle and big, strong bones. No one ever thought to express amusement at his funny name, or if they did, they kept their smirk on the inside, in his presence at least.

"Hard to tell," Blueberry said tersely. "Going to take time to do the physics. Gotta retrace the approximate trail of destruction back to its point of origin. Maybe we can see what the trigger was. At this point it just looks like an axe murderer stumbled into this home, and upon finding it unoccupied and not harboring any potential victims, became frustrated and took to smashing up the joint."

"Where was the occupant? Is he still MIA? Was no one home at the time of the incident?" the officer asked.

"No sign of blood. But there could have been a struggle. It looks as if two blundering axe wielders went on a rampage, taking swings at everything but one another. But there was someone home..." said the detective, cryptically. "The Cats. I bet they saw everything from under that couch."

From under the couch you could just see two sets of greenish yellow eyes glowing faintly, like dim car headlights after the battery has run down a bit. Indistinguishable from the darkness, was the form of two medium-hair dilute calico siblings, sisters Eddie and Patsy, AKA "The Cats." 

One had only to say, "The Cats," and it was immediately clear who you were referring to, as they were both famous internet sensations and had claimed that moniker two years in a row. First there was the Dancing Baby, then Star Wars Kid, Double Rainbow Guy, Bigfoot Mom, Bat Dad and now, "The Cats."

"Yeah, you're right. The couch is the least damaged item in the whole house. It looks like someone took a baseball bat to most everything else," the officer agreed.

Of course no one was going to harm the kitties. That went without saying. Even a bumbling axe-psycho would know better than that. Everyone knew exactly who these kitties were, where they lived and every annoying little detail about them. 

"It's no wonder they were hiding out under the couch," said Blueberry. "They must have mistaken crazy axe murderer guy for the paparazzi. Don't know which is worse, really. At least the axe murderer, when he's done, will go away. Sure, he's gonna smash up the place, maybe kill you. But that's all. Those damn paparazzi just keep coming back. They're like rats. Or cockroaches. It's a living hell, and even when you're dead, they won't leave you alone." 

Blueberry's disdain for the press went way back. In his mind, in the hierarchical order of life forms, paparazzi were lower down the food chain than even rodents or arthropods, something between fecal waste or the bacteria that feed on it. Perhaps it stemmed from the intrinsically opposed nature of their respective professions. You have cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, dogs and cats--and then there was Blueberry vs. The Press. 

Many times I'd tried my hardest to persuade the veteran investigator to let it go, but he couldn't. 

Oh, have I forgotten to introduce myself? It's kind of late at this point to be dropping in unannounced. Let me correct that. 

Hi, I'm Blastwich Ballweavil. They call me BB, since the rest is too confusing. And it's also a diminutive swipe at my testicles, the size of which none of the "they" that call me that should be knowing anything about, thank you very much. My privates are private. I'm a private guy. Not a private eye, ha. Private joke. I guess that's what you get for thinking out loud.

Ok, but enough about me. Back to Blueberry and the case of the smashed up domicile. 

It was a split level, stick built cabin-style home, high ceilings with lightly stained pine roof boards and exposed beams, painted a dark brown. The axe guy never got as far as the ceiling, apparently, since the wood was still in decent enough condition, despite a few cobwebs and overswipes here and there with a paint roller. 

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Unfinished, due to -- it was stupid. And it wasn't really going anywhere, anyway. Sorry, Blueberry.