Rupert Weard and the Case of the Adamant Annihilist By Rob Gillham Rupert Weard leapt into the drawing room, escaping a hallway dense with impossibly angled, tentacular horrors trying to sell him insurance. "Ye gods, it's bedlam out there," he said. "Just look at this, Boswell." He hurled his folded newspaper at me like a frisbee. I occupied my usual spot on the rug by the fireplace. I'd been happily finishing off the remains of a cauliflower when the unwanted periodical came streaking across the room, forcing me to hop into frantic evasive action. "Oi!" I said, coughing up half-chewed bits of Brassica oleracea. "Do you mind? That was my breakfast." "It's eleven o'clock, you idle rabbit." Rupert slammed the door firmly shut on a particularly determined sales rep attempting to squeeze its incompatible geometry into the room.