Helicopter somehow acquired and Detective Pilchard somehow able to fly it (don't ask, just enjoy the story and be thankful that it's almost over) our inexplicably airborne heroes arrived at Trifle City Reservoir. Due to all the sewers the great concrete bladder usually fed being congested with much sticky gum, the reservoir was overflowing, brimmed to the point of bursting!

  Just as our hero had anticipated.

  “Take us in low over the reservoir's surface, detective! Right down to the water,” Crumpet-Hands Man yelled at the back of his partner's head due to the latter sitting sideways, through necessity, in the pilot's seat. Our hero raised his voice the more so as to be heard above the whir of the engine, screamed, “Lower detective,” as he climbed from the cockpit, opened and leaned out from the passenger-side door. “Quickly detective! Bring us about!”

  “About where?” the detective asked.

  “About there,” the hero replied with the obligatory point, the helicopter's skids but-metres from the reservoir's waterline. “That's it. Just a little lower, if you can.”

  The detective griped the helicopter's flight stick, eased the whirly vehicle down, inch by delicate inch. Our hero went on instructing, making the obligatory crumpet-hand-gesture, “Down, down a bit more. A little lower. Yes, that's it... Good... Just a little lowe–*gurgle-gurgle–gur–”

  Only when he noticed the disgruntled fish swimming around his bubble-blinking ears did Detective Pilchard realised he'd descended the helicopter a little too low...

  Having adjusted to a more breathable altitude, a few feet above the water's surface, the detective asked what his partner required him to do next. “Just hold her steady,” he with the crumpet hands replied, climbing down from the helicopter's fuselage and proceeding to dangle upside-down via the skids. “Be sure to clasp the controls firmly, my dear detective. We are about to take on a lot of additional weight.”

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  “Like the pasties?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  With the detective-come-somehow-helicopter pilot watching on with anxious ears, the inverted figure of Crumpet-Hands Man reached down into the reservoir and plunged his crumpets into the briny waters. He closed his eyes, concentrated, placed himself into a trance-like state; then he began to suck.

  Or rather, absorb...

  By the time he'd finished his suckering-come-absorbering our hero's hands had quadruple-quadrupled in size, swollen something massive akin to two bloated carbohydrate-conkers swinging from a pair of wet shoelaces. Such was the level of absorption – gallons! – there was barely enough water left in the reservoir to keep the disgruntled fish afloat.

  “That's the lot! That's all the water I can hold,” our upturned waterlogged hero yelled. “Take us back to the city, detective. Post-haste!”

  Post-duly the detective heaved back on the flight stick, swung the helicopter city-wards. “Yes! To victory!” Crumpet-Hands Man hurrahed, the wind rustling his cape around his face. “With my super watery crumpets we can now defeat that horrid Gumma-Mumma!”

  “Yes!” his partner said.

  “I'm glad you agree, detective.”

  “Oh, sorry, I thought I heard you trod. I must've gotten my foot caught under the pedals,” the detective blushed. He slammed the helicopter into overdrive. “Now hold tight while I throw us onwards! I'll have us back to the city in no time, don't you worry!”

  Three hours later...

  “This is the mill,” replied a genuine run-of-the-mill mill worker. Up the 'copter was thrown. Three more hours later...

  “This is still the mill, lads.”

  “Yes!”

  “Much further to go?” our hero retched.

  “Wouldn't think so,” the detective burped.

  The tension was truly fantastic.