The Lion burst into my office like a train. “Ya gotta help me, Heck!” he said. “Ya gotta help me-he-he-hehehee”

“What seems to be the problem?” I queried.

“It’s the Woodsman! He’s dehehehead. I kikikilled him!”

“Now calm down,” I said. “Where is he? What happened?”

The Lion began his story, still sobbing “I was just having a drink, and he came by and told me to stop, it wasn’t good for me.” He hiccuped, then continued. “I didn’t want to stop, ‘cause I was missing Dorthy so bad.”

He’d been down right depressed.

The Lion continued. “But he told me, and told me to stop, and I think he touched me on the neck, ‘cause I felt metal and the next thing I knew I was standing over the Woodsman and his hheart, his hheart, was impaled on my claws and everyone in the bar was ddead!”

So he killed the whole bar, and he wasn’t on the run, had in fact brought himself to the closest thing this town had to a regular police force? Sheesh, that takes some guilt. I decided it was time to check out the crime scene.