Chainsaw McCulloch, they called him. The toughest cop 1968 London had to offer. He'd cut through the wood of crime like, well, a chain saw.

"McCulloch!" yelled the captain. "Where's McCulloch!"

"He's out on the street, man," answered Ralph d'Eater. "Like all good cops."

The captain had no answer. But behind his mustache, he fumed.

Across town, at "Trees" Forrester's pub, McCulloch was cutting them down like cordwood, his automatic oiler so lubricated he wouldn't have to stop for 12-15 minutes. And "Trees" knew it, too.

"McCulloch!" shouted "Trees". "Drop that 16-inch bar and come over here to my bar. What good does all this fighting do? Let me give you a 'special' envelope that'll add a few pounds to your wallet."

"No dice, 'Trees'," replied McCulloch. "My ancestor, Trimmer, he never gave in. And neither will I. Although I could, in milliseconds, thanks to my hand guard and guide bar that'll stop the chain if there's a kickback."

"Curse you, Chainsaw!" shouted "Trees" as he fled towards the door. A waiting Hillman Minx was outside. But Chainsaw just laughed.

"Bet my captain's gonna give me what for if I don't bring you in, 'Trees'. It's a good thing this particular chainsaw has a safety trigger that prevents accidental acceleration."

And, without explaining what that meant, McCulloch threw the punch that sent "Trees" falling.

"Looks like it's one more for the woodpile, boys," gloated McCulloch. But no one could hear him. He'd knocked everyone unconscious.

Back to top