Detective Inspector Parmesan climbed out of his car and walked briskly across the grassy knoll towards the three uniformed policemen who sheltered by the ancient standing stones. At their feet he could see what was clearly a body part.

‘Hopkins, is it? I’m Parmesan.’

A tall stooping man stepped forwards. “Detective Constable Hopkins, sir. This is our victim. Well, part of him.’

‘The rest?’

‘Over there, sir. The Scene of Crime bods are piecing things together now, sir.’

Parmesan snapped on blue nitrile gloves and squatted down. ‘It looks almost too good to be true. You sure this is human and not some unfeasible waxwork?’

‘It’s a Hunk, sir.’

Parmesan let his head drop so his chin hit his chest. ‘Oh shit. Not another.’

‘We don’t think this one’s a victim of the body terrorists, sir. We have a probable perpetrator. Behind the stones.’

The Inspector stood. ‘Okay, so what do we know about this one?’

Hopkins rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘Well sir, this is…’

Parmesan held up a hand. ‘Less enthusiasm, Constable. This is a murder scene.’

‘Sorry, sir. Specifically this is a Henry…’

‘I thought you said it… he was a Hunk?’

‘Have you come across Hunks, sir. Henrys are a subgroup.’

‘You’d better explain, Hopkins. This my first case involving bepsoke epicureans.’

‘Right. Well Hunks are a subgroup of Perfectionists, focusing on an idealised view of masculinity. Henrys are an upgrade on your standard Hunk. They still have great pecs, a fairly simple ability to self-tatt and…’

‘Keep it brief, Hopkins. How’s a Henry different?’

‘A Henry has a ten pack as standard, dirigible glutes and a set of GMs that…’

‘GMs? I thought they were all genetically modified?’

‘Gluteus Maximus, sir. Their arses. They come with seven detachable versions ranging from the Norfolk – that’s substantially uncontoured with a groove rather that the more usual crack – to your Over-ripe Kardashians with a couple of novelty posteriors included for special occassions.’

‘Am I going to regret asking such as?’

‘One is the conical “Silburys” for all Druidic ceremonies – a professional Henry can ensure that, with a Silbury on each cheek, then at each Solstice the audience will be able to see the sun rise out of his…’

‘Moving on, Hopkins. So did this one have his Silburys on?’

‘No sir. This isn’t a solstice, sir.’

‘I’m sure you’ll explain. And please I don’t want to regret this. Because if I do…’

‘Got it, Inspector. It seems these Perfectionists were hired for your standard Summer Orgy. You know the sort of thing? Find some ancient stones, fill the area with some Hunks and Mers, add a band and a bar and let the sunrise, well, rise. All the yoof around here is sure to come running. Easy money.’

‘Very Greek. What happened?’

‘As far as we can ascertain it, to persuade this Hunk,’ Hopkins indicated the perfectly formed if dismembered torso by his feet, ‘the organisers hat to meet a few special demands. They had to create a fifteen person revolving sump in the middle of the stone circle…’

‘A sump?’

‘It’s your average Henrys’ preferred environment. Anywhere with oil, really…’

‘Is that why he’s glistening?’

‘Part of his gene pool… Sir? Glistening? Gene pool…? A joke, sir.’

‘What did I say about humour, Hopkins?’

‘Sir. Oil is essential. While your basic Hunk naturally extrudes a sheen…’

DI Parmesan waved his underling quiet, while doing well not to be sick. ‘Can you skip all extrusions for now? If he’s naturally oily…’

‘That’s the thing. Henrys can’t extr… they don’t seep. Their sheens are compromised. Without a sump over the course of the orgy, they might flake and we’ll… you don’t want me to explain what that means, do you?’

‘Does it involve extrusions?’

‘Amongst other bodily releases.’

‘Then I think we can assume I don’t need that level of detail. So our Henry requires his own sump to be installed. Must have cost a bit. Was this one famous?’

‘Yes sir. This Henry is… rather was one of three reigning Poseurs, specifically he’s a Tarquin by elevation and award. Apparently, Tarquins are predisposed to be noisy and brash so are perfect for boisterous gatherings such as raves, orgies and al fresco parties. They naturally haw when in groups of more than twenty.’

‘And this Tarquin… who is he?’

‘He’s currently one of three Stud Bunnies.’

‘I’m meant to understand what you’re on about, am I?’

‘No sir.’

‘Thank heavens for that. How do you know all this?’

‘My daughter sir. She watches The Stud of the Year show. You get all sorts taking part. She favours rainbow Hunks and mincing Beefcakes.’

‘Good to know, Constable.’ The older man stooped over the bare torso examining a chiselled intercostal. ‘Who’d want to be perfect?’

‘Makes good TV, sir. Whoever’s voted to be King Stud is made.’

‘Let’s check how the Socos are doing.’ They walked behind the stones to a group of white clad figures bent over various white sheets. To one side three rather bored uniformed police officers kept a dubious eye on a group of men relentlessly combing their hair and a tall angular unfeasibly thin woman obsessively adding and then removing lipstick.

Parmesan lifted the nearest sheet, revealing a beautifully manicured hand which lay adjacent to its recently waxed arm which in turn was severed from its torso. ‘And if they’re not chosen? Are there lesser Studs?’

‘Well, they’re your stud bunnies sir. This Tarquin was the Stud Spare in last year’s show. Second place sir. He was made for life.’

Parmesan looked up, grimacing. ‘What’s that entail?’

‘Endless parties, sex and cocktails.’

‘Sounds exhausting.’

‘Oh they’re looked after. Monthly protein infusions, and an annual penile retread.’

‘Not a bad life, I suppose. If that’s your thing.’

‘It’s certainly short.’

‘Are we talking his life or his thingy?’

‘Both sir.’

‘I’m not sure I’d be able to retain my enthusiasm.’

‘Me neither. I think random criminality and a Horlicks at bedtime will do me.’

‘So, we have a suspect?’

‘A Brittle, sir. That one redoing her face. Forensics say her sequins are all over the stiff.’

‘That’s a rather tasteless choice of aphorism, constable.’

‘Sorry sir. It just slipped out.’

‘I’ll allow that once, Hopkins, but not again.’

‘Thank you, sir. The suspect says he insulted her. Wouldn’t accept her flirt. Apparently he told her he had his hands full with a party of Half-Brazens who free diving in his sump and she told him he had no reason to be so cocky…’

‘You’re making this up. How on earth did she manage to fillet him?’

‘Oh that’s the thing with these over modified Perfectionists. All she had to do stress him out and like all hype-senates he just went to pieces.’

‘I suppose I’d better interview her.’

‘Given this isn’t you usual milieu sir, I’ve prepared this. Thought it might help.’

‘What is it?’’

‘A set of chat-up-line deflectors. Brittles are professionally adapted to seduce, sir and any flirting will have been weaponised. This way you’ll be able to question her and avoid Mrs Parmesan sending you for an sti test later.’

‘Thank you for that, Hopkins. Let’s get this done. I need to get back to the office as soon as…’

‘You going to charge her, sir?’

‘You can do that. I’m putting in for a transfer to traffic.’

This, rather unbelievably was generated when I saw this weeks #writephoto prompt.