The xylophone bars are carved from the bone of a Shanidar Neanderthal that she stole from the Natural Museum of Men. Ping. She strikes them with her petrified whale penis mallet. Pang. She thinks the universe unkind for precluding the construction of a vaginal mallet. Pong. How could a vagina be used as a club? Pong.

Her name is Maribel Farnsworth Junior the Third. Ping. Please appreciate her xylophone skills. Pong.

The resonator tube blasts her message to the cops. Ping. The song is entitled, "Returning to the Scene." Pang. Her composition has now been performed at seven different crime venues. Pong.

"Be quiet. There's a dead man," yells the cop. Ping. That's what they always yell. Pong.

Maribel drops the mallet and presses her hands against the bars. Ping. The air inside the resonator no longer vibrates, no longer breathes, no longer sings out. The pong is gone.

Oncoming headlights project a blank screen across a cop's torso. Maribel whispers a ping and pushes the tip of her index finger past her extended elbow, hoping to create a shadow puppet of a woman's breast against the cop's chest.

The puppet doesn't take. Fortunately, the cops seem to be versed in the art of creating boob silhouettes. They pass out high fives. With erections pushing against their zippers, they walk toward Maribel. "You know how to get a guy's attention. We're big fans of the nipple."

She holds out her wrists. "Arrest me."

"Oooh, she likes it kinky."

"Focus, guys."

They stare at her breasts. "We are." They'll only battle her inside the cave.

She sighs and rubs their sloping foreheads. One at a time she'll take them into her bed, and when they fall asleep, she'll kegel their necks with handcuffs, each squeeze exponentially longer than the previous. Ping. Pang. Pong.