His white mop of hair represents the clean purity of his profession. The hard-working man, his face lined with the shared sufferings of his too impoverished and diseased patients, many of whom he treats pro bonum and favours above his own paying clients, watches with breaking heart as the inoperable cancer eats the old dear man, looks on with pity as the diabetic woman fades into the shadows. He buries his face in his gnarled and ancient hands, unhappy mind ringing with the suffering he witnesses relentlessly.
Unable to face the stark fragility of life, he becomes determined to find some means to lift the spirits of the nation, and yes, to laugh in the face of the ogre of death and disease! He takes to smoking cigars, puffing and laughing with happiness. This wisdom transfers itself so simply and easily to diagnosing murder that one would think, were it not for the shear grace and indeniability of his diagnoses, that his patients would suffer from neglect. In fact not so. He diagnoses each and every case. When the murderer is behind bars, he takes a standard scalpel and excises the offending disease and then leaps and clicks his heels in the air.
For unknown reasons the hero of this latter series became known as Doctor Shlong to Big Pinkians. Other obscure things happened in that house that we should narrate in the fullness of time. But they shall not become less obscure for the telling.