After taking a week-long respite, partially to engage in the wedding of a pseudo-family member, partially to recover from the complete mental and physical exhaustion resultant from the hospitalization of Mr. Jo Mhama, I re-upped for another tour of duty in this endless battle of Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Idiocity.
Mhama had fallen into such an inconceivable depression as to make agonizing, death-bed sobbing look like winning a lotto jackpot while eating filet mignon on the most electrifying roller-coaster this side of Sugarcake Mountain; it was as though he began melting from the eyelids down, and with every subsequent heave of separation anxiety he would slouch floorward like a chocolate coin over a beeswax candle. Randy had agreed that removing the calamitous fedora from his possession was for the betterment of all, but neither my expert Detective Knowledge nor his awkward brain-cramp thinking had come anywhere near anticipating this. The very headgear that had turned both Randy and myself into whimpering, deplorable dimwits had been indulging in some sort of symbiotic relationship with the bed-ridden Mhama, and the only headway Randy and I had made over the last three hours was in the form of kicking it around like it was a disease-ridden raccoon carcass.
We were at a standoff, this hat and I; hands twitching at the ends of arms held loosely at our sides, fingering the metaphorical quick-draw six-shooters we held in our sepia-toned holsters, he snarling with a rage only fathomable to those with a unique disposition towards fashion, myself grunting through a clenched jaw of raw, jagged earthen rock...this wasn’t over, and it wasn’t over by a long shot I thought to myself as I thought of myself thinking to myself
selfthinkingmyselflongshotthinkingselfdeludednottheblender
THEHATWENTINTHEBLENDERCOFFEEHAT
drinkinghatno
Entry 5
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