The "Jo Mhama" Case - Entry 5

I drank the hat.

Randy, like a bullfighter hopped-up on two cups of crushed mustard-seeds, expertly combined the insipid fedora with my most expensive wad of coffee, the South Borraccan Manifest-Destiny Bourgeois-Juan De-Light, De-Licious, and as that was the “kick yourself to the curb and give yourself a big pat on the back until you’ve sprained your arm” blend, the office became a receptacle for all noise and light...

...like a frozen bee coming to with a wingful of vengeance but a head full of arguments from the corner of W5 and Fennell, I hummed around the office attempting to remain staid even though the 12oz ribeye-steak-sized tears of indefatigable sadness heaved against the inner lining of my soul like a cheetah pushing against a chain-link fence of inconceivable melancholy and dimestore turkey-bacon.

At least Jo Mhama was resting peacefully...whereas I was succumbing to the ravages of hat-poison, fighting like a buccaneer against the empirical neck-jabbing of millions of unseen fedora-feathers

ignorant acupuncturist tool-use

you quack
more coffee means more motion sickness and loud, unpalatable yelling
but coffeebadgood really bad I love blendedpsychadeliccoffeedammit

I was in need of a cold-shower detox, but try as I might,housefarI couldn’t remember the way to the Lawson Detective Agency © Brandtrademarkhome without first singing a respectful jingle to honour the hard-working rock-face sandblasters that pepper Hammertown like dust-mites in the desert:

names engraved on the rock face
that’s sure one hefty bill
pay up a
pay up a
payupablastsanders
now
breakdowndowntown

Entry 6