The "Jo Mhama" Case - Entry 10

I awoke to a tremendous ringing in my ears. I tossed, it followed; I turned, it again followed...until I realized that I had been holding my Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Portable Home-Office Supraphone in the folds of my Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Bedtime Linens that were comfortably, and elegantly, housing my Cottonmouth Lazabout Pillow from the same aforementioned line of decadent stratums.

I had been sleeping for the better part of the last week, so a solid cobweb-releasing shake of the head left me both euphorically woozy and conversational enough to answer the endlessly-ringing Supraphone. Open chest-wound heavy-breathing greeted me like a mini-cyclone of sucking air in my earpiece, and I not only knew that Randy was the perpetrator of the wake-up-call audio hijinks I was resentfully enjoying, but I was also certain that all was briskly returning to the orthodoxical realm of acceptable, day-to-day behaviour then it had been for a very, very long time.

So it seemed, at least. With immediate retrospect hovering in the too-soon-coming hindsight, the origins of Joquain Andreas Mhama and his spectacular transformation into an apathetic, yarn-spinning old man and back into a pretense-less fedora had left me equal parts wonder and debility...the latter winning out over the former by an almost eight-to-one margin. Mystery there may well still be, but whatever may come of Jo Mhama in the future takes an instantaneous backseat to a good, loving meal and 7-8 glasses of bourbon at One Duke...which is, as I can see by the hastily-arranged manila placards haphazardly stuck to the newspaper-covered windows, closed.
DAMN it.