The Case Against Randolph Dixon-Hertz - Entry 8

My enthusiasm was dwindling like the ego of a boat-captain who is unable to tie a proper fisherman’s knot; relief of a comedic-nature was nowhere in sight as I trudged from coffee-shop to coffee-shop in search of but ONE decent cup of coffee...I was, most assuredly, wasting time in my dawdling, finding it harder and harder to open up the news-clippings I had taken from Randy’s desk - this trepidation had nothing to do with what possible information I’d find, and much more to do with the myriad ways in which that book on genealogy had frightened me into avoiding the printed word in the same way I would flee from a dump-truck with harpoons for headlights.

The importance, first and foremost, of getting Randy out of jail was drenching my brain with the corrosive-acid of Obligation, and as that astringent-fluid dissolved the logic that would, quite often, keep me from plotting prison break-ins, the plan was rapidly forming regardless...but it involved braving the psychological elements that hung over the Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Office like a guillotine-blade. Would I return to find the office itself a smoldering pile of wood-planks and three-legged chairs?

It made no difference, at that point - like an emaciated grizzly-bear downwind from a station-wagon full of co-eds, I, too, was going to rip into the metaphorical hard-metal and glass of what was preventing me from fixing myself up proper...unlike the grizzly-bear, however, all I needed was a steaming batch of Bangor-Bangkok-Bang’em-up Coffee, and since that was both the "Go Get ‘Em, Tiger" and "Mixed-Metaphors" blend, I was sure that I would be ready for the former, the latter, and all similes in between.

Entry 9