Randy’s photographic evidence detailing the magnitude of Tabitha Shinkleblossom’s sexual proclivities was embarrassingly complete, right down to the stirrups and velvet lasso; however, he was sent to find evidence of a different sort, details that could put Shinkleblossom away for fraud and attempted-murder, and what he gathered was of no help at all. Still, this case had gone far beyond what was expected when that filthy, expletive-laden note was first sent through the Lawson Detective Agency Hotline...the seemingly self-penned ransom note from a psychotic old woman had resulted in fundamental damages to my car, and Randy being unable to hold down solid foods. No, this case was taking me into the realm of vigilante-ism, and I was constructing a plan of insidiously malevolent revenge when Randy awoke from his slumber, muttering nonsense and looking stricken, as though he’d been forced to sit through a time-share seminar; I made up a batch of Mrs. Fandango’s Blightless Wormhole Manitoban Third-Eye Coffee, as that was the schizophrenic blend, and fed Randy into the blissful realm of Forget & Move On.
With his psychological problems on the backburner of his broken stove of a mind, Randy was able to help me concoct a "ransom note" in similar tone of the one we had received from Shinkleblossom; the plan was to throw her into a state of confusion by taking credit for the crime she had reported, the theft of her ivory cane, a crime almost certainly committed by her herself. Then, her mind reeling from the impossibility of the scenario we laid out, we would hit her where it hurt: Sending an unmarked van full of commandoes crashing into her secluded home, terrorizing the old lady with bayonets, tear gas, and violence heretofore unknown to the seniors community since the Great Social-Security Scam of 1996. I had just gotten on the phone with a few of my unemployed, lunatic, former South American commandant friends, when Randy pointed out that maybe, just maybe, attacking on old lady and promising what was likely full-scale suburban warfare was not all that conducive to solving the case at hand...the aforementioned missing ivory cane. While I agreed in principle, that the Lawson Detective Agency was, indeed, founded on the principle of solving cases on the cheap, it took some convincing to not barrel forward with plans to annihilate this sociopathic harlot, and this came quickly, as Randy reminded me that, if followed to the letter, my plans would not only be considered "illegal", but would also be frowned upon by the Detective Community at large.
Dammit, I thought, he’s right: Our image couldn’t take another hit like the infamous "You Didn’t Solve the Case and I Want My Ten Bucks Back" incident of two years ago...we were just coming out from under that rock, and I needed no further reminders of what that had done to our fledgling business. No, we would have to go at this Shinkleblossom with a softer touch, and I knew just how to do so. We headed to One Duke, where I would fill our bellies with bourbon and our minds with the plan.
Entry 7
4.02.2006
The "Expletive-Deleted" Case - Entry 5
I was enjoying the vivacious flavour of my Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Meaty-Lasagna, one of the many varied selections off the new LDA-Approved Crime-Solving Dinner Edibles Menu, when Randy came in looking as though he had not only seen a ghost, but had been beaten up by one too; small, faint fingernail-scrapes were evident on his wrists; his golf-shirt was frivolously un-tucked and rumpled; his eyes stared off vacantly, having seemingly been jarred into submission by what he had witnessed. He was returning from a "field-trip" to Tabitha Shinkleblossom’s estate, holding an armload of documents and photographs that would hopefully bolster our case against the maniacal senior who had attacked my car just a day earlier.
I asked him how he had avoided the pick-axing that had been inflicted on my car during the earlier skirmish, and he responded with a laboured blink and a quavering voice, mumbling softly that he no longer held fear in his heart, or any emotions at all, for that matter, after the ordeal he had weathered at the hands of Shinkleblossom. I looked him over with a squint, noting that he didn’t really look all that worse for wear, and his thousand-mile eyes finally looked in my direction, betraying the depth of his psychological damage. Before he even mouthed the words, I knew: The maniac geriatric had become enamoured with Randy, and he had been exposed to what no man could have been properly prepared for in the form of a crazed, blue-haired mass of wrinkled anger wrapped in leather bondage straps.
The forever-suppressed sexual-appetite that was unloaded upon him, the realization, shame, and degradation of unrelenting old-person sex, the haunting imagery burned into the frontal lobe of the scarred mind...all this was visible in those milky, lost eyes as they rolled back into his head, leaving Randy to drop his file-folder and collapse on the unyielding cement of the office. For the first time in the Lawson Detective Agency’s history, as I stared at the face-up, thankfully black-and-white picture of Tabitha Shinkleblossom covered in whipped cream and fishnet stockings, I was speechless.
Of course, this meant war; this affront, much like Randy, would not stand.
Entry 6
I asked him how he had avoided the pick-axing that had been inflicted on my car during the earlier skirmish, and he responded with a laboured blink and a quavering voice, mumbling softly that he no longer held fear in his heart, or any emotions at all, for that matter, after the ordeal he had weathered at the hands of Shinkleblossom. I looked him over with a squint, noting that he didn’t really look all that worse for wear, and his thousand-mile eyes finally looked in my direction, betraying the depth of his psychological damage. Before he even mouthed the words, I knew: The maniac geriatric had become enamoured with Randy, and he had been exposed to what no man could have been properly prepared for in the form of a crazed, blue-haired mass of wrinkled anger wrapped in leather bondage straps.
The forever-suppressed sexual-appetite that was unloaded upon him, the realization, shame, and degradation of unrelenting old-person sex, the haunting imagery burned into the frontal lobe of the scarred mind...all this was visible in those milky, lost eyes as they rolled back into his head, leaving Randy to drop his file-folder and collapse on the unyielding cement of the office. For the first time in the Lawson Detective Agency’s history, as I stared at the face-up, thankfully black-and-white picture of Tabitha Shinkleblossom covered in whipped cream and fishnet stockings, I was speechless.
Of course, this meant war; this affront, much like Randy, would not stand.
Entry 6
3.30.2006
The "Expletive-Deleted" Case - Entry 4
I pulled into the Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Driveway and caught sight of Randy waving frantically from the back door. I slammed my car into park and, still pulsating from my encounter with Ms. Shinkleblossom, I jumped the ingoing stairs three at a time before bursting through the door with atypical flair, only to find that Randy had been doing a "bit", and was just frantically waving at me for "fun".
Faster than Randy could say "just kidding", I had him bent backwards over his desk, letting my sweaty rage drip down on him from the tip of my nose...like Chinese water torture, these drips of fury were to slowly indicate, if nothing else, my exact mood in regards to shenanigans. I let Randy go, sure that my point had been made, however repugnantly, and went about gathering up the casefile that had been scattered during the ruckus. I had Randy make up a pot of East-San Franciscan Marble Cat-Eye Coffee, as that was the handwriting-comparison blend, and sat down at my desk, ostensibly to compare Shinkleblossom’s handwriting with the ransom note she had sent in...but then, maybe due to the after-effects of my cinematic escape from that festering old-lady’s lair, maybe due to some psychological impairment, I told Randy to have a cup of my personal-stash coffee as well, sitting him next to me as I unfolded the evidence letter and tendered a sort of half-apology, much to his surprise; I knew that I was very clearly wrong-headed from the earlier brouhaha that left the lingering spectre of Shinkleblossom chasing me down her roadway imbedded in my fragile mind, and I needed fresh eyes for the comparison, even if those fresh eyes were in the head of a moron.
Eagerly, Randy got right to work in his own inimitable way, spilling coffee on the letter and looking at me as if I had done it...exhausted, I abandoned my original plan and sent Randy off to get me a submarine-sandwich, extra olives, green. Immediately after Randy took his leave, I noticed that the first f in [expletive deleted] was the same as the from Tabitha in the letter. I was buoyed, knowing that the f is one of the 15-hardest letters to duplicate, but continued, finding the e in [expletive deleted] to be the same as in embezzlement from the letter, the w in [expletive deleted] the same as in wire-transfer, the combination ing the same in both [expletive deleted] and threatening. I was convinced, as there was no doubt as to the veracity of my skill, regardless of my unfortunate headspace, but the police and the courts would need more than the word of an independent Detective Agency, even one with the much-sought after title of "Cheapest Detective Agency" three years running, so I was to return to that monster’s place to locate more damning evidence, but I was a mess of nerves and fear just thinking about that scenario.
But then Randy returned, holding the most delicious sandwich I had ever seen and the answer to my dilemma.
Entry 5
Faster than Randy could say "just kidding", I had him bent backwards over his desk, letting my sweaty rage drip down on him from the tip of my nose...like Chinese water torture, these drips of fury were to slowly indicate, if nothing else, my exact mood in regards to shenanigans. I let Randy go, sure that my point had been made, however repugnantly, and went about gathering up the casefile that had been scattered during the ruckus. I had Randy make up a pot of East-San Franciscan Marble Cat-Eye Coffee, as that was the handwriting-comparison blend, and sat down at my desk, ostensibly to compare Shinkleblossom’s handwriting with the ransom note she had sent in...but then, maybe due to the after-effects of my cinematic escape from that festering old-lady’s lair, maybe due to some psychological impairment, I told Randy to have a cup of my personal-stash coffee as well, sitting him next to me as I unfolded the evidence letter and tendered a sort of half-apology, much to his surprise; I knew that I was very clearly wrong-headed from the earlier brouhaha that left the lingering spectre of Shinkleblossom chasing me down her roadway imbedded in my fragile mind, and I needed fresh eyes for the comparison, even if those fresh eyes were in the head of a moron.
Eagerly, Randy got right to work in his own inimitable way, spilling coffee on the letter and looking at me as if I had done it...exhausted, I abandoned my original plan and sent Randy off to get me a submarine-sandwich, extra olives, green. Immediately after Randy took his leave, I noticed that the first f in [expletive deleted] was the same as the from Tabitha in the letter. I was buoyed, knowing that the f is one of the 15-hardest letters to duplicate, but continued, finding the e in [expletive deleted] to be the same as in embezzlement from the letter, the w in [expletive deleted] the same as in wire-transfer, the combination ing the same in both [expletive deleted] and threatening. I was convinced, as there was no doubt as to the veracity of my skill, regardless of my unfortunate headspace, but the police and the courts would need more than the word of an independent Detective Agency, even one with the much-sought after title of "Cheapest Detective Agency" three years running, so I was to return to that monster’s place to locate more damning evidence, but I was a mess of nerves and fear just thinking about that scenario.
But then Randy returned, holding the most delicious sandwich I had ever seen and the answer to my dilemma.
Entry 5
3.27.2006
The "Expletive-Deleted" Case - Entry 3
I managed to extract the crumbs of the jellied-toast from my beard without a whole lot of fanfare and was settling in nicely, calming myself periodically with the concrete knowledge that Ms. Shinkleblossom, regardless of her hovering menace, was just a frail old lady, albeit one whose skin hadn’t seen natural light since sometime before I was born.
I had just opened my Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Report Binder, putting on my very best "listening" face, when this horrifying talking-corpse of a woman let loose with the vilest, most repugnant string of profanity I had ever heard, punctuating each sentence with the hacking up of left-over phlegm from a hopefully bygone era; I saw colours in her mucous that weren’t invented until the sixties, and the violence with which she coughed left me shaken, my ebbing confidence shattered. I interjected with a light, joking suggestion that if she were to keep up this unapologetic cursing, I would be forced to wash her mouth out with soap. Shinkleblossom’s eyes shot open, like a shark smelling blood, and she stood up as best she could, hunched over like a stone-gargoyle ready to pounce, when it occurred to me that her stunning invective had the familiar ring of the ransom note that she had sent to the LDA HQ. Before she could take what was certain to be an awkward, though hate-fueled, step towards me, I asked her about the similarity of her speech to the aforementioned ransom note. Stopping abruptly and smiling sweetly, Hyde turned back to Jekyll and offered me some "sweets". I deftly asked if she had any caramel; she responded with a "yes" and a rejoinder that she would have to fetch them from the kitchen. I nodded and excused myself for a bathroom break.
I left the bathroom door open just a crack to see when she was fully enveloped in the cloak of the kitchen before I jumped back out to find some evidence of her handwriting; I found a stash of some private correspondence and squirreled it away in my Report Binder, sitting quickly before the beast returned with her caramels. Shinkleblossom entered again, brandishing a candy-dish full of cellophane-wrapped candies, and I stood, explaining that I had to be on my way, though it had been a pleasure. There was a full second of awkward silence, followed by a flung candy-dish, cutting through the stagnant air like a ceramic Frisbee, and the unthinkable lunging of an 80-year-old, fifteen-feet across the living room, grasping at my abdomen. I was able to elude the dish-projectile, side-stepping the suddenly gymnast-like geriatric as I went for the door, kicking behind me like I was attempting to dissuade a maniac pit bull. I got out to my car and started it just as the pick-ax came crashing down on my hood; I peeled out backwards, the pick-ax still embedded, and screeched forward to freedom with the haunting image in my rearview mirror of a frothy-mouthed senior running after the car, pulling up and catching her breath, finally giving up the chase before I was swallowed up in the driveway-brush.
I was sweaty, my heart pounding, and I had some extensive aesthetic damage to the hood of my conveyance, but I was heading back to the safety, and comfort, of the Lawson Detective Agency. I wasn’t clear on much, but one thing was certain: I was in desperate need of some coffee...and Randy was doing the next interview.
Entry 4
I had just opened my Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Report Binder, putting on my very best "listening" face, when this horrifying talking-corpse of a woman let loose with the vilest, most repugnant string of profanity I had ever heard, punctuating each sentence with the hacking up of left-over phlegm from a hopefully bygone era; I saw colours in her mucous that weren’t invented until the sixties, and the violence with which she coughed left me shaken, my ebbing confidence shattered. I interjected with a light, joking suggestion that if she were to keep up this unapologetic cursing, I would be forced to wash her mouth out with soap. Shinkleblossom’s eyes shot open, like a shark smelling blood, and she stood up as best she could, hunched over like a stone-gargoyle ready to pounce, when it occurred to me that her stunning invective had the familiar ring of the ransom note that she had sent to the LDA HQ. Before she could take what was certain to be an awkward, though hate-fueled, step towards me, I asked her about the similarity of her speech to the aforementioned ransom note. Stopping abruptly and smiling sweetly, Hyde turned back to Jekyll and offered me some "sweets". I deftly asked if she had any caramel; she responded with a "yes" and a rejoinder that she would have to fetch them from the kitchen. I nodded and excused myself for a bathroom break.
I left the bathroom door open just a crack to see when she was fully enveloped in the cloak of the kitchen before I jumped back out to find some evidence of her handwriting; I found a stash of some private correspondence and squirreled it away in my Report Binder, sitting quickly before the beast returned with her caramels. Shinkleblossom entered again, brandishing a candy-dish full of cellophane-wrapped candies, and I stood, explaining that I had to be on my way, though it had been a pleasure. There was a full second of awkward silence, followed by a flung candy-dish, cutting through the stagnant air like a ceramic Frisbee, and the unthinkable lunging of an 80-year-old, fifteen-feet across the living room, grasping at my abdomen. I was able to elude the dish-projectile, side-stepping the suddenly gymnast-like geriatric as I went for the door, kicking behind me like I was attempting to dissuade a maniac pit bull. I got out to my car and started it just as the pick-ax came crashing down on my hood; I peeled out backwards, the pick-ax still embedded, and screeched forward to freedom with the haunting image in my rearview mirror of a frothy-mouthed senior running after the car, pulling up and catching her breath, finally giving up the chase before I was swallowed up in the driveway-brush.
I was sweaty, my heart pounding, and I had some extensive aesthetic damage to the hood of my conveyance, but I was heading back to the safety, and comfort, of the Lawson Detective Agency. I wasn’t clear on much, but one thing was certain: I was in desperate need of some coffee...and Randy was doing the next interview.
Entry 4
3.24.2006
The "Expletive-Deleted" Case - Entry 2
The Hammertown suburbs were thick with the under-kept, expansive forest of the apathetic elderly, and Tabitha Shinkleblossom’s abode couldn’t have been more remote if it had been buried 50-feet underground; on arrival, I retroactively gave credence to Randy’s suggestion of hiring a helicopter to lower me onto the premises, as the driveway brush was dense enough for me to employ my Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Machete, driving slowly and chopping my way through. The density of the low-hanging tree-branches and slithering vines precluded my usual panache for first impressions, as I inadvertently knocked on Ms. Shinkleblossom’s door with the front bumper of my car.
I backed up and got out just in time to see her open the door with a flourish, glaring into me with the eyes of a rabid pheasant from behind seemingly spray-painted eyelids. I smiled as best I could, attempting to ignore the harlot’s dress on her 80-some-odd-year-old-frame, and looked again at her menacing visage, all mauves and cinnamon covering the wrinkled anger of the victimized. I began to explain my intrusion when she cut me off, yelling in a raspy, throat-shredding tone that I should have used the doorbell, as that’s what it was there for. I smiled again, looking for some common ground between me and this frightening caricature of a whored-out Betty White, and described the difficulties I would have had in reaching the doorbell with the front-end of my car. She raised a bony, decaying finger to admonish me some more when I interrupted and told her that I was from the Lawson Detective Agency. Shinkleblossom stopped and smiled wryly, inviting me in for "jellied toast" while giving me the jitters I haven’t felt since family-reunion-day at the Hammertown burn ward.
It obviously wasn’t her imposing physicality that gave me pause, as she couldn’t have weighed more than a box of Lawson Detective Agency Super-Computer paper...no, it was the terrifying glint in her eye, her capacity for evil that struck fear into my caffeine-and-nicotine-hardened heart that left me fearfully dawdling into her house like an abused pet. Though the grape-jellied toast was indeed delightful, I knew enough to keep my wits about me, as well as Ms. Shinkleblossom in front of me; this was to be nerve-testing interview, and I was unexpectedly drowning in my skittishness.
Entry 3
I backed up and got out just in time to see her open the door with a flourish, glaring into me with the eyes of a rabid pheasant from behind seemingly spray-painted eyelids. I smiled as best I could, attempting to ignore the harlot’s dress on her 80-some-odd-year-old-frame, and looked again at her menacing visage, all mauves and cinnamon covering the wrinkled anger of the victimized. I began to explain my intrusion when she cut me off, yelling in a raspy, throat-shredding tone that I should have used the doorbell, as that’s what it was there for. I smiled again, looking for some common ground between me and this frightening caricature of a whored-out Betty White, and described the difficulties I would have had in reaching the doorbell with the front-end of my car. She raised a bony, decaying finger to admonish me some more when I interrupted and told her that I was from the Lawson Detective Agency. Shinkleblossom stopped and smiled wryly, inviting me in for "jellied toast" while giving me the jitters I haven’t felt since family-reunion-day at the Hammertown burn ward.
It obviously wasn’t her imposing physicality that gave me pause, as she couldn’t have weighed more than a box of Lawson Detective Agency Super-Computer paper...no, it was the terrifying glint in her eye, her capacity for evil that struck fear into my caffeine-and-nicotine-hardened heart that left me fearfully dawdling into her house like an abused pet. Though the grape-jellied toast was indeed delightful, I knew enough to keep my wits about me, as well as Ms. Shinkleblossom in front of me; this was to be nerve-testing interview, and I was unexpectedly drowning in my skittishness.
Entry 3
3.19.2006
The "Expletive-Deleted" Case - Entry 1
I walked into a briar-patch of bad feelings and lethargy at the Lawson Detective Agency after my hiatus; my week of recuperation turned into a month before I knew it, and the employees had taken full advantage, turning the once proud Lawson Detective Agency Super-Computer into a holding tank for gratuitous desktop wallpapers and half-played games of solitaire. I loaded the coffee-maker with a personal stash of Bicuspid Lockjaw coffee, as that was the teeth-gritting blend, and sat at my desk, waiting for said coffee to percolate. Randy somberly waltzed over to me and handed me a folder that surely contained the latest casefile, but no...to my dismay, the folder was full of home-made beaded necklaces, and I immediately wondered if there had been an office gas leak in my absence.
I looked at Randy to see if I could determine whether or not this was an elaborate joke gone wrong, or just incompetence on a level heretofore unrealized, and he returned my questioning glance with a dazed complacency that only hinted at the many layers of idiocy beneath his squalid complexion.
There was most certainly a lack of leadership permeating the walls of the Detective Agency, and I aimed to put an end to it right then and there. Randy got a swift kick in the shins as I stood up to pour myself a cup of coffee, as well as a smack on the back of the head as I returned; his eyes welled up with water as my hand was already fondling the box of tissues perched on the edge of my desk...I had anticipated this move from Randy, and countered it with a well-aimed throw of said tissue box. I had just taken my second relaxing sip of coffee when the corner of the box jabbed him dead-on between the eyes, sending him flailing backwards like he had taken an uppercut to the chin. The silent, though most likely slightly painful, message was clear: Knock it off. Full of adrenaline, and brazen from minor discomfort, Randy snagged the latest casefile from the Super-Computer and meant to throw it in my lap with authority, though being just a piece of computer paper, his mighty heave resulted in the soft landing of a leaf falling from a tree. I told Randy to have a cup of my coffee, and this so excited him that his malignance faded and left me with an awake, though placid, worker...which is what I sorely needed if the printout was to be believed, and there wasn’t a single indication that it shouldn’t: Tabitha Shinkleblossom had lost her ivory cane, and this had caused her no small amount of grief, as this cane was apparently her "show" cane and her social stock had fallen recently as a result of its loss. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out where she had misplaced it, and it was at that point of my perusal that Randy, reading along, told me that it’s always in the last place you look.
Well, I thought, at least he’s awake, albeit nowhere near helpful.
I continued reading, and found that Ms. Shinkleblossom had received a ransom note, which helped her guilt greatly, as she no longer blamed herself for the loss of the cane, but did me no good at all, as I found myself irritated about wasting my time reading about the minutiae of this woman’s life. The ransom note, Xeroxed, was attached:
If you ever [expletive deleted] want to [expletive deleted] see your [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] again, you’ll [expletive deleted] follow the [expletive deleted] demands to the [expletive deleted] letter. More [expletive deleted] instructions to [expletive deleted] come.
All the elements of the case were present, save one: a clue. What I knew for certain was that the cane-kidnapper had a foul mouth, and my capacity for profane language was to be tested throughout this case. I gave Randy a three-knuckled crack to the temple as a goodbye, and headed out to see about an old, cane-less lady.
Entry 2
I looked at Randy to see if I could determine whether or not this was an elaborate joke gone wrong, or just incompetence on a level heretofore unrealized, and he returned my questioning glance with a dazed complacency that only hinted at the many layers of idiocy beneath his squalid complexion.
There was most certainly a lack of leadership permeating the walls of the Detective Agency, and I aimed to put an end to it right then and there. Randy got a swift kick in the shins as I stood up to pour myself a cup of coffee, as well as a smack on the back of the head as I returned; his eyes welled up with water as my hand was already fondling the box of tissues perched on the edge of my desk...I had anticipated this move from Randy, and countered it with a well-aimed throw of said tissue box. I had just taken my second relaxing sip of coffee when the corner of the box jabbed him dead-on between the eyes, sending him flailing backwards like he had taken an uppercut to the chin. The silent, though most likely slightly painful, message was clear: Knock it off. Full of adrenaline, and brazen from minor discomfort, Randy snagged the latest casefile from the Super-Computer and meant to throw it in my lap with authority, though being just a piece of computer paper, his mighty heave resulted in the soft landing of a leaf falling from a tree. I told Randy to have a cup of my coffee, and this so excited him that his malignance faded and left me with an awake, though placid, worker...which is what I sorely needed if the printout was to be believed, and there wasn’t a single indication that it shouldn’t: Tabitha Shinkleblossom had lost her ivory cane, and this had caused her no small amount of grief, as this cane was apparently her "show" cane and her social stock had fallen recently as a result of its loss. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out where she had misplaced it, and it was at that point of my perusal that Randy, reading along, told me that it’s always in the last place you look.
Well, I thought, at least he’s awake, albeit nowhere near helpful.
I continued reading, and found that Ms. Shinkleblossom had received a ransom note, which helped her guilt greatly, as she no longer blamed herself for the loss of the cane, but did me no good at all, as I found myself irritated about wasting my time reading about the minutiae of this woman’s life. The ransom note, Xeroxed, was attached:
If you ever [expletive deleted] want to [expletive deleted] see your [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] again, you’ll [expletive deleted] follow the [expletive deleted] demands to the [expletive deleted] letter. More [expletive deleted] instructions to [expletive deleted] come.
All the elements of the case were present, save one: a clue. What I knew for certain was that the cane-kidnapper had a foul mouth, and my capacity for profane language was to be tested throughout this case. I gave Randy a three-knuckled crack to the temple as a goodbye, and headed out to see about an old, cane-less lady.
Entry 2
2.23.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 13
Bernice Sheppenwastein had turned herself and her mincing, rotten brother, in to the police while I was dealing with my self-inflicted 4-day blackout. I felt useless, sitting there in my home, wolfing down my smoked-salmon club-sandwich that Randy had kindly brought over from One Duke...and, just as generously, refused to give to me until I paid him for it. Maybe it was payback for my assumption that Randy had conspired to attack me, maybe he was short of cash, maybe he was just being difficult...what kind of person could possibly have insight into a mind as mangled as Randy’s? It wasn’t me, not on an empty stomach, and especially not when my mind was working overtime to wrap itself around the particulars of how this case came to such an abrupt end.
Sean, that ridiculous cartoon of a would-be super-villain, had pulled off his greatest triumph in having Channel 12 attacked by those ferocious monkeys, yes...but the impetus behind his "plan" was to put together a top-shelf demo reel, and by focusing his idiotic scheme on a television station, he all but cut himself out of the exclusive rights to the footage, as roving cameramen had angles inconceivable to the talent-deprived elder Sheppenwastein. But Randy explained that, through his incredibly irritating, tittering laughter, Sean told the police that he had just pulled off the greatest "monkeyshine" ever: A practical joke, epic in scale, that was as true to the colloquial phrase as it was to the literal. Like many a criminal mastermind, or, in this case, moronic, quasi-retarded headcase, Sean had overlooked his original intentions when he clicked on the idea of the "epic" prank. And he wanted the credit, as meager as it may be. Bernice was getting charged as an accomplice, but did, in fact, drag her brother in to the authorities...literally too, apparently using those lumberjack-arms and ping-pong-ball knuckles to scrape that little jackass through the front door of the station like he was gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I thought back to our first meeting, that hulking Bernice and I, and I had one unanswered question left to ask before I was willing to let this case fade into the background.
Randy called the station and located Bernice for me, though faster than expected; the phone was jammed into my face just after I had similarly jammed a fistful of food into my mouth, making the first 30-seconds or so of the conversation just short of unintelligible. After a good, hardy swallow, helped enormously by a palette-cleansing sip of Hammertown’s Finest Swamp-Water, I finally got my question out to Bernice: Why was she kneeling in front of the door when I arrived at her house? There was a long pause on the other end of the line, followed by the slightest of sniffles. With a quivering voice, she finally told me that she had dropped a contact lens in her hallway right before I had knocked. It didn’t seem to be that heart-wrenching a situation, looking at that commonplace scenario with the cold, jaded eye of a trained Detective, so when I carefully continued by asking about the lens’ purported value, she responded in a shaky tone, telling me that it was a family heirloom, and that she had, effectively, thrown away a generation’s worth of memories by losing it. Bernice then dissolved into hysterical wailing, and I hung up the phone, confused and slightly ill-at ease from the "explanation". Some mysteries are meant to be left unsolved, I thought to myself...more so the ones I wasn’t getting paid for.
I scuttled the remaining memories of the "monkeyshines" case from my head, as well as Randy from my home, and settled in for a solid week of reclusivity and daytime TV. I needed to recharge, and slothfulness had always been my faithful battery. Case closed.
Sean, that ridiculous cartoon of a would-be super-villain, had pulled off his greatest triumph in having Channel 12 attacked by those ferocious monkeys, yes...but the impetus behind his "plan" was to put together a top-shelf demo reel, and by focusing his idiotic scheme on a television station, he all but cut himself out of the exclusive rights to the footage, as roving cameramen had angles inconceivable to the talent-deprived elder Sheppenwastein. But Randy explained that, through his incredibly irritating, tittering laughter, Sean told the police that he had just pulled off the greatest "monkeyshine" ever: A practical joke, epic in scale, that was as true to the colloquial phrase as it was to the literal. Like many a criminal mastermind, or, in this case, moronic, quasi-retarded headcase, Sean had overlooked his original intentions when he clicked on the idea of the "epic" prank. And he wanted the credit, as meager as it may be. Bernice was getting charged as an accomplice, but did, in fact, drag her brother in to the authorities...literally too, apparently using those lumberjack-arms and ping-pong-ball knuckles to scrape that little jackass through the front door of the station like he was gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I thought back to our first meeting, that hulking Bernice and I, and I had one unanswered question left to ask before I was willing to let this case fade into the background.
Randy called the station and located Bernice for me, though faster than expected; the phone was jammed into my face just after I had similarly jammed a fistful of food into my mouth, making the first 30-seconds or so of the conversation just short of unintelligible. After a good, hardy swallow, helped enormously by a palette-cleansing sip of Hammertown’s Finest Swamp-Water, I finally got my question out to Bernice: Why was she kneeling in front of the door when I arrived at her house? There was a long pause on the other end of the line, followed by the slightest of sniffles. With a quivering voice, she finally told me that she had dropped a contact lens in her hallway right before I had knocked. It didn’t seem to be that heart-wrenching a situation, looking at that commonplace scenario with the cold, jaded eye of a trained Detective, so when I carefully continued by asking about the lens’ purported value, she responded in a shaky tone, telling me that it was a family heirloom, and that she had, effectively, thrown away a generation’s worth of memories by losing it. Bernice then dissolved into hysterical wailing, and I hung up the phone, confused and slightly ill-at ease from the "explanation". Some mysteries are meant to be left unsolved, I thought to myself...more so the ones I wasn’t getting paid for.
I scuttled the remaining memories of the "monkeyshines" case from my head, as well as Randy from my home, and settled in for a solid week of reclusivity and daytime TV. I needed to recharge, and slothfulness had always been my faithful battery. Case closed.
2.22.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 12
I awoke shivering, clammy, and bent over the side of the bathtub like I had been host to a First Night Out of Prison party; my mouth tasted like the familiar mixture of mucous, blood and vomit, the memory taking me back to the brutal hazing of my Detective Academy days, which was a nostalgic, though ambivalent, treat; my face felt, from the inside, as though someone had kicked me in it, and to my fingers, from the outside, like it was covered in sweet-toffee; the vision in my left-eye was murky, and, most of all, I was really, really cold. Unbelievably cold.
I meekly stood up to assess my situation, or face, aesthetically speaking, when I stepped in an anthill of glass, which hurt about as much as one could expect at first, but that rapidly became the pain equivalent to pouring Kerosene on an open wound and lighting it with a weather-proof match. Through the searing pain, I could see the neck of what used to be my Corn-Whiskey bottle slyly sitting on the floor at the edge of the bathroom, asking with its anthropomorphic yet baelful cap just what, exactly, had gone on here?
That’s a good question, broken whiskey bottle, and one I intended to get the answer to. I looked at my face, and the goose-egg over my left eye had been opened by some unknown trauma and was slowly seeping. Someone had sent me a message, that was for certain, and they attacked me while I was in the most vulnerable of positions: out cold in an alcohol-coma while lying in the bath. How long had I been out of commission, I wondered, covering myself with four towels to try and stave off hypothermia. My frantic almost-run towards my answering machine quickly became a limp, as I had forgotten about my cut-up & Corn-Whiskied foot, and I was leaving footprints in blood all along my hallway runner. I realized that I had gotten into the tub 4 days earlier, which explained my hunger, for one, and that there had been two phone-calls in the interim, both from the same number. I didn’t bother to see what the message-leavers had to say, but rather dialed the number with a head full of rage and the makings of what was soon to be a terrifying headache.
Shockingly, Randy answered. I immediately surmised that he had been in on the entire caper from the beginning and greeted him as the traitor he was, firing off threats of unfathomable proportions and unimaginable profanity, to which he responded with more confusion than fear. He apparently took my tirade-following silence as an opportunity to explain the situation as he himself saw it: Randy was the first caller, wondering where I was, exactly, since I seemingly disappeared at a very crucial juncture of the "monkeyshines" case; he then worked his way up to my home, where his repeated knocks on my door were eventually met with what he described as a "horrible crashing sound"; Randy then became my second caller of the last 4 days, wondering, at that point, not only where I was, but also if those "terrible noises" he heard were the sounds of me injuring myself. I hung up on Randy and limped back to the bathroom.
The phone started ringing again, giving my grim discoveries the movie-mystery background ambience that they sorely needed. Yes, indeed, Randy’s persistent knocking had caused me to bolt from my whiskey-fueled slumber, slip, and fall, hurting myself emphatically & embarrassingly. Case closed.
To my surprise, though, the case was apparently closed, and by then I had answered the phone and was no longer reminiscing about my own idiocy, but was hearing from Randy that the "monkeyshines" case had concluded while I was incommunicado. I told Randy to meet me at One Duke, pulled some pants and a shirt on, and, incredibly, walked directly into the side of my bedroom door. Almost as if he heard my skull bounce off the unforgiving door-corner, Randy called right back, suggesting that he bring over food to me. I agreed, and lied down where I was, comfortable to wait on my carpet for food and perspective to arrive.
Entry 13
I meekly stood up to assess my situation, or face, aesthetically speaking, when I stepped in an anthill of glass, which hurt about as much as one could expect at first, but that rapidly became the pain equivalent to pouring Kerosene on an open wound and lighting it with a weather-proof match. Through the searing pain, I could see the neck of what used to be my Corn-Whiskey bottle slyly sitting on the floor at the edge of the bathroom, asking with its anthropomorphic yet baelful cap just what, exactly, had gone on here?
That’s a good question, broken whiskey bottle, and one I intended to get the answer to. I looked at my face, and the goose-egg over my left eye had been opened by some unknown trauma and was slowly seeping. Someone had sent me a message, that was for certain, and they attacked me while I was in the most vulnerable of positions: out cold in an alcohol-coma while lying in the bath. How long had I been out of commission, I wondered, covering myself with four towels to try and stave off hypothermia. My frantic almost-run towards my answering machine quickly became a limp, as I had forgotten about my cut-up & Corn-Whiskied foot, and I was leaving footprints in blood all along my hallway runner. I realized that I had gotten into the tub 4 days earlier, which explained my hunger, for one, and that there had been two phone-calls in the interim, both from the same number. I didn’t bother to see what the message-leavers had to say, but rather dialed the number with a head full of rage and the makings of what was soon to be a terrifying headache.
Shockingly, Randy answered. I immediately surmised that he had been in on the entire caper from the beginning and greeted him as the traitor he was, firing off threats of unfathomable proportions and unimaginable profanity, to which he responded with more confusion than fear. He apparently took my tirade-following silence as an opportunity to explain the situation as he himself saw it: Randy was the first caller, wondering where I was, exactly, since I seemingly disappeared at a very crucial juncture of the "monkeyshines" case; he then worked his way up to my home, where his repeated knocks on my door were eventually met with what he described as a "horrible crashing sound"; Randy then became my second caller of the last 4 days, wondering, at that point, not only where I was, but also if those "terrible noises" he heard were the sounds of me injuring myself. I hung up on Randy and limped back to the bathroom.
The phone started ringing again, giving my grim discoveries the movie-mystery background ambience that they sorely needed. Yes, indeed, Randy’s persistent knocking had caused me to bolt from my whiskey-fueled slumber, slip, and fall, hurting myself emphatically & embarrassingly. Case closed.
To my surprise, though, the case was apparently closed, and by then I had answered the phone and was no longer reminiscing about my own idiocy, but was hearing from Randy that the "monkeyshines" case had concluded while I was incommunicado. I told Randy to meet me at One Duke, pulled some pants and a shirt on, and, incredibly, walked directly into the side of my bedroom door. Almost as if he heard my skull bounce off the unforgiving door-corner, Randy called right back, suggesting that he bring over food to me. I agreed, and lied down where I was, comfortable to wait on my carpet for food and perspective to arrive.
Entry 13
2.16.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 11
The variant-creed monkey screeching was still echoing in my ears as I checked myself out of the hospital; my physical injuries were not life-threatening, and my psychological scars would heal, in time. But I had to find out just exactly how everything had gone so wrong; how I could’ve so underestimated the monkey-attack; how I wound up with the smell of monkey-poo coating my nostrils like the spilled cargo of an oil-rig coats a baby bird. I knew the causes of my injuries, and they weren’t all monkey-related, at least not the psychological ones; I had gone to Channel 12 out of some ill-minded attempt to prevent a monkey-attack that would far outshine my quest for revenge...a thirst for vengeance that had clouded my judgment, putting me on the front-line of the aforementioned monkey-attack.
Many years ago, as an obviously much younger man, I had been an intern at Channel 12 as a video-editor, and there was a physical altercation involving a misplaced-but-thought-to-be-stolen Peanut Butter & Banana sandwich that led to my outright dismissal. My dreams of video-editing went up in smoke, and, since having caved under the dismal pressure of reality, I was forced to open this Detective Agency. But I was left with, and still feel deep within my gullet, the mocking What Ifs of my previous life...and for that never-ending hurt, Channel 12 had to pay. But not like this...no. I wouldn’t wish a monkey-attack on even my most foul-tempered of adversaries, and my first thought was to find Bernice Sheppenwastein & her foppish brother Sean, if for no other reason than to hand them over to police, with my notes, to let them figure it all out.
To my surprise, Bernice wasn’t at her home...I called Randy, and he told me that a guard at the zoo had seen what looked to be an unleashed gorilla lurking near the monkey-cages, and I knew immediately that it had to have been Bernice.
Defeated, lost, and becoming rapidly under-caffeinated, I did what any man in my position would have done: I went home, poured a tall glass of Newfoundland Corn-Whiskey, and had a bubble-bath. Why would the gargantuan Sheppenwastein hire me to solve the case, only to assist her brother with the very plan she had tried to foil? But that was a thought for a different hour, as the juniper-bath-bubbles were already taking over, sending me into an orgiastic-ecstasy not felt since the last time I got drunk in the bath.
Entry 12
Many years ago, as an obviously much younger man, I had been an intern at Channel 12 as a video-editor, and there was a physical altercation involving a misplaced-but-thought-to-be-stolen Peanut Butter & Banana sandwich that led to my outright dismissal. My dreams of video-editing went up in smoke, and, since having caved under the dismal pressure of reality, I was forced to open this Detective Agency. But I was left with, and still feel deep within my gullet, the mocking What Ifs of my previous life...and for that never-ending hurt, Channel 12 had to pay. But not like this...no. I wouldn’t wish a monkey-attack on even my most foul-tempered of adversaries, and my first thought was to find Bernice Sheppenwastein & her foppish brother Sean, if for no other reason than to hand them over to police, with my notes, to let them figure it all out.
To my surprise, Bernice wasn’t at her home...I called Randy, and he told me that a guard at the zoo had seen what looked to be an unleashed gorilla lurking near the monkey-cages, and I knew immediately that it had to have been Bernice.
Defeated, lost, and becoming rapidly under-caffeinated, I did what any man in my position would have done: I went home, poured a tall glass of Newfoundland Corn-Whiskey, and had a bubble-bath. Why would the gargantuan Sheppenwastein hire me to solve the case, only to assist her brother with the very plan she had tried to foil? But that was a thought for a different hour, as the juniper-bath-bubbles were already taking over, sending me into an orgiastic-ecstasy not felt since the last time I got drunk in the bath.
Entry 12
2.15.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 10
I awoke covered in soft, white bed-linens and scabbed-over gashes abruptly jutting out from under my hospital-issue green robe. My head began to throb, and I reached up to find a bump the size of a golfball under my left-eye. Randy entered to my right and immediately started filling me in on what had happened, but I remembered the scene all too vividly: The escaped monkeys absolutely decimated that television station.
I was helpless to stop the tidal-wave of simian aggression that was formed into an attack of unprecedented proportions, save maybe in The Planet of the Apes; it was akin to being landed on by 200+ dirt-bikes, if said sport-vehicles each had incredibly sharp fangs and the attitude of a thrice-kicked pitbull. The feces-flinging alone had brought destruction on a level I had assumed to be unattainable. It had taken no more than 30 seconds to understand that my all-purpose monkey-net wasn’t of use for anything other than to bat at the monkeys whizzing past me; I remembered crunching one particularly aggressive monkey in the crotch, the retaliation for which being what had led to my unconsciousness, apparently, as well as the goose-egg under my eye. Randy explained that I was lucky; there was a field-reporter in the adjoining room that was on life-support and intense chemical detoxification due to overexposure of rancid monkey feculent matter.
Looking at me as if I had just poked a puma in the eye, he also asked me why I had gone to Channel 12 at all, as I had already called the cops and they were en route. Hmm, I thought. What a good question. It might have been a good idea to stay away, in retrospect, but I had just one rebuttal for Randy: Where was he when I was under monkey-attack? He shook his head sadly...I knew it was from guilt, and not because I had just done something incredibly stupid that could have been avoided. I told him it was all right, that he needn’t feel shame for not giving me that advice when I could have used it, and he wordlessly left the room...again, overwhelmed by guilt, I’m sure, and not because of the sense I wasn’t making.
Entry 11
I was helpless to stop the tidal-wave of simian aggression that was formed into an attack of unprecedented proportions, save maybe in The Planet of the Apes; it was akin to being landed on by 200+ dirt-bikes, if said sport-vehicles each had incredibly sharp fangs and the attitude of a thrice-kicked pitbull. The feces-flinging alone had brought destruction on a level I had assumed to be unattainable. It had taken no more than 30 seconds to understand that my all-purpose monkey-net wasn’t of use for anything other than to bat at the monkeys whizzing past me; I remembered crunching one particularly aggressive monkey in the crotch, the retaliation for which being what had led to my unconsciousness, apparently, as well as the goose-egg under my eye. Randy explained that I was lucky; there was a field-reporter in the adjoining room that was on life-support and intense chemical detoxification due to overexposure of rancid monkey feculent matter.
Looking at me as if I had just poked a puma in the eye, he also asked me why I had gone to Channel 12 at all, as I had already called the cops and they were en route. Hmm, I thought. What a good question. It might have been a good idea to stay away, in retrospect, but I had just one rebuttal for Randy: Where was he when I was under monkey-attack? He shook his head sadly...I knew it was from guilt, and not because I had just done something incredibly stupid that could have been avoided. I told him it was all right, that he needn’t feel shame for not giving me that advice when I could have used it, and he wordlessly left the room...again, overwhelmed by guilt, I’m sure, and not because of the sense I wasn’t making.
Entry 11
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 9
I tried to convince the elder Sheppenwastein to come back with me to my home so I could keep him within my sights as I got my New Zealand Powder-Keg coffee percolating, but he was having none of it. I needed the coffee, as it was the maniac-tolerating blend, but that tittering jackass Sean wanted a neutral location in which to sit and talk to me about the Master Plan of his that he had already set in motion, so I had to settle for a French Vanilla at One Duke.
Once seated, Sean became a non sequitur machine; he was digressing to the point where he began speaking in different languages, and I’m willing to bet that he didn’t make much sense in any of them...I say "willing to bet" because I wasn’t paying much attention. I was looking him over and imagining all the wedgies & kidney shots his pear-shaped body must have endured throughout high school; I was on the verge of making him use his nose to push a penny down a hallway myself, but I realized quickly enough that it wasn’t this freak’s fault that I had such a crappy adolescence...no, that was all Tony Cappasigliano, and he would get his.
Oh, yes.
Snapping myself out of my ill-timed reverie, but still bored to tears by the constant muttering of this nutty nougat-bar of probable criminality, I scanned the bar’s selection of bourbons. I was settling nicely on a bottle a Haitian Dark Kentucky Bourbon when I heard the phrase "monkeyshines" jump out of his blather, like an un-hammered nail sticking up from a mostly-secured plank of wood, and almost dismissed it as the coincidental noise of an endlessly-talking jackanape, before aggressively spinning towards him, attempting to shake that last word out of his mouth again. He stared at me with the vacant face of a mentally-challenged donkey, but I knew that, though mostly unintelligible, there were thoughts being processed behind that extravagant eyebrow, and I needed them if I was ever going to be done with this case. The Haitian Dark shots came fast & furious, as I attempted to unlock the steel-trap of this moron’s mind with bourbon...though the only thing I unlocked was my small-bladder’s inherent inability to hold liquor.
I spent the following hour taking Sean with me to the bathroom, lest I miss some case-solving information he might mutter, while taking my myriad "pee" breaks. Chastising myself for what I considered to be poor Detective Reasoning in believing that any Kentucky Bourbon would make a person less crazy, I had just about given up on shaking anything loose, information-wise, from Sean, when he inexplicably handed me a detail that I would be able to actually use: He was letting all of the monkeys at the zoo loose in exactly 1 hour.
That’s it.
The zoo was situated directly across the street from the Channel 12 News station, and any scared and confused monkeys that sprang from that zoo were to no doubt be enthralled by the multi-coloured spotlights surrounding Channel 12, the spotlights originally installed to give the station more "presence", but roundly ridiculed since for, instead, transforming said station into the Most Boring Dance-Club in the World. I deftly called his sister to take Sean in & hold for police, as Bernice must have had 5 feet and some 200-pounds on her disturbed sibling, and shot over to Channel 12. We had history, that TV station and I, but I wasn’t about to allow the building to be torn asunder by rabid primates...no, their News-Staff were more than capable of that without outside intervention, and my slow-roasting revenge on Channel 12 was not to be interrupted by the machinations of some half-bright videographer.
I just hoped that I would get there in time, and that my all-purpose monkey-net could handle the strain.
Entry 10
Once seated, Sean became a non sequitur machine; he was digressing to the point where he began speaking in different languages, and I’m willing to bet that he didn’t make much sense in any of them...I say "willing to bet" because I wasn’t paying much attention. I was looking him over and imagining all the wedgies & kidney shots his pear-shaped body must have endured throughout high school; I was on the verge of making him use his nose to push a penny down a hallway myself, but I realized quickly enough that it wasn’t this freak’s fault that I had such a crappy adolescence...no, that was all Tony Cappasigliano, and he would get his.
Oh, yes.
Snapping myself out of my ill-timed reverie, but still bored to tears by the constant muttering of this nutty nougat-bar of probable criminality, I scanned the bar’s selection of bourbons. I was settling nicely on a bottle a Haitian Dark Kentucky Bourbon when I heard the phrase "monkeyshines" jump out of his blather, like an un-hammered nail sticking up from a mostly-secured plank of wood, and almost dismissed it as the coincidental noise of an endlessly-talking jackanape, before aggressively spinning towards him, attempting to shake that last word out of his mouth again. He stared at me with the vacant face of a mentally-challenged donkey, but I knew that, though mostly unintelligible, there were thoughts being processed behind that extravagant eyebrow, and I needed them if I was ever going to be done with this case. The Haitian Dark shots came fast & furious, as I attempted to unlock the steel-trap of this moron’s mind with bourbon...though the only thing I unlocked was my small-bladder’s inherent inability to hold liquor.
I spent the following hour taking Sean with me to the bathroom, lest I miss some case-solving information he might mutter, while taking my myriad "pee" breaks. Chastising myself for what I considered to be poor Detective Reasoning in believing that any Kentucky Bourbon would make a person less crazy, I had just about given up on shaking anything loose, information-wise, from Sean, when he inexplicably handed me a detail that I would be able to actually use: He was letting all of the monkeys at the zoo loose in exactly 1 hour.
That’s it.
The zoo was situated directly across the street from the Channel 12 News station, and any scared and confused monkeys that sprang from that zoo were to no doubt be enthralled by the multi-coloured spotlights surrounding Channel 12, the spotlights originally installed to give the station more "presence", but roundly ridiculed since for, instead, transforming said station into the Most Boring Dance-Club in the World. I deftly called his sister to take Sean in & hold for police, as Bernice must have had 5 feet and some 200-pounds on her disturbed sibling, and shot over to Channel 12. We had history, that TV station and I, but I wasn’t about to allow the building to be torn asunder by rabid primates...no, their News-Staff were more than capable of that without outside intervention, and my slow-roasting revenge on Channel 12 was not to be interrupted by the machinations of some half-bright videographer.
I just hoped that I would get there in time, and that my all-purpose monkey-net could handle the strain.
Entry 10
2.12.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 8
I had burned the midnight-oil well past the somewhat misleading time-stamp of that antiquated saying, and was leaving the office when I caught a glimpse of a strange looking person standing beside my car. Strange how? I wouldn’t know for sure until I got closer...but it was after only a few steps towards the Mystery Man that I saw it: The Unibrow. Utterly without peer, this unibrow was as rich and full as the auburn-hair of a Golden Age movie starlet; I was captivated. Staring shamelessly at this man’s masterpiece of hirsuteness, it took me until I was within 3 feet of him to notice a strong resemblance to somebody I had met only recently.
Profoundly distracted by the majesty of his sincipital grooming, I had to force myself to catch the scaled-down monster-like visage beneath the flowing mane: Yes, it was Bernice Sheppenwastein’s deranged brother Sean...I was certain. Holding on to whatever shred of professionalism I had left after fawning so overtly at Sean’s eyebrow, I glanced down, purely out of curiosity, to see if he shared his sister’s multi-knuckled family trait; sure enough, what I saw at the end of his wrist looked more like a Rubik’s Cube than an actual hand...if knuckles were brains, Sean would be king several times over.
Snapping myself back from mentally processing what possible genetic mutation would cause gigantism & hands that appeared to be socks full of marbles, I deftly asked Sean what he wanted with me, what was so important that it couldn’t wait until after I had taken a long-overdue shower. His response was multi-faceted: First, a smirk, followed by a tittering giggle that was, to say the least, unnerving; then, after he had extricated that horrendous laugh from his pear-shaped frame, he reached out towards my face with that horrific appendage of his. Paralyzed, the way watching a traffic-accident coagulate on the roadway directly ahead shocks the brain into reacting slowly, I barely managed to slap away that repulsive "hand" and move forward into a more intensive line of questioning. Sean uttered the solitary phrase "predisposed monkeys...disinclined audience" while braying with infuriating laughter, and, what with all of the anagrams and freak-sister-dodging I had just gone through, I had every fiber in my body begging me to kick him in the neck. My interest would have been piqued, but it was all I could do not to scream with frustration at having to endure more time with this cackling jackass; at going yet another day without showering, another day of rubbing my temples and squeezing the last little bit of blood from the rock that was my brain.
After a tense back-and-forth, we finally agreed that I would be able to get some coffee before he unveiled the intricacies of his Master Plan; I would brew my coffee, as well as a plan to put an end to all of this over-thinking...and this hack-videographer’s vainglorious attempts at creating "news". This was a rainmaker-case, and I was ready to get soaked.
Entry 9
Profoundly distracted by the majesty of his sincipital grooming, I had to force myself to catch the scaled-down monster-like visage beneath the flowing mane: Yes, it was Bernice Sheppenwastein’s deranged brother Sean...I was certain. Holding on to whatever shred of professionalism I had left after fawning so overtly at Sean’s eyebrow, I glanced down, purely out of curiosity, to see if he shared his sister’s multi-knuckled family trait; sure enough, what I saw at the end of his wrist looked more like a Rubik’s Cube than an actual hand...if knuckles were brains, Sean would be king several times over.
Snapping myself back from mentally processing what possible genetic mutation would cause gigantism & hands that appeared to be socks full of marbles, I deftly asked Sean what he wanted with me, what was so important that it couldn’t wait until after I had taken a long-overdue shower. His response was multi-faceted: First, a smirk, followed by a tittering giggle that was, to say the least, unnerving; then, after he had extricated that horrendous laugh from his pear-shaped frame, he reached out towards my face with that horrific appendage of his. Paralyzed, the way watching a traffic-accident coagulate on the roadway directly ahead shocks the brain into reacting slowly, I barely managed to slap away that repulsive "hand" and move forward into a more intensive line of questioning. Sean uttered the solitary phrase "predisposed monkeys...disinclined audience" while braying with infuriating laughter, and, what with all of the anagrams and freak-sister-dodging I had just gone through, I had every fiber in my body begging me to kick him in the neck. My interest would have been piqued, but it was all I could do not to scream with frustration at having to endure more time with this cackling jackass; at going yet another day without showering, another day of rubbing my temples and squeezing the last little bit of blood from the rock that was my brain.
After a tense back-and-forth, we finally agreed that I would be able to get some coffee before he unveiled the intricacies of his Master Plan; I would brew my coffee, as well as a plan to put an end to all of this over-thinking...and this hack-videographer’s vainglorious attempts at creating "news". This was a rainmaker-case, and I was ready to get soaked.
Entry 9
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 7
Hominy...Tennessee Violins, OK? was staring at me from the artificially-weathered scrap of paper insouciantly laying on my desk. It was an anagram, that was for sure, as that phrase wouldn’t have made less sense had it been churned out in the first couple of decades by those million animal-abused monkeys during their million years of writing Shakespeare sonnets.
Off-topic as I was, swearing off of Rwandan coffee for good, as the "head-clearing blend" turned out to be the "forgot-who-I-was blend", putting me a full day behind in the "monkeyshines" case, and even further removed from the revenge I was seeking on a certain Randy...the hoosah-fooforah & general tomfoolery so prevalent in the Lawson Detective Agency offices was attributed, by me, to him, and the end was near. I could taste the sweet vengeance like the 4 creams & 8 sugars that I dissolve into every cup of our Motor-Oil office-coffee. Feeling decadent, diabetic, and drifting off into various dessert-delicacy dreams, I got to figuring out the code to break this case-hinging anagram wide open; unfortunately, due to the sugar-rush I acquired from the aforementioned office-coffee, I become too concerned with the varieties of sweets available in Tennessee and just about booked a plane ticket for Memphis, when I was interrupted by a power-outage caused by Randy "re-adjusting" the outside lights so that he could better see his car from his desk.
It seems that Randy, while updating our parking lot lighting system to a more aesthetically-pleasing version, had tripped the breakers and, in the process, saved me costly plane ticket & hotel accommodations, as well as what would have been an awkward presentation to the share-holders in regards to my expense report.
Moreover, while apologizing for the blackout, he squinted at my page and said "monkeyshines on television". Though the riddle’s answer didn’t exactly start me off and running, my head immediately stopped throbbing from the effort of trying to figure out how to figure out the anagram. Well done, Randy, I thought...you’ve earned your reprieve, however fleeting.
Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Entry 8
Off-topic as I was, swearing off of Rwandan coffee for good, as the "head-clearing blend" turned out to be the "forgot-who-I-was blend", putting me a full day behind in the "monkeyshines" case, and even further removed from the revenge I was seeking on a certain Randy...the hoosah-fooforah & general tomfoolery so prevalent in the Lawson Detective Agency offices was attributed, by me, to him, and the end was near. I could taste the sweet vengeance like the 4 creams & 8 sugars that I dissolve into every cup of our Motor-Oil office-coffee. Feeling decadent, diabetic, and drifting off into various dessert-delicacy dreams, I got to figuring out the code to break this case-hinging anagram wide open; unfortunately, due to the sugar-rush I acquired from the aforementioned office-coffee, I become too concerned with the varieties of sweets available in Tennessee and just about booked a plane ticket for Memphis, when I was interrupted by a power-outage caused by Randy "re-adjusting" the outside lights so that he could better see his car from his desk.
It seems that Randy, while updating our parking lot lighting system to a more aesthetically-pleasing version, had tripped the breakers and, in the process, saved me costly plane ticket & hotel accommodations, as well as what would have been an awkward presentation to the share-holders in regards to my expense report.
Moreover, while apologizing for the blackout, he squinted at my page and said "monkeyshines on television". Though the riddle’s answer didn’t exactly start me off and running, my head immediately stopped throbbing from the effort of trying to figure out how to figure out the anagram. Well done, Randy, I thought...you’ve earned your reprieve, however fleeting.
Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Entry 8
2.10.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 6
I managed to escape my encounter with Bernice Sheppenwastein without injury and only a vague feeling of nausea; my conscience hadn’t worked for a long time, instead replaced by an all-too-strong gag-reflex and the constant need for validation...but those facts were neither here nor there. The encounter with this new client had left me unnerved & doubting my own perceptions: Was she really growing as she was talking to me? Getting bigger? The implications of that possibility were outrageous, and far beyond my scope as a lowly Detective...though what I knew for certain was that if I didn’t get this case going in a timely fashion, I was going to have to answer to that hulking-mass of Bernice, the outcome of which remained not at all enviable.
I stopped in at my home for an infrequently-brewed pot of Rwandan Chim-Chim Chigger coffee, as that was the head-clearing blend, and proceeded to the office, where I had some anagram-solving, and revenge-planning, to attend to; Randy had been a thorn in my side for too long, and with his constant jacking-off & various applications of poor-judgment misinformation to long-suffering clients, I had to resolve this situation quickly. I was hand-cuffed by the fact that I couldn’t just fire him; that shock would be tantamount to jamming a tail-pipe in his mouth myself, as Randy was desperately unemployable...no, I would have to resort to a drawn-out, psychologically-taxing spirit-breaking, treating him to the punishments befitting an unwieldy horse.
I pulled into the office parking lot and, for the first time, I perused the anagrams of the lost Sheppenwastein-sibling, and one immediately stood out: Hominy...Tennessee Violins, OK? This was a test of wills, to be sure, and I wasn’t about to let a stinking videographer outwit me. Not with a head full of African java, not ever.
Entry 7
I stopped in at my home for an infrequently-brewed pot of Rwandan Chim-Chim Chigger coffee, as that was the head-clearing blend, and proceeded to the office, where I had some anagram-solving, and revenge-planning, to attend to; Randy had been a thorn in my side for too long, and with his constant jacking-off & various applications of poor-judgment misinformation to long-suffering clients, I had to resolve this situation quickly. I was hand-cuffed by the fact that I couldn’t just fire him; that shock would be tantamount to jamming a tail-pipe in his mouth myself, as Randy was desperately unemployable...no, I would have to resort to a drawn-out, psychologically-taxing spirit-breaking, treating him to the punishments befitting an unwieldy horse.
I pulled into the office parking lot and, for the first time, I perused the anagrams of the lost Sheppenwastein-sibling, and one immediately stood out: Hominy...Tennessee Violins, OK? This was a test of wills, to be sure, and I wasn’t about to let a stinking videographer outwit me. Not with a head full of African java, not ever.
Entry 7
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 5
I was led to the couch, and while I wasn’t sure whether it was damp or just cold, what I was sure of was that it had been soiled at one point. Bernice’s low groan of a voice actually loosened up into a nice timber, almost delicate, and as I listened to her ramble on & on about her beastly "condition", I couldn’t help wondering why it was that she was kneeling in front of the door at the time of my arrival. After nodding, feigning my best "listening" posture for some 40-odd minutes, I interrupted as politely as I could, but found myself in the grip of Freudian-Slippery: I had begun to ask, not about her strange door-answering position, but instead about her seemingly 6-knuckled hands...those monstrous hands that held only five fingers. She sighed heavily & looked at her meat-hooks with the eyes of a mother looking at a child only said mother could love.
Feeling uncomfortable, as Bernice sat there, staring at her hands for what was an exceedingly expansive amount of time, I remembered that I was there to find out some information on the "monkeyshines" case I was working, and tried to take the heavy silence in the direction more befitting of what I was actually after. I was getting crushed by the literal & metaphorical gravity of the situation, and finally just blurted out the word "monkeyshines" before she could tell me anything more about her mutated clod-hoppers. Bernice’s ears perked up, and she explained that it was she who had called in the case in the first place; she’s wasn’t the "tipster" that I had thought, no...she was the client.
Good Lord, I thought to myself, I have to get this thing going or I’m going to have a very unpleasant monster on my hands.
Apparently, her brother Sean was a videographer who was trying to make the big-time...this Sean character had taken to creating disastrous events for the explicit purpose of taping them for his demo-reel to prospective employers. In his madness to capture the imaginary "story", he had already sent an empty school-bus off a cliff, tied an elk to a stopsign, set off fireworks at a bris, and organized a protest in a vain attempt to get Full House back on the air. This guy was obviously nuts, and I had to find him before he tried to make more "news"...though, I think I might have enjoyed seeing an elk tied to a stopsign; for some reason, that’s an image that has always appealed to me.
Regardless, I asked Bernice if she had any idea as to where her brother was last seen, or what he might have up his sleeve next. All she could tell me, slipping back into her Frankenstein’s Monster’s growl, was that he had been, in recent months, trying his hand at anagrams, and that she had a piece of paper that contained various jumbles of words in his hand-writing. Like a flash of lightning, if the lightning was an eight-foot tall walking oak-tree, she grabbed the aforementioned scrap of paper off a nearby side-table, promptly crumpling it up & tearing inconsequential bits off it...then handing it to me with the explanation that the gentleman she talked to at my Agency told her that this procedure was protocol in handing over documents to Agent Lawson, or, me.
Ooh, that Randy, I thought. I’ll get him good when I get back to the office, and this time it wouldn’t just be letting the air out of his tires. But revenge would have to wait, as I had some deciphering to do...and a Monster’s Lair to escape from.
Entry 6
Feeling uncomfortable, as Bernice sat there, staring at her hands for what was an exceedingly expansive amount of time, I remembered that I was there to find out some information on the "monkeyshines" case I was working, and tried to take the heavy silence in the direction more befitting of what I was actually after. I was getting crushed by the literal & metaphorical gravity of the situation, and finally just blurted out the word "monkeyshines" before she could tell me anything more about her mutated clod-hoppers. Bernice’s ears perked up, and she explained that it was she who had called in the case in the first place; she’s wasn’t the "tipster" that I had thought, no...she was the client.
Good Lord, I thought to myself, I have to get this thing going or I’m going to have a very unpleasant monster on my hands.
Apparently, her brother Sean was a videographer who was trying to make the big-time...this Sean character had taken to creating disastrous events for the explicit purpose of taping them for his demo-reel to prospective employers. In his madness to capture the imaginary "story", he had already sent an empty school-bus off a cliff, tied an elk to a stopsign, set off fireworks at a bris, and organized a protest in a vain attempt to get Full House back on the air. This guy was obviously nuts, and I had to find him before he tried to make more "news"...though, I think I might have enjoyed seeing an elk tied to a stopsign; for some reason, that’s an image that has always appealed to me.
Regardless, I asked Bernice if she had any idea as to where her brother was last seen, or what he might have up his sleeve next. All she could tell me, slipping back into her Frankenstein’s Monster’s growl, was that he had been, in recent months, trying his hand at anagrams, and that she had a piece of paper that contained various jumbles of words in his hand-writing. Like a flash of lightning, if the lightning was an eight-foot tall walking oak-tree, she grabbed the aforementioned scrap of paper off a nearby side-table, promptly crumpling it up & tearing inconsequential bits off it...then handing it to me with the explanation that the gentleman she talked to at my Agency told her that this procedure was protocol in handing over documents to Agent Lawson, or, me.
Ooh, that Randy, I thought. I’ll get him good when I get back to the office, and this time it wouldn’t just be letting the air out of his tires. But revenge would have to wait, as I had some deciphering to do...and a Monster’s Lair to escape from.
Entry 6
2.08.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 4
Armed with my traveler’s mug of Oriental coffee, I walked over to the last known address of one Bernice Sheppenwastein, as, by twist of fate, or, possibly, cruel inconvenience, she lived right around the corner from me. Sipping my coffee slowly, the way a baby calf savors the suckling of their mother’s teat, was all I could do to keep the over-powering feelings of Bad Karma at bay...at least until I saw the slick, degenerate concrete steps leading up to the tipster’s abode.
Like an alarm bell, sans the bell, as whatever ill-thoughts I had did not have an audio soundtrack, just the metaphoric red, flashing lights of an alarm...so, like an alarm, my skin crawled backwards, as if retreating from an image too horrible to contemplate; the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention, akin to the inner-workings of an adolescent boy’s gym-shorts when provided with too much friction; my knees knocking like a discount muffler-shop salesman selling 3 oil changes for the price of 1 door-to-door; my similes running for cover, like...something, leaving me helpless to end this run-on sentence properly. The rusted, half-torn screen-door creaked as I made my way up the second step, and I took a quick glance at the open window facing me, seeing only the flickering light of an abandoned television set in the front room. I got up the remaining three steps without incident, and, blowing out a slow-roasted blend of coffee-breath & medically-diagnosed halitosis, I knocked on the front door not once, but one-and-a-half times, as I couldn’t quite make up my mind. The silhouette appeared first; a small, curvaceous shadow that unlatched the front door, simultaneously alleviating my seemingly unfounded fears, and, quite possibly, allowing me in.
But then, as the door flew open, the air of such a mighty pull sucked me in a step, like a doorway undertow, and I saw who I presumed to be Ms. Sheppenwastein on her knees in front of the door. It was then that I realized that, not only was the sinewy form I had seen just moments earlier the curves of this woman’s gigantic head, but that I had inadvertently pulled back at such a horrid sight, thrusting my pelvis towards this behemoth’s unfortunately situated crotch-level head.
Suffice it to say, Ms. Sheppenwastein was neither impressed, nor a small lady, so all of the earlier feelings of Bad Karma came flooding back. Standing, but apparently understanding my response to her countenance, as she very well could have been the Missing Link, she invited me in with a guttural grunt, and a wave of her mighty, multi-knuckled hand. It was at precisely that time that I desperately wished I had called ahead.
Entry 5
Like an alarm bell, sans the bell, as whatever ill-thoughts I had did not have an audio soundtrack, just the metaphoric red, flashing lights of an alarm...so, like an alarm, my skin crawled backwards, as if retreating from an image too horrible to contemplate; the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention, akin to the inner-workings of an adolescent boy’s gym-shorts when provided with too much friction; my knees knocking like a discount muffler-shop salesman selling 3 oil changes for the price of 1 door-to-door; my similes running for cover, like...something, leaving me helpless to end this run-on sentence properly. The rusted, half-torn screen-door creaked as I made my way up the second step, and I took a quick glance at the open window facing me, seeing only the flickering light of an abandoned television set in the front room. I got up the remaining three steps without incident, and, blowing out a slow-roasted blend of coffee-breath & medically-diagnosed halitosis, I knocked on the front door not once, but one-and-a-half times, as I couldn’t quite make up my mind. The silhouette appeared first; a small, curvaceous shadow that unlatched the front door, simultaneously alleviating my seemingly unfounded fears, and, quite possibly, allowing me in.
But then, as the door flew open, the air of such a mighty pull sucked me in a step, like a doorway undertow, and I saw who I presumed to be Ms. Sheppenwastein on her knees in front of the door. It was then that I realized that, not only was the sinewy form I had seen just moments earlier the curves of this woman’s gigantic head, but that I had inadvertently pulled back at such a horrid sight, thrusting my pelvis towards this behemoth’s unfortunately situated crotch-level head.
Suffice it to say, Ms. Sheppenwastein was neither impressed, nor a small lady, so all of the earlier feelings of Bad Karma came flooding back. Standing, but apparently understanding my response to her countenance, as she very well could have been the Missing Link, she invited me in with a guttural grunt, and a wave of her mighty, multi-knuckled hand. It was at precisely that time that I desperately wished I had called ahead.
Entry 5
2.07.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 3
One Duke combines all of the necessary qualities that a friendly neighbourhood Watering-Hole should embrace: a darkened atmosphere, free of idiotic yelling & cursing; delightfully filling, quasi-exotic food; and the kind of liquor-shot volume one should only rightfully expect were they a visiting dignitary. In short, the perfect Office-Away-From-the-Office...it was here that I got to examining this "monkeyshines" case in full.
Gathering what little information was given, along with a bellyful of Heineken & chevre-soaked smoked-salmon on hard-toast, I came to an uncomfortable conclusion: There was a Madman, or perhaps a Madwoman, wandering the streets of Hammertown, taking lives & giving no quarter as to the consequences...the kind of maniac a small, independently-owned Detective Agency could make a big name off of, were said Agency to solve the case.
Once I arrived at my home, the Office-Away-From-the-Office-Away-From-the-Office, I sobered up & realized that my earlier conclusion was based on erroneous assumptions & far too much beer for a Monday night. I instead came to a secondary conclusion: That I didn’t have enough information to begin the case with any zeal. Downcast, a little woozy from drink, but ambulatory enough to use the telephone, I called Randy at the office, knowing that he’d still be there, either staying abreast of incoming information or downloading revolting Internet Porn, as, by all accounts, Randy was a lonely, lonely man. Sure enough, though I heard the sounds of what I thought to be a zipper doing-up, he answered the phone, edgy but with case-starting info: I was to look for a Bernice Sheppenwastein, located in Centraleast-Downsouth East-Hammertown. I thanked him as best I could, envisioning all of the times my mouse was all sticky & tacky on any given morning, and promptly brewed up another fantastic pot of East-Beijing Sea-Urchin coffee...that was the Crime-Fighting blend, and I was going to need it.
Entry 4
Gathering what little information was given, along with a bellyful of Heineken & chevre-soaked smoked-salmon on hard-toast, I came to an uncomfortable conclusion: There was a Madman, or perhaps a Madwoman, wandering the streets of Hammertown, taking lives & giving no quarter as to the consequences...the kind of maniac a small, independently-owned Detective Agency could make a big name off of, were said Agency to solve the case.
Once I arrived at my home, the Office-Away-From-the-Office-Away-From-the-Office, I sobered up & realized that my earlier conclusion was based on erroneous assumptions & far too much beer for a Monday night. I instead came to a secondary conclusion: That I didn’t have enough information to begin the case with any zeal. Downcast, a little woozy from drink, but ambulatory enough to use the telephone, I called Randy at the office, knowing that he’d still be there, either staying abreast of incoming information or downloading revolting Internet Porn, as, by all accounts, Randy was a lonely, lonely man. Sure enough, though I heard the sounds of what I thought to be a zipper doing-up, he answered the phone, edgy but with case-starting info: I was to look for a Bernice Sheppenwastein, located in Centraleast-Downsouth East-Hammertown. I thanked him as best I could, envisioning all of the times my mouse was all sticky & tacky on any given morning, and promptly brewed up another fantastic pot of East-Beijing Sea-Urchin coffee...that was the Crime-Fighting blend, and I was going to need it.
Entry 4
2.05.2006
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 2
The piece of paper with "monkeyshines" on it wasn’t enough; I had to look the word up in the dictionary. What I found was both revealing and explanatory: A mischievous or playful trick; a prank.
This didn’t sit well with me from the get-go, and I took to accusingly glancing around the office for perpetrators of what could well go down as the Biggest Hoax in Lawson Detective Agency history. Randy, the "monkeyshines" paper errand-boy, came over to me wearing a mask of Shame that couldn’t have been more clear had it been carved out of soap-stone. He explained his disposition, elucidating that he felt "bad" because he had taken my parking spot yesterday, even though he told me, after I flew into a rage, that he didn’t know WHO’s car it was. Feeling the effects of the previous night’s combat with Sergeant Jack Daniel’s and his Hot Wing deputies, I assured him that, while the past was the past, I really should know the makes and models of my employees’ cars, as there were only five of whom in the office. He also explained that maybe, just maybe, I should get out of the office, as I was, apparently, giving everyone the "creeps"...a result, I’m assuming, of my accusatory glancing. Taking the hint, and not wanting the enthusiasm of the office to plummet any further after the "Stolen Parking Spot" tirade of the previous day, I left for the only place that held all of the answers to my unasked questions: One Duke.
Entry 3
This didn’t sit well with me from the get-go, and I took to accusingly glancing around the office for perpetrators of what could well go down as the Biggest Hoax in Lawson Detective Agency history. Randy, the "monkeyshines" paper errand-boy, came over to me wearing a mask of Shame that couldn’t have been more clear had it been carved out of soap-stone. He explained his disposition, elucidating that he felt "bad" because he had taken my parking spot yesterday, even though he told me, after I flew into a rage, that he didn’t know WHO’s car it was. Feeling the effects of the previous night’s combat with Sergeant Jack Daniel’s and his Hot Wing deputies, I assured him that, while the past was the past, I really should know the makes and models of my employees’ cars, as there were only five of whom in the office. He also explained that maybe, just maybe, I should get out of the office, as I was, apparently, giving everyone the "creeps"...a result, I’m assuming, of my accusatory glancing. Taking the hint, and not wanting the enthusiasm of the office to plummet any further after the "Stolen Parking Spot" tirade of the previous day, I left for the only place that held all of the answers to my unasked questions: One Duke.
Entry 3
The "Monkeyshines" Case - Entry 1
The word "monkeyshines" was handed to me on a crumpled piece of paper while I was enjoying the morning crossword with a cup of Guatemalan coffee. Surprised, a little confused, and in a world of full-bodied flavour, I turned to the one who brought me the note, asking where it had originated from. He informed me that it had just come in on the Lawson Detective Agency website, and he pulled it off the printer, giving it to me because, he said, it looked like I needed something to do. I then asked him who he thought he was, making judgments in regards to a senior officer's possible leisure time. He replied that he was Randy, and that it looked to him like my coffee was getting cold. I assured him that my coffee's temperature, and his sexual appetite, were none of my concern, and I proceeded to pepper him with questions as to why said note was all torn and crumpled...basically, just that one question. "Randy" had supposed, he explained, that if he handed me the piece of paper in question without it looking like a clue from some piece-of-crap TV detective show, that I wouldn't handle the case with my usual aplomb. I attempted to interject, but he continued with the information that all of my previous casefiles were handled in a similar manner, and that the Agency figured that this was the only way to get me excited about anything anymore.
It was a hard lesson, especially since this is MY Detective Agency, and a bad start to the case.
Entry 2
It was a hard lesson, especially since this is MY Detective Agency, and a bad start to the case.
Entry 2
The Lawson Detective Agency Mission Statement
DISCOVERATION.
One of the principal tenets of Detecting. Less known, however, are the phrases LOCATIONARIANISM, LOOKINZEES and...well...um, LIFTING UP ROCKS...or something. Alliteration is the Devil, and I am of the Damned. Regardless, these vague precepts are what were somewhat going through my head during the inception of the Lawson Detective Agency ©, where we will look into anything for $10.
Let that last bit find its way through your brain, to your heart. Ten bucks.
Big, small or completely worthless, once the electronically mailed Consultation Query has been sent, along with the aforementioned $10, we will do everything in our power to locate the "it" or "thing" or "whatever", as well as keep you informed as to the process with updated communiqués, while sending receipts for money spent while on your personalized quest. Be it a long-lost child given up for adoption, a rubber ball you thought you might have put under the couch, or the surveillance of a carousing, sexy wife whom you think might be lost to Debauchery, we will look after it all...for the small Consultation Fee of $10.
Plus whatever expenses we incur.*
Yes, to the folks here at Lawson Detective Agency ©, your valuables and/or lost stuff are being looked into...with a fine eye geared towards truth, justice and making ten dollars a case.
Plus expenses.
*Expenses are the natural result of having to spend time doing Detective Work. As such, sometimes a pizza is in order. Or vast quantities of liquor. Or, when in an unfamiliar city, female "tour guides" who provide information, along with "relaxation techniques" to calm the various Agents, allowing them to, afterwards, concentrate on their work. The Lawson Detective Agency © or its various subsidiaries are not responsible for perceived overspending, nor are they responsible for shoddy work done after a particularly hard night. Or for that time that One "relaxation therapist" turned out to be Three for only the price of Two...well, that’s called making a good deal, and although it left me, er...that particular Agent far from cognizant for the remainder of the case, we here at The Lawson Detective Agency ©, while not condoning actions such as these, are always up for a good story.
One of the principal tenets of Detecting. Less known, however, are the phrases LOCATIONARIANISM, LOOKINZEES and...well...um, LIFTING UP ROCKS...or something. Alliteration is the Devil, and I am of the Damned. Regardless, these vague precepts are what were somewhat going through my head during the inception of the Lawson Detective Agency ©, where we will look into anything for $10.
Let that last bit find its way through your brain, to your heart. Ten bucks.
Big, small or completely worthless, once the electronically mailed Consultation Query has been sent, along with the aforementioned $10, we will do everything in our power to locate the "it" or "thing" or "whatever", as well as keep you informed as to the process with updated communiqués, while sending receipts for money spent while on your personalized quest. Be it a long-lost child given up for adoption, a rubber ball you thought you might have put under the couch, or the surveillance of a carousing, sexy wife whom you think might be lost to Debauchery, we will look after it all...for the small Consultation Fee of $10.
Plus whatever expenses we incur.*
Yes, to the folks here at Lawson Detective Agency ©, your valuables and/or lost stuff are being looked into...with a fine eye geared towards truth, justice and making ten dollars a case.
Plus expenses.
*Expenses are the natural result of having to spend time doing Detective Work. As such, sometimes a pizza is in order. Or vast quantities of liquor. Or, when in an unfamiliar city, female "tour guides" who provide information, along with "relaxation techniques" to calm the various Agents, allowing them to, afterwards, concentrate on their work. The Lawson Detective Agency © or its various subsidiaries are not responsible for perceived overspending, nor are they responsible for shoddy work done after a particularly hard night. Or for that time that One "relaxation therapist" turned out to be Three for only the price of Two...well, that’s called making a good deal, and although it left me, er...that particular Agent far from cognizant for the remainder of the case, we here at The Lawson Detective Agency ©, while not condoning actions such as these, are always up for a good story.
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