"Detecteev Joe Gill, ju must help me! Poncho...Poncho say he going to keel me!" I notice the alligator was fake and asked, "So what's with the rubber alligator?" She bent over, revealing a very nice cleavage, and picked up the alligator. She removed a rolled up photo from its mouth and threw it at me. "Thees ees my Poncho. He ees a crazy crazy man." The photo was of an incredibly fat man standing on a diving board above a small pool, wearing a very tight t-shirt with the words "Planet Poncho" across his chest. "So what do you want from me?" Gia pulled out a huge cigar and lit it with a zippo. "I am Gia Gondola, Queen Belly Flop Promoter. Poncho Sanchez, better known as Planet Poncho to belly flop fans, ees the current world belly flop king. Well, there's a thees new kid, Harry Big Fat King Kong Hairy Ass Harry. We'll just call him Fatass for short. Well Fatass ees undefeated in 32 belly flops and will meet Poncho in the Grand Fattest Fat-assed Belly Flop, whic! h ees this Saturday, two days from now! Here ees the problem: The bets are on Fatass 10 to 1, so I asked Poncho to take a dive, you know, throw the belly flop. Well, Poncho say he do it, but it gonna cost me a hundred bucks, fifty pieces of Fat Freddy's Fat Fried Chicken, and a chocolate milkshake." Growing impatient I asked, "Can you just get to the point?" "Okay, okay, the problem ees Fat Freddy's Fat Fried Chicken, they don't sell chocolate milkshake and Poncho say if he don't have a milkshake he gonna squash me like a tortilla! What I'm going to do?" I thought for a moment and said, "Relax Gia, I have an Idea." I pulled out a fast-food guide I got in the mail. It was a map of all the fast food joints in Miami. "Alright Gia, listen up, Carl's Cholestrol Clogging Shakes is about twelve blocks from Fat Freddy's Fat Fried Chicken. If we time this just right, it might work. After Poncho takes a dive, go to Fat Freddy's Fat Fried Chicken. I'll be waiting by the phon! e booth with the shake." "Mr. Gill, ju are so smart! Thanks!"
It was the big day. I went over everything in my head. Yeah, I was ready alright. I pulled my Nova through the drive through of Carl's Cholesterol Clogging Shakes and ordered the Godzilla size chocolate shake. Everything was going smoothly. It was approximately 3PM when I arrived at Fat Freddy's Fat Fried Chicken. I took the Godzilla size chocolate shake to the phone booth and waited. At 3:15 a white cadillac, leaning towards the passenger side, pulled in. Poncho and Gia had arrived. Gia placed her order then walked to the phone booth to get the shake. "Okay, geev it to me." "Not so fast," I said. This is gonna cost you twenty bucks. She paid me then sat down with Poncho. Poncho smiled and grabbed the cup from Gia. He held the cup in both hands and began to drink. Then, his eyes opened wide and he dropped the shake on the floor. "AAAAAhhhhhhh! Dees ees strawberrrrrrrry!!" Poncho jumped on Gia crushing her like a tortilla! She was dead. If only I had checked the order!
After giving my statement to the police, I couldn't hold back any longer and a single tear fell. A cop noticed and said, "Leave it alone Joe. The food in this town is just too fast !"
I normally don't take any bull from broads like this, but this one had something different. She had an attitude that few if any women have. I asked her if I could be of service. Her answer was that she didn't usually come to places such as this. She had always handled her own problems. Her problem was that she couldn't find her problem. It had escaped her. She fully described the missing problem as weighing just under three pounds, wearing a tan coat, with large round blue eyes, and had a high yippy type voice. I decided to help her. If only to solve some other poor unfortunate's aversion to the constant yip,yip, yip, yip, yipping noise that only a chihuahua named Bear could make. Of course I had no idea where to start. But the stipend she offered made it worth while.
Dorius and Estrollica coiled their serpentine bodies and hefted their Medusae torsos upright. They communicated once more through their special umbilicus, a double tube which protruded several inches from their hips. Natural lubrication which secreted from epidermal glands on the rictus of the umbilicus glistened in the fading Drizzzaxx sun, like the tear of a falling angel, soon to mingle in the glimmering Great Brooding Pool of Xoxzx.
Estrollica shook off the long, trailing sea kelp which momentarily looked like hair -- startling Dorius and momentarily making Estrollica repugnant to him. Unfortunately, this was communicated via pheromone through the umbilicus, and Estrollica's garden-green color deepened; she turned her head away. She smelled of hurt, like sweaty buzzards sated on diesel-tinged roadkill and beer-based cheddar-cheese fondue. Dorius nuzzled her chin to face him and gazed deeply into her 5 segmented eyes. He released a scent of pure love, like that of musk ox and cabbage. He knew their time together would be short; he released a scent of pure liquid oxygen starship fuel and moldy brie, punctuated with staccatto scent-packets of ocean air during a red tide and algae kill, like wayward, youthful summers near the Breeding Pool. Sensing his arousal and the impending, burgeoning pressure in her cloaca, she wrapped her coils around his body, and they plunged headfirst into the Pool.
The sensuous, mineral-rich, oily water of the pool carressed their scaly flesh as they pressed closer and closer together. Their gill-folds opening and closing, gasping for methane, their prehensile tongues questing, searching for one another's nasal cavity, they shouted out their rapture for one another to the heavens, scenting the air with odors of elephant armpit-sweat, over-boiled potatos, burning hair, and Chanel No. 5. Finally, in one moment of passionate union, like the release of gametes into greener placental pastures, their full love was realized and declared to the stars in olfactory utterances of lemon zest, devil's tongue musk, and cantonese fried noodles in a stir fry of crawfish and petroleum, hold the basil.
And, in the somber, grand tradition of their ancients -- ancestors whom Estrollica and Dorius never knew, but whose blood pounded through their veins -- Estrollica stroked her lover's flesh with her tail, unhinged her jaw, and bit Dorius' head clean off. His body slowly sank to the bottom of the Pool to join his ancestors, and to slowly release nitrates for the next several hundred years.
Estrollica swam out of the pool, shaking her hairless pate in a ripple that cascaded down her body to her tail. She sat a while and cogitated and masticated on her future. The air smelled pleasantly of vetiver-laced rodent fur, orris butter, and civet.
The author comments, "Well, I suppose it could be Romance. Or perhaps a fictionalized nature documentary? I guess it's really just kind of gross. Enjoy! "
The ten muchachos opened fire--bang bang bang bang bang and bang bang bang bang bang! Lucky for me they had bad aim! I blinked as hard as I could, boom! boom! Two down! Now it was time for my backup plan! I requested a time-out and strapped on my arsenal. Then I jumped backwards out of my window shooting Gia and her gang, and parachuted to safety.
I may never know why Gia Gondola wanted me dead and I really don't care. She wasn't the first broad who wanted to kill me. I only knew the facts: It was two o'clock in the afternoon, I was out of cigarettes, I hadn't had lunch, and I was standing in the middle of the street wearing a parachute.
"Another one rappelled down Fortescue Manor, and was caught by its original owner," spat the aging monk.
"The Manor's owner, or the alligator's?" asked Zog, perplexed and befuddled (and besotten).
"Who cares," said the cleric, picking his nose. He wiped the quivering booger down on a long stripe of flegm already caked on his robe. "Continuing the story...this 'gator was owned by Monique. You know, the one that shivers despite the tropical heat?"
A nod from Zog was enough for Gia. "Continuing the story... Monique fell off a parapet and landed on the Pacific Princess. The Princess was smooshed, and so Monique had to marry the Duke as soon as she stepped off of the Pacific Princess. She still can't believe she's the wife of a Duke she never met."
Just then, they heard a person sniffle back a tear. Beverly, hiding under the bleached table, stuck her head out and yelled, "Kicked off of the Virgin Cheerleading Squad again...that's twice this month! My mom's dreams for me are ALL DASHED! How can I even go home now?" she re-sniffled.
Realizing she was not instrumental in this story, Zog and Gia ignored her and continued the tale.
"But really, Bartholomew Zog," laughed the priest with his uncharacteristicly flegm-free throaty chuckle, "This is serious! The now-Lady Monique Thanniger is eighty years old...and she's with that dashing young Duke...oh, no, it can't be! This story is just too damn COMMON for someone of our reader's stature!"
Stroking the wyvern-covered royal robes, Zog looked thoughtful (or gassy), then decided to do his own first line of offensive behavior to begin the next chapter of this tale...he beat the cleric with the alligator until dead.
Who, you ask? Zog, the Cleric, Monique, the Alligator, or even Beverly? You'll have to read the next chapter to find out. (Besides, it ain't Beverly, I already wrote she was unimportant...or was that a misdirection?)
The author comments, "This actually covers all the genres. The way I look at it, I gots more than one chance of winning that way, heheh."
How...comprehensive!
He stared into her blank face for the last time. "I won't ever see you again."
She groped for his hand, but it eluded her still. She turned to look at the mural on the side of the building, a beautiful sunset in an ugly city, her favorite place where they met for the first time. Dark tears traced quickly down the wall. "No, they're breaking up. For good this time. Oh, God, I love you."
She spun around quickly and raced away. She couldn't turn back to see him one last time, no matter how hard she tried. Shadows, you see, must follow the paths of their maker.
sunset
The author comments, ""This was fun" he said as he rushed to pick up the Nobel Prize in Schlockniness. "
Humphrey and Albertina seemed strangely subdued on this day of all days, this
moment of supreme triumph for the two. Orphaned by cruel mischance--their parents
having fallen to untimely deaths from the top of a ferris wheel where they
were attempting the Lambada--the two young savants had been taken in by kindly
old uncle Rupert, who, although singularly creative in his dress and
toilet, was the world's undisputed master upon the sorely neglected alto crab, for which instrument
very little music of quality has been written. What a stroke of happy fate for
the children! Immediately upon their arrival in his quaint cottage, surrounded by
stately old pines and rolling meadows dotted with bright-faced daisies and cowslips,
the venerable old man had begun their instruction upon his chosen instrument.
Early morning, bright midday, dusky eve, and darkest night would find him, seated
upon his handcarved Slovakian crab-stool, a protege before him, his ancient,
skilled hands over the child's, carefully teaching by example as he manipulated
the little appendages--both the child's and the crab's--to draw forth the
strange but compelling notes of Bach's Crab Canon. When little Humphrey or
Albertina complained of the chafing inflicted by the crustoid claws on their delicate fingers, kindly old uncle
Rupert would just throw back his great, leonine head, laughing his great
laugh and spraying tobacco juice through his mighty moustachios: "Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed
he: "You sink zis crab is rough on ze pinkies? Chust you vait, my darlink, chust
you vait! Vun day for you it will be ze live crabs--unt zen, unt zen..." At this
point the polyaccented old genius would mumble off into incoherence, his
wise but kindly eyes gazing, unseeing, into a distant future of world tours by
the Googleheimers.
Skittles O'Ham was one of those trash-talking, lying, thieving bastards that
you'd never trust alone with your girl if you didn't know of his sexual
proclivity for clammy-handed busboys and small farm animals. I couldn't
help but shudder inwardly as I caught an eyeful of his corpulent frame
squeezed in my doorframe like the chocolate in a mint Milano cookie.
Needless to say,there were folks I would have rather had stop in for a
friendly afternoon visit.
"Stopping by for a spot of tea?," I asked him in my gruffest contralto.
"Smart guy," he trenchmouthed in reply. "I forgot about that mouth on you, Detective Frenchie. Which reminds me..."
"I didn't forget a damn thing about you, Skittles," I castrated. "I should have busted you but good in that Macy's mannequin molestation case back in '36. But you know how it is...A broad with a body curved so smooth that you want to slap a saddle on her, ride her around town, name her Zinsoo. Lila Gladfern. Jesus what a looker. I remember the time..."
"Christ, Frenchie! Dincha hear?" Skittles broke my reverie into several beautiful little pieces the way that a quality name-brand detergent will break up grease in a pan full of dirty water. "Lila Gladfern's been killed! They found her body early this morning on the Happy's Fresh Fish pier. Some psycho force-fed her shitake mushrooms, dressed her as a long- shoreman. Geez, What a sicko."
Why shitake mushrooms?, I wondered. Why not portabello, for instance? There had to be something to this...
Skittles filled me in on the details of the Lila Gladfern murder as we
tore across town in checkered cab #36. We were headed toward Happy's Fresh
Fish Pier, just beyond the financial district. Skittles, seemingly desperate
to play Lacey to my Cagney, informed me that Lila was last seen in the company of Junior Tagmauer, a working stiff at Happy's. Feeling a little less than congenial under the weight of my ex-girlfriend having cashed in the last
of her chips looking like Biff the transsexual sailor, I told Skittles to dangle.
Happy's Fresh Fish Pier was a local dive that attracted high class clientele like a magnet attracts dirt. As proprietor, Happy was never seen, but mention of his name would make even the most wizened, down-and-out patron of his establishment curl his piggies in outright fear. He was an ex-con who was variably rumored to be dead, living in the south seas, on an extended ski trip in the Swiss Alps, and attending clown college--among other possibilities. I had once heard that he had lost his sanity along with his nose and left ear to a particularly harsh case of syphilis. Nobody knew for sure.
I knew the dame who was tending bar. Madge Benton. She had been engaged to my pal Mulvey a few years back, before Mulvey suffered a nervous breakdown and became convinced he was an Italian dictator. After a couple of weeks of Mulvey gesturing dramatically and slamming his fist on the breakfast table in fits of passion, Madge finally split when she thought she heard Mulvey muttering something in Italian that sounded like "piano wire." She had been working at Happy's ever since. I guess she never did get hitched.
"Hey there, Frenchie," she dietriched, swiping a bar towel along the inside of a glass with a grace so measured, you'd swear you were in a dream.
"Hey Madge." was all I could manage. I reached into my jacket pocket, snagged his-and-hers Lucky Strikes and offered my lady friend a lungful of tar with an inquiring tilt of my right eyebrow.
"Jesus, Frenchie," she purred. "You know, I could really use this after today. You heard about Lila?"
I nodded.
"The pigs have been in here tryin' to get me to squawk about Junior. Only there's nothin' to squawk about, dig? So I've been here squawkin' about nothin at all. Squawk, squawk, squawk."
"You always were a strange bird, Madgepie." I said casually, blowing smoke rings toward the parrot behind the bar.
"You gonna teach this bird to fly, Frenchie?," she retorted.
"I'd like to sweets, only I know that dames like you carry too much history to be aerodynamically sound."
"Maybe you could sand me down, French. I hear you have the machinery."
"The kind of machinery you'd need for that job costs more than I could afford to spend."
"Maybe you could stop worrying about your wallet and fly this baby home."
"Maybe I get airsick"
"Maybe I have sick-bags on board."
"Maybe I already blew chunks on your nice patent-leather shoes." That stopped her cold. "Christ, Frenchie. Ya really know how to break a girl's heart."
The author comments, "coming up...chapter 3...Detective Frenchie gets to the point."
Note from the Sage - since the 'quality' is being maintained, consider the gold stars above for the whole thing!
The ribald banter between me and Madge was making me edgy, tense, and a more than a little bit aroused. I felt repellent and hard, like an Oreo cookie that's been left for three days in somebody's screened-in porch during a dusty heatwave. And like that Oreo cookie, I could degenerate into a thousand pieces if I were to come into contact with a pair of moist, fresh lips like Madge Benton's. And suddenly I was blitzed by this notion of Madge, a magnificent dame, with black cookie crumbs drooling from the flanks of her mouth and onto the front of her inviting new garb. I knew that a girl like Madge could do better than a tough, soured detective cookie like myself. Somewhere out there was the right pastry for her, but I wasn't that pastry, and never would I be that pastry, so I decided then and there to keep my cookies in my pocket, get back to business.
"So Madge," I drawled. "You wouldn't prattle with the fuzz, but maybe you'll help an old pal of a pal. What's the skinny on Junior Tagmauer? He got a thing for dead brunettes and Asian cuisine?"
Madge crushed out her butt, raised her eyebrows in amusement. "Junior? Hell no. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He wouldn't even know how to."
"Oh yeah?!,"I ejaculated. "You'd be surprised, Madge, at what a guy can do, if given the incentive!"
She waggled her head. "Yeah, but Junior....Well, Junior wasn't exactly a bright star, if you know what I mean. A good kid, but he didn't know his right hand from his left. I mean...the kid thought that sloe gin was a card game for retards. I sometimes wondered if he wasn't the sloe gin world tournament champion, ya know?"
I caught her line, pulled hard. She was a smart chick. A fast-talking, smooth-walking, gum-chewing chick with million dollar gams and enough IQ points deposited in her account to send a nation of single guys plummeting into a Great Depression. I found my bad cookie analogy slowly fading out, while visions of Madge's striking rack in a set of black leather skivvies faded in like a scene in a B-movie.
Just as I began pondering color schemes for our wedding party, I was ripped from my daydreams by the voice of Skittles just outside the door to the bar. He bumbled in, stupidly. "Detective Frenchie! Detective Frenchie! You gotta come downtown with me, quick. The cops are asking questions! They're gonna take you in!"
I kept my flinches to myself, lit another Lucky, traced my thoughts along the stream of blue-grey smoke that swirled toward the low ceiling. "Christ, Skittles. I thought I told you to dangle."
The author comments, "Coming up in chapter 4: Frenchie smokes still more cigs."
The sun-wizened old-timers, chowing down on the pilfered pork and
wiping the grease from their unkempt mustaches, just laughed at the
grizzled old ex-ranger, unaware that all the years of wizening in the
sun had made them prone to melanoma and all that fatback they had
consumed through the years had hardened their arteries stiffer than a
cow-pat that’s sat three weeks in the desert, and Fess would soon have
the last laugh in a few years when he would spit into their graves on
Boot Hill and proclaim, “That’ll teach trail bums to mess with an
ex-ranger’s vittles!”
But, in the meantime, all poor Fess could do was lament his lost dinner and contemplate the wisdom of the head ranger, who had long ago warned him, “Never spit into the wind nor whittle toward yourself!” for Fess had just done both of those, and the tobacco juice in his eyes severely impeded his search for his severed right thumb that may or may not have fallen into the skillet and gotten fried along with the fatback.
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