Imitiation, Bhikku, will not get you salvation. But sometimes, it is fun. And that should count for something.
-- The Diary, December 24th, 505 BC
The clock had just struck eleven when I heard the knock. It was an odd hour for a visit, but I was an odd man to visit. My mother calls me Donny, but to everyone else, I am d'Onald, Super Sleuth. I am a paid hound. Sometimes I track down criminals for people. Some other times, I track down people for criminals. Always, I do it for cash: fifty greenbacks per hour. Travel, food and Jack Daniels are extra. That's for the tracking down. Violence costs more: 250 per small bone, 300 for medium and 350 for large. Death is a coupla grand. Regular body disposal is five grand, premium is ten. Silence is free. In my line of business, you talk today, you sleep with the fish tomorrow. It's a tough life, but I'm a tough man.
The caller entered. He was thin. That was the first thing you noticed about him. The second thing was that he was stupid. Very, stupid. His age was difficult to tell: it was 34 years and anywhere from 21 and 24 weeks. He wore an English bowler hat (black), a waistcoat (lavender) and brown pants in the baggy style. The belt was was half a slot too loose, ditto the Rolex. The watch and the horn-rimmed monocle spelt R-I-C-H-D-A-D-D-Y. So did the smell of expensive wine. Funny folk, these rich people. They drink their stuff after first letting the horse piss in it. You might wonder why. I don't. In my line of business, you get paid to ask only the right questions. It's a curious life, but I'm not a curious man. This stupid rich man had probably lost a puppy, a gift from his aunt last Christmas. I prepared for a dog-hunt. Business had been dull, and the blonde was high-maintenance. It is a dog's life.
"What-ho, old bean! Are you the sniffer, or are you the sidekick?"
The voice was surprisingly gruff. I pictured Dick Cheney dressed up for Gay Pride day. This was going to be difficult, doing business with this imbecile. I eyed him coldly. The trick was to unbreak the ice. In my line of business, you make friends today, you make the obituary column tomorrow. It is a loner job, but I am a loner man.
"I am Detective d'Onald, Private Eye. Can I help you?"
"You can do better, my lad. You can save my life."
"Yeah?"
"Postively"
"Oh yeah?"
"Scout's honor, old man. May the pants come loose at the Annual Ball if I speak aught but the truth."
"Listen, bud! What say you cut out the lingo and cut to the chase? What duyya want?"
"Ah! The American spirit. Onward, ho, to business. Shoulder to the wheel. Eye on the ball." I growled. "Well, as you say. Business it is. Quite. You see, my man, I've lost my brother on these strange shores. The lad's gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Evaporated. Poof."
This nut's brother? This was going to be much worse than the gift puppy. I winced. Inwardly, of course. The face was a mask. In my line of business, you show emotion today, tomorrow they'll be scraping your small intestine off Canal Street.
"When didya last see him, this brother of yors?"
"Ah, the facts. The background. The pieces of the puzzle. The clues. You are a lark that knows its tune. Capital, old boy! Wait till I tell the blokes at the club."
"I said, when didya last see yo' brother?"
"It must have been last summer. I was at the races and the chap was cooing to Maggie. The lad was in love. Dangerous stuff, love, particularly if you are in the habit of writing poetry, as the flesh-and-blood was. Made a right nuisance of himself. Why, that day, he was saying Maggie's eyes cleft his soul in twain. Some rot about he was unable to decide whether they looked like olives from Eden lying on virgin Swiss snow, or black diamonds smouldering afloat the river of her soul's white fire. A lot of rot, if you ask me. If Maggie's eyes looked like anything at all, they looked like a dung-beetle thrashing about in a cube of rotting cheese. But try telling that to the lad. Do not get me wrong. I'm second to none when it comes to fraternal feeling and blood-thicker-than-water and all that, but I draw the line at sunsets. Sunsets ought to remind a chap of dinner. But put the cove within half a mile of a sunset, and he would spout rot about the colors of the bridesmaid's dress at an angel's wedding, after the best man had unwittingly spilled Pinot Rouge on the her clothes--the bridesmaid's, you see, not the bride's--while they were dancing to Chopin after an apple pie. Details, he used to say. That's what poetry is about. Anyhow, the lasses always right fell for it. Keep encouraging him to coo his ghastly stuff into their ears. Why, some even ask him to repeat the rot about dew and cherubim's tears.
Ah, but I digress. To the point, of course. L'espirit Americain! Quite. As I was saying, the lad was cooing to Maggie at the races. Was blocking my view, as a matter of fact. Didn't matter, of course. My mare was walking backwards. Would have finished third in the previous race. Say! What an idea. Might get ten bob for that one. Free association, my man. That's the word. The steaming ideas of the unconscious breaking out in wild waves of free association and what-not, just like an underground sewer suddenly flooding all of Picadilly. What-ho, for the Joyce of the stream of consciousness! Got that? Joyce of the stream of consciousness. Ha, ha! That's a killer."
"You mean," and here I was screaming. Second time in my career. The first time was when Black Jack Big Mac had his dog lick my ears for two hours to find out who wanted his real name so bad. I didn't sing, if you're wondering. In my line of business, you sing today, tomorrow a friendly jackknife might ask for an encore from your vocal chords. It's not a musical life, but I'm not a musical man. "You mean he has been lost for a year?"
"Why, you're an odd bird. A foul fowl, in fact. You think I'd wait one year before seeking trained help? The lad's only been lost three hours. We were both dipping into the same trough at seven just this evening, as a matter of fact."
"I thawt you said you haven't seen him since last summer?"
"Of course I haven't. Not the sort of chap you want to see very often. The beauty quota of our family ran out with yours truly. The cove's an eyesore. I try to look the other way. Feel like I've seen him too much already. I'm too much i'the sun, as Shakeaspeare would put it. You read Shakespeare? Capital chap. Full of beans. How was that again? Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt and all that. Splendid bloke. Nothing quite like him to build the apetite. Particularly if your Butler is serving Bacon for dinner. Ha,ha! You got that? Butler serving Bacon for dinner. Old Gussie's crack. Capital chap, that Gussie. Bit sad about his cook. He eloped with the housekeeper, you know. Gussie sort of fancied her. Say, old boy, think you can find them too? I'll throw in five bob extra."
"Get out"
"I say, you have all you need, eh? What-ho! The scent's on the deer's tail, and the wolf's on the deer's trail. Let me say, my man, that I have the utmost admiration for your methods. The psychology of the individual. The missing link. The inconsistent detail. The dog that did not bark. The wrong color of tie. The snot in summer. The boils in winter. The nukes in Baghdad. Gaze not upon me with such astonishment, you old duffer. Not spring's brightest flower am I, but I am the Gardner at many Holmes. I may lack your spark, you sharp kettle of fish, but let no man say old B is slow to catch on. Why, it wasn't a .."
Abruptly, my trusty 0.38 Wesson let out a cough, and the sweet sound of silence filled the room. Business was still dull and the blonde still wanted a gift for Christmas. Some would have said this was not the season for killing clients. But there are times when a man has got to do what a man to do. Even if there's no cash in it. Christmas is mostly about internet shopping, but there is something in the program about Good Samaritan acts.
The night was cold, the fish were hungry, and the body was still warm. Did I tell you that down in the Hudson, they think of me as Robin Hood? I like to see the fish rush in when the body breaks the surface. Sometimes, I cut the limbs apart before throwing it in. Makes it easy for the fish to bite chunks off. Avoids competition and violence. It is a sentimental thing to do, but I'm a sentimental man.
-- The Diary, December 24th, 505 BC
The clock had just struck eleven when I heard the knock. It was an odd hour for a visit, but I was an odd man to visit. My mother calls me Donny, but to everyone else, I am d'Onald, Super Sleuth. I am a paid hound. Sometimes I track down criminals for people. Some other times, I track down people for criminals. Always, I do it for cash: fifty greenbacks per hour. Travel, food and Jack Daniels are extra. That's for the tracking down. Violence costs more: 250 per small bone, 300 for medium and 350 for large. Death is a coupla grand. Regular body disposal is five grand, premium is ten. Silence is free. In my line of business, you talk today, you sleep with the fish tomorrow. It's a tough life, but I'm a tough man.
The caller entered. He was thin. That was the first thing you noticed about him. The second thing was that he was stupid. Very, stupid. His age was difficult to tell: it was 34 years and anywhere from 21 and 24 weeks. He wore an English bowler hat (black), a waistcoat (lavender) and brown pants in the baggy style. The belt was was half a slot too loose, ditto the Rolex. The watch and the horn-rimmed monocle spelt R-I-C-H-D-A-D-D-Y. So did the smell of expensive wine. Funny folk, these rich people. They drink their stuff after first letting the horse piss in it. You might wonder why. I don't. In my line of business, you get paid to ask only the right questions. It's a curious life, but I'm not a curious man. This stupid rich man had probably lost a puppy, a gift from his aunt last Christmas. I prepared for a dog-hunt. Business had been dull, and the blonde was high-maintenance. It is a dog's life.
"What-ho, old bean! Are you the sniffer, or are you the sidekick?"
The voice was surprisingly gruff. I pictured Dick Cheney dressed up for Gay Pride day. This was going to be difficult, doing business with this imbecile. I eyed him coldly. The trick was to unbreak the ice. In my line of business, you make friends today, you make the obituary column tomorrow. It is a loner job, but I am a loner man.
"I am Detective d'Onald, Private Eye. Can I help you?"
"You can do better, my lad. You can save my life."
"Yeah?"
"Postively"
"Oh yeah?"
"Scout's honor, old man. May the pants come loose at the Annual Ball if I speak aught but the truth."
"Listen, bud! What say you cut out the lingo and cut to the chase? What duyya want?"
"Ah! The American spirit. Onward, ho, to business. Shoulder to the wheel. Eye on the ball." I growled. "Well, as you say. Business it is. Quite. You see, my man, I've lost my brother on these strange shores. The lad's gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Evaporated. Poof."
This nut's brother? This was going to be much worse than the gift puppy. I winced. Inwardly, of course. The face was a mask. In my line of business, you show emotion today, tomorrow they'll be scraping your small intestine off Canal Street.
"When didya last see him, this brother of yors?"
"Ah, the facts. The background. The pieces of the puzzle. The clues. You are a lark that knows its tune. Capital, old boy! Wait till I tell the blokes at the club."
"I said, when didya last see yo' brother?"
"It must have been last summer. I was at the races and the chap was cooing to Maggie. The lad was in love. Dangerous stuff, love, particularly if you are in the habit of writing poetry, as the flesh-and-blood was. Made a right nuisance of himself. Why, that day, he was saying Maggie's eyes cleft his soul in twain. Some rot about he was unable to decide whether they looked like olives from Eden lying on virgin Swiss snow, or black diamonds smouldering afloat the river of her soul's white fire. A lot of rot, if you ask me. If Maggie's eyes looked like anything at all, they looked like a dung-beetle thrashing about in a cube of rotting cheese. But try telling that to the lad. Do not get me wrong. I'm second to none when it comes to fraternal feeling and blood-thicker-than-water and all that, but I draw the line at sunsets. Sunsets ought to remind a chap of dinner. But put the cove within half a mile of a sunset, and he would spout rot about the colors of the bridesmaid's dress at an angel's wedding, after the best man had unwittingly spilled Pinot Rouge on the her clothes--the bridesmaid's, you see, not the bride's--while they were dancing to Chopin after an apple pie. Details, he used to say. That's what poetry is about. Anyhow, the lasses always right fell for it. Keep encouraging him to coo his ghastly stuff into their ears. Why, some even ask him to repeat the rot about dew and cherubim's tears.
Ah, but I digress. To the point, of course. L'espirit Americain! Quite. As I was saying, the lad was cooing to Maggie at the races. Was blocking my view, as a matter of fact. Didn't matter, of course. My mare was walking backwards. Would have finished third in the previous race. Say! What an idea. Might get ten bob for that one. Free association, my man. That's the word. The steaming ideas of the unconscious breaking out in wild waves of free association and what-not, just like an underground sewer suddenly flooding all of Picadilly. What-ho, for the Joyce of the stream of consciousness! Got that? Joyce of the stream of consciousness. Ha, ha! That's a killer."
"You mean," and here I was screaming. Second time in my career. The first time was when Black Jack Big Mac had his dog lick my ears for two hours to find out who wanted his real name so bad. I didn't sing, if you're wondering. In my line of business, you sing today, tomorrow a friendly jackknife might ask for an encore from your vocal chords. It's not a musical life, but I'm not a musical man. "You mean he has been lost for a year?"
"Why, you're an odd bird. A foul fowl, in fact. You think I'd wait one year before seeking trained help? The lad's only been lost three hours. We were both dipping into the same trough at seven just this evening, as a matter of fact."
"I thawt you said you haven't seen him since last summer?"
"Of course I haven't. Not the sort of chap you want to see very often. The beauty quota of our family ran out with yours truly. The cove's an eyesore. I try to look the other way. Feel like I've seen him too much already. I'm too much i'the sun, as Shakeaspeare would put it. You read Shakespeare? Capital chap. Full of beans. How was that again? Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt and all that. Splendid bloke. Nothing quite like him to build the apetite. Particularly if your Butler is serving Bacon for dinner. Ha,ha! You got that? Butler serving Bacon for dinner. Old Gussie's crack. Capital chap, that Gussie. Bit sad about his cook. He eloped with the housekeeper, you know. Gussie sort of fancied her. Say, old boy, think you can find them too? I'll throw in five bob extra."
"Get out"
"I say, you have all you need, eh? What-ho! The scent's on the deer's tail, and the wolf's on the deer's trail. Let me say, my man, that I have the utmost admiration for your methods. The psychology of the individual. The missing link. The inconsistent detail. The dog that did not bark. The wrong color of tie. The snot in summer. The boils in winter. The nukes in Baghdad. Gaze not upon me with such astonishment, you old duffer. Not spring's brightest flower am I, but I am the Gardner at many Holmes. I may lack your spark, you sharp kettle of fish, but let no man say old B is slow to catch on. Why, it wasn't a .."
Abruptly, my trusty 0.38 Wesson let out a cough, and the sweet sound of silence filled the room. Business was still dull and the blonde still wanted a gift for Christmas. Some would have said this was not the season for killing clients. But there are times when a man has got to do what a man to do. Even if there's no cash in it. Christmas is mostly about internet shopping, but there is something in the program about Good Samaritan acts.
The night was cold, the fish were hungry, and the body was still warm. Did I tell you that down in the Hudson, they think of me as Robin Hood? I like to see the fish rush in when the body breaks the surface. Sometimes, I cut the limbs apart before throwing it in. Makes it easy for the fish to bite chunks off. Avoids competition and violence. It is a sentimental thing to do, but I'm a sentimental man.
7 comments:
i endeavour to provide satisfaction.
well, who am i kidding? thanks, my lad. that quite made my day. i'm all ablush.
This is what happens when a Wodehouseian character walks into Sam Spade's office? Especially when Sam is an OCD patient who tends to repeat himself again and again?
L~ T~
Man, you are getting better and better each time. Now I don't know if there is sthg more to get at! Too much!! Great work.
~P
Wow! Badri
Good Good. But. You need to work on the high level structure of the story(s). Like a typical PhD, you are concentrating on the minute details, so each sentance is as beautiful as a daffodil. But then if the daffodils are growing in a pig-pit (i dont know what that is), bwhat is the use? Work on the high level view, and there is no stopping you from being the next Williams Wordsworth.
[a body turns in a grave, somewhere in northern europe]
L~ T~,
Oui. That was the idea.
Saale,
Thanks, my lad. Couldn't have put in John le Carre. Never read the bloke.
~P, Sumitra,
Thanks much.
@theDQ,
Kindly do not talk rot :-)
I found this Web page rather randomly, and I know I'm two years late, but you made me laugh. Very skilfully written. If you're not a published writer, I think you should be.
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