At this point, we were completely out of leads. We had no idea who might have killed Mr. Grot. Honestly, we were about to just call it a day and go pick up an alcohol addiction when who else but my Arch nemesis waltzed on by.
I left Coldems there on the sidewalk and joined my Arch nemesis in his waltz.
He led. Then I led. Then he led. Then I.
We waltzed through traffic, we waltzed through alleyways, we waltzed down nameless streets and into blank avenues, past houses that receive no narrative descriptions, past people who are so inconsequential they're not even two-dimensional, through the gates of amateur and into the mouth of inexperienced.
He led. I led. He led. I.
On this waltz, I didn't even consider my job. There was only his gas mask and my faceless visage. His wit and my fists. His evil and my passion. He had to be devious, and I had to stop him.
And he led. And I led. And he led. And I.
For all I knew, we were dancing through space, a wake of wormholes preforming in our performing wake. We might have traveled through time, stepping in 3/4 with the primordial giants and with the gods that will be here when we're gone. I was so unaware of my surroundings we could be anywhere.
He led. Then I led. Then he led. But I.
We were outside my apartment, or wherever it is I live. Arch nemesis had stopped, looked at me.
"We can continue this endless dance, or you can go online and see how high this goes."
I looked back at him.
Then I remembered the frustrating cuckold that was this case, the responsibility I had to Head honcho, and the legitimate interest in figuring out who exactly killed Mr. Grot, and I left my nemesis there to dance with a different partner: Google.
(Note: The above was a metaphor. I do not dance with computers.)
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
I don't know how Coldems can drink a hot beverage without melting
In the interest of pursuing my literary career, I will experiment with form by writing this following post entirely through dialogue.
"Welcome to Starbucks! How may I help you?"
"I'd like one grande Slenderccino and a tall Coldcha, please."
"How many times do we have to tell you that those aren't drinks?"
"Then give us the usual! And make it snappy as Coldems and I take seats over here and describe your coffee establishment aloud in third-person omniscient narration style."
"The Starbucks was cold like some like it hot."
"The sun drenched the windows like a sponge drenches a car at a car wash."
"Approximately twelve patrons littered the restaurant."
"Like twelve rowdy citizens in a pub that only serves coffee!"
"Leave the similes to me, Slend. The lady at the counter had a peachy face, as if Jodie Foster gave birth to a.. a peach."
"Where'd you say you majored in creative writing, Coldems?"
"Harvard. Why?"
"No reason. The two young and reasonably attractive detectives eyed the floor, which had recently received such a vicious mopping it looked like dogs had salivated all over it."
"Dogs with mops."
"There sat, opposite the table of our modern protagonistic heroes, a fat-faced man who had such an ugly face he legitimately hurt to look at."
"Your coffees are ready!"
"Excellent. Now the detectives stroll, at a leisurely pace, across the establishment, pick up their drinks, and then return to their sun-drenched wet-floored table."
"And drink up!"
"Yes. And drink up."
"So what are your thoughts on the Grot case?"
"Mm. I'm not sure."
And then we left, frustratingly no further in our thoughts.
"Welcome to Starbucks! How may I help you?"
"I'd like one grande Slenderccino and a tall Coldcha, please."
"How many times do we have to tell you that those aren't drinks?"
"Then give us the usual! And make it snappy as Coldems and I take seats over here and describe your coffee establishment aloud in third-person omniscient narration style."
"The Starbucks was cold like some like it hot."
"The sun drenched the windows like a sponge drenches a car at a car wash."
"Approximately twelve patrons littered the restaurant."
"Like twelve rowdy citizens in a pub that only serves coffee!"
"Leave the similes to me, Slend. The lady at the counter had a peachy face, as if Jodie Foster gave birth to a.. a peach."
"Where'd you say you majored in creative writing, Coldems?"
"Harvard. Why?"
"No reason. The two young and reasonably attractive detectives eyed the floor, which had recently received such a vicious mopping it looked like dogs had salivated all over it."
"Dogs with mops."
"There sat, opposite the table of our modern protagonistic heroes, a fat-faced man who had such an ugly face he legitimately hurt to look at."
"Your coffees are ready!"
"Excellent. Now the detectives stroll, at a leisurely pace, across the establishment, pick up their drinks, and then return to their sun-drenched wet-floored table."
"And drink up!"
"Yes. And drink up."
"So what are your thoughts on the Grot case?"
"Mm. I'm not sure."
And then we left, frustratingly no further in our thoughts.
A Description of Mr. Grot
The boys took their usual photographs of the corpse, and then Head honcho assigned us to the job of investigating Mr. Grot's death.
From what I understood at the time (the time which is not concurrent with the date on this post, for legal reasons), Mr. Grot had no first name. He was just born "Mr. Grot." Became an esquire at age five, might have been eight, always hard to tell with these cases. Either that or I'm just a really bad detective. Spent his teenage years hitchhiking trains, striking deals with blues musicians in exchange for their souls, and playing a lot of ragtime piano in saloons. Somewhere in the west, you know exactly where I'm talking about. This was back in the early 20th century.
Mr. Grot graduated at the College of Hard Knocks with a Ph.D in Psychology. Freud was a big influence on him. The two were good drinking buddies until Mr. Grot killed him in a horrible accident involving tying Freud to a bear and setting it loose upon Moscow. I think that was him. Either way, something or other involving an accident with someone or other resulted in Mr. Grot seeing his first dead body, and from there he progressed into a full-fledged criminal and sought to join the Fearsome Pantheon of Really Monomaniacal and Hubristic Villains. They turned him down, saying their positions were full. Offered him an internship. He accepted.
Since Mr. Grot now had that job as an intern, he didn't need his day job striking deals with blues musicians, so he gave that to his secretary, Samuel "Jack of All" Beckett. You can see where this is going if you know anything about historical figures.
Grot set up shop in this city a few years back. Kept changing his address. Set up a massive corporation that sold video rights. Apparently used that as a front to smuggle vlogs over the border. Kids these days really need their fix, and Mr. Grot was just the man to give it to them.
Looks like someone else was just the man and/or woman to give it to him too. I'm too tired to write snarky detective wit. But an ace detective doesn't sleep. He just gets tired. It sucks being an ace detective, is the general theme I'm trying to get across here.
With Mr. Grot's dead body, we found 20,000 pages of mad scribblings scattered across notebooks, typescripts, random sheets of paper, you name it. The man was obsessed with something in the years preceding his death. We were hoping they could give us some clues as to who killed him.
Then we realized one of Mr. Grot's aliases was "James Joyce." Those 20,000 pages were Finnegans Wake.
That's when Coldems and I called a coffee break.
From what I understood at the time (the time which is not concurrent with the date on this post, for legal reasons), Mr. Grot had no first name. He was just born "Mr. Grot." Became an esquire at age five, might have been eight, always hard to tell with these cases. Either that or I'm just a really bad detective. Spent his teenage years hitchhiking trains, striking deals with blues musicians in exchange for their souls, and playing a lot of ragtime piano in saloons. Somewhere in the west, you know exactly where I'm talking about. This was back in the early 20th century.
Mr. Grot graduated at the College of Hard Knocks with a Ph.D in Psychology. Freud was a big influence on him. The two were good drinking buddies until Mr. Grot killed him in a horrible accident involving tying Freud to a bear and setting it loose upon Moscow. I think that was him. Either way, something or other involving an accident with someone or other resulted in Mr. Grot seeing his first dead body, and from there he progressed into a full-fledged criminal and sought to join the Fearsome Pantheon of Really Monomaniacal and Hubristic Villains. They turned him down, saying their positions were full. Offered him an internship. He accepted.
Since Mr. Grot now had that job as an intern, he didn't need his day job striking deals with blues musicians, so he gave that to his secretary, Samuel "Jack of All" Beckett. You can see where this is going if you know anything about historical figures.
Grot set up shop in this city a few years back. Kept changing his address. Set up a massive corporation that sold video rights. Apparently used that as a front to smuggle vlogs over the border. Kids these days really need their fix, and Mr. Grot was just the man to give it to them.
Looks like someone else was just the man and/or woman to give it to him too. I'm too tired to write snarky detective wit. But an ace detective doesn't sleep. He just gets tired. It sucks being an ace detective, is the general theme I'm trying to get across here.
With Mr. Grot's dead body, we found 20,000 pages of mad scribblings scattered across notebooks, typescripts, random sheets of paper, you name it. The man was obsessed with something in the years preceding his death. We were hoping they could give us some clues as to who killed him.
Then we realized one of Mr. Grot's aliases was "James Joyce." Those 20,000 pages were Finnegans Wake.
That's when Coldems and I called a coffee break.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
The Thickening of the Plot (of the Lambs)
Mister Grot, Esq's bedroom was dank and sweaty-ass. The kind of sweaty-ass that makes you think of all the places you'd rather be: A fish factory. A shoe store that is also a gymnasium. The capital of France. The kind of dank that causes you to question your place in life, as well as what the hell makes it so damn dank. I swear, Coldems looked so distraught he might have been about to melt. The reason Mister Grot's bedroom stank so un-swagly is because it was a bedroom. A bedroom for a man who is so good at criminal underachievement he could criminally underachieve even in his sleep.
When we got there, Mister Grot was asleep. We decided not to bother him; we'd come back another time.
A few minutes later we remembered a detective does not wait for sleepers and we waltzed right back in there (waltzing right back into places is a regular activity we practice in between darts sessions; on this occasion, Coldems led and I followed).
When we re-got there, Mister Grot was dead.
When we got there, Mister Grot was asleep. We decided not to bother him; we'd come back another time.
A few minutes later we remembered a detective does not wait for sleepers and we waltzed right back in there (waltzing right back into places is a regular activity we practice in between darts sessions; on this occasion, Coldems led and I followed).
When we re-got there, Mister Grot was dead.
Fucking carrots.
I work at a place called Horma Studios. Our movies make a lot of money, you might have heard of Cruel Embrace or The Year of the Plague, or how about Howl? Everybody loves Howl, Howl's a regular water cooler piece. Point is, with the amount of money we make, Horma Studios also runs an investigative division set up in one of their warehouses. We, uh... we look into things. You'll understand, just wait.
Head honcho came into my office today carrying a slip of paper; he waved it in front of my faceless and told me I had a big one. Considering Head honcho is a dog, that's kind of impressive.
"How big are we talking?" I asked.
"Big enough to fill your pockets for a year," he said. Threw the paper onto my desk. "Truckloads upon truckloads of you-know-whats."
"The V word?" I said.
"The V word," he said. "Now come out and play some darts with me."
Darts is one of our communal activities in the warehouse. The boys and I gather, we do things together, sometimes we talk business while we do it. It's a morale thing. Keeps people happy. Also lets me work on my throwing arm.
On this particular occasion, I was to investigate some illegal trucks we believed to be smuggling "the V word," and this time I had to go with a partner. The partner in this occasion was Coldems McBoy, head of McBoy and Gal's freezer comporium and professional darts champion. I don't get along well with him; he insists "comporium" is a word. But Head honcho insists, and when Head honcho insists you've got to abide. Otherwise he wouldn't be Head honcho. That's how the world works.
Here's another "how the world works:" A detective without a face cannot drive a car. Totally against the law. Something about "vision impairment." But anyway, this means Coldems had to take the wheel, and he's technically underage. That? The cops don't question that. Bizarre world we live in. I'm not one to use the phrase "police favouritism," but...
The job took us to a river under a bridge. Specifically the kind of "river under a bridge" where there's also still enough room for seven sixteen-wheeler trucks to drive on land under the bridge without actually being in the river. You know the kind. It's iconic. We stepped out of the car, walked up to the nearest truck, and pried its storage doors open with a crowbar.
Say. I just realized I've yet to provide an adequate physical description for Coldems McBoy. Allow me to break away from the narrative impetus to indulge that tangent: He's got fairly blue skin, the skin that brings to mind a morgue-sleeper. Dead body. That's the one. Orange hair, curly, he looks like a carrot. A blue carrot with curly orange hair, to be specific. The kind of carrot you'd throw in the bin, then throw the bin in a fire, then douse the fire with chemicals, then get arrested for toxic dumpage, then to watch your family disown you in tears as they wonder how their beloved could ever do something so horrible, where did they ever go so wrong, and you tell them they didn't go wrong anywhere, you tell them that this was all a misunderstanding of some sorts, this was all because of a blue carrot with curly orange hair, but they won't listen. They never do. That's why you became an ace detective, because your parents filed a restraining order and you want to prove to yourself you've still got it in you, you don't need them, you don't need anyone, you're independent. And you can never look at a carrot the same way ever again. Coldems also likes to wear wooly jumpers. Fuck him.
Inside the truck, and in fact every truck under that bridge, were hundreds of boxes filled with DV tapes.
I looked at Coldems, and Coldems looked at me.
"Vlogs," Coldems said with disgust.
We confiscated those things and took them downtown before remembering our offices are actually closer to the suburbs. Long drive, but at least we got the name of the company on the side of those trucks:
Grotty Videoz Corp.
A subsidiary of Viacom
I knew next we'd have to pay a visit to our longtime frienemy: Mister Grot, Esquire.
Head honcho came into my office today carrying a slip of paper; he waved it in front of my faceless and told me I had a big one. Considering Head honcho is a dog, that's kind of impressive.
"How big are we talking?" I asked.
"Big enough to fill your pockets for a year," he said. Threw the paper onto my desk. "Truckloads upon truckloads of you-know-whats."
"The V word?" I said.
"The V word," he said. "Now come out and play some darts with me."
Darts is one of our communal activities in the warehouse. The boys and I gather, we do things together, sometimes we talk business while we do it. It's a morale thing. Keeps people happy. Also lets me work on my throwing arm.
On this particular occasion, I was to investigate some illegal trucks we believed to be smuggling "the V word," and this time I had to go with a partner. The partner in this occasion was Coldems McBoy, head of McBoy and Gal's freezer comporium and professional darts champion. I don't get along well with him; he insists "comporium" is a word. But Head honcho insists, and when Head honcho insists you've got to abide. Otherwise he wouldn't be Head honcho. That's how the world works.
Here's another "how the world works:" A detective without a face cannot drive a car. Totally against the law. Something about "vision impairment." But anyway, this means Coldems had to take the wheel, and he's technically underage. That? The cops don't question that. Bizarre world we live in. I'm not one to use the phrase "police favouritism," but...
The job took us to a river under a bridge. Specifically the kind of "river under a bridge" where there's also still enough room for seven sixteen-wheeler trucks to drive on land under the bridge without actually being in the river. You know the kind. It's iconic. We stepped out of the car, walked up to the nearest truck, and pried its storage doors open with a crowbar.
Say. I just realized I've yet to provide an adequate physical description for Coldems McBoy. Allow me to break away from the narrative impetus to indulge that tangent: He's got fairly blue skin, the skin that brings to mind a morgue-sleeper. Dead body. That's the one. Orange hair, curly, he looks like a carrot. A blue carrot with curly orange hair, to be specific. The kind of carrot you'd throw in the bin, then throw the bin in a fire, then douse the fire with chemicals, then get arrested for toxic dumpage, then to watch your family disown you in tears as they wonder how their beloved could ever do something so horrible, where did they ever go so wrong, and you tell them they didn't go wrong anywhere, you tell them that this was all a misunderstanding of some sorts, this was all because of a blue carrot with curly orange hair, but they won't listen. They never do. That's why you became an ace detective, because your parents filed a restraining order and you want to prove to yourself you've still got it in you, you don't need them, you don't need anyone, you're independent. And you can never look at a carrot the same way ever again. Coldems also likes to wear wooly jumpers. Fuck him.
Inside the truck, and in fact every truck under that bridge, were hundreds of boxes filled with DV tapes.
I looked at Coldems, and Coldems looked at me.
"Vlogs," Coldems said with disgust.
We confiscated those things and took them downtown before remembering our offices are actually closer to the suburbs. Long drive, but at least we got the name of the company on the side of those trucks:
Grotty Videoz Corp.
A subsidiary of Viacom
I knew next we'd have to pay a visit to our longtime frienemy: Mister Grot, Esquire.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)