. . . world famous detective, shuffleboard champion, reclusive wacko, all these and many less friendly words have been used to describe this brilliant yet oddly unsavory individual. I mean, sure, he's solved all sorts of murders and such, and he's brought more criminals to justice than all of Scotland Yard, but Hell, does that mean he can't be civil? Like that time he parked his car (a lovingly restored classic Tucker Torpedo) right in the middle of my goddam flower garden for Chrissakes, and I simply asked if he'd mind not ruining my freshly transplanted azaleas, which I don't mind saying cost me a fairly pretty penny, and what does he do but grunt and shove me out of the way as though I'm some sort of Christing turnstile or something, and so I got more than a tad upset, with just cause I'm sure you'll agree, and I said "Excuse me", just like that, "Excuse me", and he just sneers at me like I'm perhaps some sort of verminous insect (maybe an earwig?) and pulls a crowbar out of that bloody great godawful coat of his and then, then the bastard starts ripping up my front porch! Just like that, he starts ripping it up, sending floorboards all over the place, and that's when the police come round the corner and I say "Thank God you've shown up, this maniac is destroying my home", but they're too busy gaping at the dead bodies he's pulling up from beneath what used to be my front porch, and that part really bugged me because I really hadn't wanted anyone to see where I had put those, but now Mr. World-Famous-Detective-Man had come round and ruined that whole idea on me and I'm really not that good at thinking on my feet so I just started pretending I didn't live there, that I was just out delivering newspapers, but of course no one believed me, a few unexplained bodies under your porch and suddenly you're as trustworthy as the devil himself, it would seem . . .
. . . so yes, I'm still not on speaking terms with the jerk. |
