Hello.
I am very pleased to meet you. My
name is Buddinsky Carphlator Lite.
Stop laughing.
I happen to be an incredibly
successful private detective, and this is
the story of my very first case. Please bear with me until I get the
hang of writing, since I'm a much better detective than author. My main
problem right now is where to start. I suppose I could start at the
beginning, but the clouds of dust floating through space weren't really
that interesting.
I could start on the day I was born, but I can't seem to remember what
happened that day. When someone realizes how important I am and writes
my biography, I'll read it and find out.
I suppose I'll start with that sunny last day of June.
It was the last day of June. It was sunny. I wasn't a full-time
detective yet because, considering that I had never had a case before,
the job didn't pay too well. Instead, I worked in my own gun shop,
handed down by my father (when he was shot by a customer), from five
in the evening until three in the morning. (You'd be surprised by how
much business we get after dark.) My store was right next to the bank,
which didn't seem to hurt, either.
I had originally become interested in detective work at the early age
of forty-two. As soon as I realized it, I ran out and bought three
paperback mysteries, which I read over and over again. I was starting
to solve the cases before the sleuth in the book did, so I knew I was
ready for my first case.
Unfortunately, I had no idea where to find a case. So, I sat down to
cogitate, while watching "The
Smurfs." When they began to play the theme song, I naturally got
up and started dancing. Suddenly, the show was interrupted by a newsman
who stared at me quizzically. My face turned a bright shade of red as I
quickly pulled my clothes back on. The newsman gave me one more weird
glance, just for good measure, before reading his report.
"This just in!'' he yelled, as if his life (or worse, his job) depended
on it. "The Thirteenth National Bank has been robbed again!'' (I used the
underlining to represent the lines that formed on his forehead as he
read that word. Good use of my writing tools, eh?) "A mean man ran out
of the bank with nine hundred ninety-nine dollars (He dropped one in
his haste.) in a brown paper bag. I don't believe he stole the bag, but
if you're missing one, please contact your local police.
"Anyway, the thief was chased by several policemen, but they lost
him when they stopped to fight over the dollar. They heard a sharp bang
emanating from a nearby alley and rushed in to find the robber dead,
with a bullet-sized hole in his chest. Experts believe he was shot. The
money was gone, and so was the paper sack. Experts believe someone else
now has them. We now return to 'The
Smurfs,' already in
progress. I'm sorry."
I shut off the television set. Personally, I had to agree with the
experts, but you never can be too sure. One thing was certain, though.
The policemen were too stupid to solve the mystery. That's one thing I
learned from my paperbacks. The detective always solves the mystery,
while the idiots who call themselves our protectors just end up
congratulating the sleuth. So, I immediately realized that THIS WAS A
JOB FOR BUDDINSKY CARPHLATOR LITE!!!
Stop laughing.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what to do first. I sat in my big easy
chair to do some heavy thinking. I do this sometimes for recreation,
but I would advise that you don't try this at home without expert
supervision. Anyway, my superintelligent brain soon deduced that I had
to go somewhere and do something. I gratefully patted my brain on the
head for a job well done.
I didn't want to ask any more of my brain, so I decided to find out how
the sleuths in my murder mysteries started out. I opened up one of my
paperbacks, and in just thirty minutes, I had read the first page. Two
hours later, I discovered that the first thing the sleuth did was go to
the scene of the crime.
"Aha!'' I told myself.
"Right!'' I answered.
"To the scene of the crime!'' we shouted simultaneously.
Great minds think alike.
With my handy-dandy detective kit in
my
upper-left shirt pocket, (Don't worry. I have a pocket protector.) I
arrived at the alley next to the Thirteenth National Bank. I also
happened to be right next to my gun shop, but I'm sure that's totally
irrelevant. One of those stupid policemen was standing there, staring
at the ground. I stuck my tongue out at him and walked on.
I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy detective notepad, which had cost
me only $13.27 (11.5626% off --- a real bargain!) Turning to the first
page, I began to take notes.
1) Alley is long.
2) Sun is
shining.
3) My feet
hurt.
I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy
thermometer and took a temperature reading: 98.6 degrees --- perfect!
Then, just when I was having fun, the policeman walked toward me. I was
on my guard.
"Did you hear about the robbery today?'' he asked.
"No.'' You should never tell the truth to a policeman.
"Well the bank was robbed by a man who has been identified as John
Richards. As he was escaping, he was shot and killed instantly. Now
he's
awaiting trial in the state penitentiary. But the gunman and his
partner, who drove the getaway car, escaped with the money as well as
the bag.''
I cleverly deduced that the policeman's name was Officer Salad. I read
his badge.
"Well,'' I said, "I heard on the radio that the gunman and his partner
turned themselves in at the police station.''
A look of great shock crossed Officer Salad's face. "I've got to be
going,'' he mumbled as he ran off. I laughed. Policemen are so stupid.
I reminded myself to get back to work. I acknowledged the reminder. But
as usual, I had no idea what to do. So, for lack of any better idea,
I sat on a relatively dirty garbage can to wait for the criminals to
return. Unfortunately, the only people that passed by were two women
with strange expressions on their faces and one man who picked up a
garbage can lid and handed it to me. I threw it at him, and he left.
Suddenly, I remembered that there were always suspects in my
paperbacks! I jumped up, pulled off the garbage can, and ran out of the
alley. I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy handcuffs and caught two
suspicious-looking men. (The handcuffs had only cost $1.50, but the key
was worth $24.95.) The criminals yelled and screamed as I dragged them
off to the police station, but I knew that only made them more
suspicious.
But when we arrived, to my dismay, a stupid policeman ordered me to
release the murderer and the getaway car driver, simply because I
couldn't tell which was which. They wouldn't even take mug shots.
Then, to completely ruin my mood and sit on it, I discovered that I
couldn't find the key to the handcuffs. Moments later, I found seven
fists in my mouth.
One of them was mine.
While the three men were occupied with the task of decimating my
stomach, I tried calling for help. I soon ran out of breath, so I
slickly whipped out my handy-dandy tape recorder, recorded, "Help!'' on
it, and played it back several times.
Finally, the policeman, who I cleverly deduced was Officer Williams,
cut open the handcuffs. I very politely requested that he give me a new
pair, and graciously showed me what the door looked
like. I can take a hint.
Back at
home, I turned on my television set to find the news reporter on the
screen.
"Ah, there you are,'' he said. "I've got another news flash for you.
Two men have been murdered...''
I was about to turn off the television to stop myself from getting into
another mess, but I punched myself in the stomach just in time.
The news reporter continued. "Jason Van Pelt, Sr. and Daniel Lee have
both been murdered at approximately the same time. There are absolutely
no clues, so don't look for any.''
When I caught my breath, I turned the television off. I was ready to
forget the whole thing, but I convinced myself that I was a better
detective than I thought I was.
Besides, if I didn't take the case, this story would be over.
Now let me offer you a little background information, so maybe you can
solve the case just seconds after I do. Jason Van Pelt, Sr. and Dan Lee
are (or, I guess, were) very famous people in this city. Mr. Van Pelt
was filthy rich. Mr. Lee, on the other hand, was so poor that he didn't
even have any hair. The two men hated each other's hearts. Or
is it livers? Large intestines? I don't know.
I contemplated which house I should visit first. After a couple of
short hours of thought, I realized I might get a free lunch at the Van
Pelts', so I went there.
When I rang the Van Pelts' doorbell, it began playing an exceptionally
stirring rendition of "Beethoven's Fifth Symphony." Before long, I felt
the beat in my soul, so I began dancing. (Since it was a public place,
I kept my underwear on.) When the song ended, the door opened.
An incredibly old woman stood before me. I mean she was really old. No,
I mean really old! She had
wrinkles all over the place. Think of the oldest person you've ever
met, invite him over, and stare at his wrinkles before continuing.
She asked me (very slowly, for I'm sure her vocal chords had wrinkles
all over them), "What can I do for you?''
"Hello, Ma'am,'' I said. "I'm here about the murder...'' and she
promptly fainted.
I rang the doorbell again, and when the song finished, she woke up.
"I'm sorry to bother you,'' I said,
"But I
wonder if you could tell me who you think murdered...'' This time she
fell forward and tumbled down the porch steps. I decided to let
myself in and make myself comfortable until she came to. Perhaps,
I thought, I should turn the subject towards the idea of lunch.
When Mrs. Van Pelt awoke and realized where she was, she entered the
house and said, "To answer your question, it was that evil Damn Lee who
did it. I'm sure of it. He was so jealous of the wealth of my dear late
husband. Hey, I like the way that sounds. My dear late husband.''
"Well,'' I said matter-of-factly, for it's a very matter-of-fact kind
of word, "How did your husband get so darned rich?''
"Watch your language. He earned his wealth through intelligence and
foresight, with a generous helping of stinginess tossed in. His parents
gave him a weekly allowance of five dollars, and he kept every penny.
That's still our primary source of income. So, are you married?''
"Um, no. I'm not.''
"How do you feel about dating older women?''
"Well, I...''
"Have you ever made love to an older woman?'' She pulled off her blouse
in one smooth motion, exposing two extremely large and unappetizing
wrinkles. I threw up on them.
She screamed a wrinkled scream and ran off shouting, "Worthless!
Worthless!!!''
A butler ran into the room, picked me up, and threw me in the direction
of the front lawn. Then he opened the door and tried again. As I lay
there, counting my bruises, young Jason Van Pelt, Sophomore
(Jason Van Pelt, Sr.'s grandson) came up the walkway and stepped on
my face. "Aw, you made me lose count,'' I cried.
I didn't even get a free lunch.
As I lay there on the ground, trying to decide which part of my body
ached the most, the butler stuck his head out a window and shouted,
"And don't come back, Dummy!''
I jumped up, shocked that I could ever live to be called such a
horrible name. But the butler slammed and locked the window, pulled two
sets of curtains across it, and pushed some heavy furniture against the
front door before I could rush over there to beat him up. Nevertheless,
the fact remained that he had called me the 'D'-word. I had to get
revenge. I decided to put live food in his bed.
Looking for the butler's room, I noticed a white sign on the wall next
to a third story window. The sign had bold black letters which read,
"Butler's Room.'' You can never be too sure of anything, but I decided
to believe the sign.
I searched for a method of defeating gravity. Fortunately, right
against the wall was a... a... oh darn! What is that thing called? You
know. It's a structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of
squares on which vines are trained. Jeez! I just can't remember its
name. Well, anyway, I started climbing the structure of thin strips of
wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained until I
reached the butler's window. Then I noticed a smaller sign (with light
blue letters) which read, "Watch out for the poison ivy on the
structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which
vines are trained.'' I quickly let go of the structure of thin strips
of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained.
Needless to say, I fell.
The fall wasn't so rough, but hitting the ground sure takes the fun out
of it. I acquired several more bruises as a result. I was going to need
a calculator to keep track of all these bruises.
I looked up at the structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern
of squares on which vines are trained --- lattice! It's called a
lattice!
That's right. Anyway, right beside the structure of thin strips of wood
in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained, I noticed a
ladder conveniently leading right up to the window. I swiftly flew up
the ladder and flung myself through the
butler's window. Too bad it wasn't open.
I found myself on a bed full of broken glass. I realized that the glass
probably looked a little suspicious, so I hurriedly swept it under the
covers.
I immediately discovered rows and rows of neat black penguin costumes
in the closet and underwear labeled, "Worthless,'' in the drawer. By
the powers of deductive reasoning, I decided that this really was the
butler's room --- the sign outside was honest. Unfortunately, I
realized, the other
sign was probably right, too. I felt poison flowing through my veins.
At this point, I realized that I didn't bring any live food, so I
decided to steal something instead. In the closet, I found a video
camera --- too big, a speck of dust --- too small, and a video tape ---
just right!
After I stuck the tape in my upper-right shirt pocket (pocket protector
in place), I heard a noise in the hall. I was scared out of my wits. It
was footsteps --- growing louder! Quickly I jumped into the bed. I felt
an incredible surge of pain, but that was probably just the poison ivy
starting to work.
After a couple of hours, I realized that no one was coming, so I jumped
out the window (this time, I opened it first) and landed with great
agility directly on my head.
I began walking along the roadside. I
continued walking along the
roadside. I continued walking along the roadside some more. Finally, I
saw a green sign with white lettering in the distance. I said, "Hey!
That's a good sign!'' Then I laughed aloud, hysterically. (Well I thought it was funny.)
As I approached the sign, I was able to make out a few words that were
in larger, bolder print. They read, "to
to the the''.
Finally, I arrived at the sign and read it in its entirety. It said,
"If you're trying to get to the department store, you're
going the wrong way!''
"Well which way am I supposed to go?'' I asked.
"The other way,'' the sign said.
I turned left and began walking.
"No! Not that way!'' the sign shouted. "And look out for that car!!!''
I jumped out of the way just in time. Angrily, I charged at the sign
and shook it furiously, yelling, "Why don't you be more specific, you
metalhead!!!''
"Hey. Calm down. Now simply turn around so that your face is where your back was and your back is where your face was.''
"What do you think I am? Some kind of contortionist?''
"Okay, okay. I'll show you.'' The head of the sign unscrewed itself and began hopping along. I followed it.
"Alright,'' it said. "Do you understand? Now, I have my duties, you know. I have to get back to my post.''
"Goodbye, and
thank you,'' I said,
because I'm really a very good-natured guy.
So, I continued my quest for department store material objects. Before
too long, I reached another sign. This was a stupid sign, because he
couldn't talk. (I knew he was a boy sign because of his impressive
stick.) But I could guess what he would say if he could. It was written
all over his face: "If you're going to the department store, you've got
a long, long way to go.''
So, I walked a long, long way. Then I came to another sign. The words
written all over his face said, "If you're going to the department
store, you've got a long, long way to go.'' I sat down and wondered if
I was going in circles.
But I'm the kind of guy who doesn't give up until he has failed three
times. So I kept walking until I had gone a long, long, long way. I was getting tired,
frustrated, and fed up, when a police car pulled up beside me. A female
police officer stepped out. (I could tell she was female because of her
incredible... perfume.)
"Oh, jeez!'' I exclaimed. "Was I speeding, Officer?''
"No. Nothing like that,'' she said.
"Well, were you speeding?''
"Well, yes. But I'm allowed to break the law.''
"So, what's up?''
"Oh. Well, you looked like you were going to the department store.''
"Yes, I was,'' I said, accidentally telling the truth to a police
officer.
"Well, I just wanted to tell you that you passed it.''
I quickly whirled around, and there it was. It was a tremendous
building --- the kind you couldn't miss. I nervously muttered
with conviction, "I knew that.''
"Well I'm sorry. I was just doing my job. There aren't enough signs to
explain all the traffic directions in the entire city, so they make
police officers do it in a few places.''
"I see.'' I tried to deduce the policewoman's name and failed. Then I
realized what was wrong.
"Hey, Officer,'' I said. "You're not wearing a badge.''
The officer stared at her chest. I stared at her chest, too. "Oh,'' she
nervously muttered with conviction. "Well you see... um... I was off
duty. Yeah, that's it. Off duty!'' She clumsily whipped out a badge. I
continued staring at her chest.
"See,'' she said. "There I am. Officer Tanktop.''
"I cleverly deduced that,'' I said.
"Well, I've got to be going,'' she mumbled uneasily, as she drove her
car over my foot.
In the department store, I ran straight to the information desk to hit
on the girl there.
"Hello,'' I said. "Were you born with those good looks, or did you buy
them?''
"Born,'' she said. "May I help you?''
I could tell she was hot for my bod. "Yes. Do you have a phone number?''
"Yes, I do. Next please.''
The next man pushed me aside. As I turned toward the back of the line
for another try, I heard him say, "Hi.'' Suddenly, the girl leaned
across the counter and gave him a big luscious kiss. I ran to get a
good place in line.
When I reached the counter again, I said, "Hello. What size bra do you
wear?''
"It's a size 42D. Go to aisle six, women's apparel. Next, please.''
I didn't want to seem rude, so I went to aisle six, women's apparel.
So, I went shopping at the department store. I bought three pairs of
handcuffs (after trying a pair out on another customer), a
state-of-the-art videotape player, and a solar-powered calculator. They
were all out of poison neutralizers, so I got some chewing gum, instead.
Next, I headed back to my gun shop to view the videotape I had
borrowed. (I have a television set in the corner of my store to attract
business.) On my way back to the store, I passed a bunch of boys (Do
boys come in bunches?) playing softball in an old abandoned lot. One of
them yelled, "Hey, Bud! C'mere!''
I walked over to the field, trying to figure out how this stranger knew
my name. The kid who had yelled at me was probably the umpire. (He was
the fattest one there.) He said, "Hey, d'ya know how ta play soffball?''
"Well actually, I am extremely well-known for my incomparable slugging
capabilities,'' I said modestly.
"Huh?''
I sighed. "Yeah. I know how ta play soffball.''
"Great,'' he said. "Ya see, we don' have 'nuff guys. Now Rocky's
Rebels, they got the bases loaded, an' they ain't got no more batters.
So, ya' wanna bat?''
"Indubitably,'' I muttered sarcastically.
I stepped up to the plate. The imaginary crowd stared intently, silent
with fear. The pressure was on.
"Hey, Bud,'' yelled the runner on second. "There's two outs an' it's
the bottom of the ninth. So, DON'T SCREW UP!!!'' I pleasantly thanked
him for his support.
I stared directly at the pitcher. I knew what my plan was. These boys
were never going to forget the day they ran into Buddinsky Carphlator
Lite. Stop laughing.
I let the first two pitches whizz by, with my bat resting lazily on my
shoulder. "Strike one!!!'' "Strike two!!!'' Now I was ready.
I offered the pitcher the meanest glare I could. He paused with shock
and backed up a step. He knew he had met his match.
He tossed the ball to first base a couple of times. He knew he was only
delaying the inevitable. He wanted to go home to his mommy.
Then he threw it. It was right where I wanted it. A perfect pitch! I
took a step forward, and then I swung the bat with all the might I had
in my entire body. The ground trembled in awe for miles around. It was
incredible. Every boy's mouth hung wide open as I headed for first.
Nobody could believe what had just happened, except me.
I reached the base in two seconds flat, taking the wide turn towards
second. I glanced into the outfield --- The ball was nowhere in sight.
I zoomed to second base, blowing down the fielders with my steam.
Nothing could stop me. Nothing!!!
Nobody gave me a signal at third, but I knew what that meant. I touched
third base and went
chugging on home. And then I saw it!
The catcher had the ball. He was standing there in front of home plate,
holding the ball out menacingly toward me. I knew that this was going
to be an incredible challenge, but stranger things had happened. He
wasn't going to stop me. I was destined to reach home plate safely.
I jumped higher than I had ever jumped before and came down in the most
graceful, most masterful, most perfect slide in the history of man. I
slipped right through the catcher's legs, just millimeters below the
ball, and ended up sitting on home plate. It was a masterpiece
performance.
As I sat there, truly glowing, everyone began leaving. I yelled, "Hey,
is it over? Did we win?''
One kid turned around, glared at me, and said, "You struck out.''
Some guy across the street leaned out
of his window and yelled, "Hey,
you! Shut up!!!''
I sighed. I could have stood up, run across the street, and beat that
big idiot to a pulp. But I'm just too nice a guy. So I whispered my
thoughts. "Why me? Why am...''
"I can still hear you!''
I was beginning to get a little angry. But, I told myself, I didn't
need to put him in his place. He just wasn't worth it.
So I continued wondering, silently now. Why me? Why am I always...
"Oh, why don't you just give it a rest, Kid!''
Furiously, I jumped up and walked swiftly toward the man's house. He
pretended that he wasn't afraid. I quickened my pace, my eyes focused
directly on the open window. He didn't even back off. As I came within
a few feet of the man, he leaned out a couple of inches further. I
continued walking right past the house. He didn't even close the
window. I just kept right on going. For all I know, he's still there
now.
My next objective in life was to return to my shop and view the
videotape. But I didn't really feel like walking the long, long plus
long, long, long minus short way back to the other side of town. So I
hotwired a car. (I do have some
skills.)
I chose to steal a Corvette, because I hear the chicks really go for
that sort of thing. When I got on the highway, I started speeding,
so I wouldn't look conspicuous. That car certainly was fast. I almost
made it all the way there before I even started. Almost. When I got out
of the car, I decided to leave all of the doors unlocked. I pulled one
wide open, just for good measure. That really made me feel good.
I entered the store and told my assistant, "You're dismissed. I don't
need you now.'' He walked out slowly, with tears in his eyes.
I surveyed the store, my pride and joy. There were guns all over the
place --- on the shelves,
on the counters, in the
windows, in the
cupboards, on the ceiling, in the hands of a customer sneaking out the
door, everywhere. And there were all sizes, from the microscopic
pea-shooter to the colossal elephant gun. Naturally, every single one
was fully loaded.
Jason Van Pelt, Sophomore was there. (If you don't remember who his
grandfather was, you'd better reread this story.) He walked over to me
and said, "Hello.''
Now you must understand, I wasn't offended by this comment. The
nine-year-old boy was actually a friend of mine. He came into the shop
all the time to chat about unimportant issues. As for that incident in
chapter two, where he stepped on my face, it doesn't mean anything. All
my friends do that.
I said, "Hi,'' because it would sound stupid if I said, "Hello,'' right
after he said, "Hello.'' In the same way, if he had said, "Hi,'' I
wouldn't have been able to say, "Hi,'' without sounding totally
ridiculous. But those are the only two expressions in the English
language that can never be repeated. For instance, if somebody says,
"What's up?'' you can say the same thing. Or if they ask, "Did you
borrow my pencil?'' they're probably expecting you to repeat their
question.
So, then he popped the question. "How are you?''
Naturally, I responded, "Alright. How are you?''
"Alright. How are you?''
This is what they call 'small talk.'
But the conversation quickly took a turn for the wild side, when he
said, "Your shoes don't match.''
I looked down. On the left was the ugly faded brown shoe I knew my
mother had tied for me that morning, but on the right, I was wearing a
bright green shoe with equally bright green shoelaces.
"Wow,'' I said. "I don't know where that green shoe came from, but I
like it.''
"Me, too,'' he said. "It's freshhhhhhhhhh.''
The way these kids talk today.
I walked behind the counter, to hide. Instantly, I noticed that the
sign on the wall was crooked. "Hey, Jason. Fix the sign. You can't see
the word, 'offense'.''
He did so. Then he turned to me and said, "That's funny! The sign was
saying, 'Selling weapons to minors is a federal.' '' He began laughing
hysterically. I joined him so that he wouldn't feel stupid. That's what
friends are for. So we were both rolling on the floor, laughing until
we cried.
But time was running out. Even though policemen are stupid, they do
eventually solve the case if the sleuth spends too much time rolling
on the floor. So I told Jason, "Go away.''
So he left. Friends leave when friends tell them to. If I had been
making mad, passionate love to Marilyn Monroe, and Jason told me to
leave, I would. (Don't think I'm that noble. Necrophilia isn't all that
people say it is. I know.)
Anyway, I slickly whipped out the videotape. (Did you remember which
pocket I put it in? I didn't. I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy
notepad before I realized my mistake.)
The videotape began playing. I always count along with the numbers that
run from ten to one at the beginning. Actually, counting backwards is
very challenging, and I seldom make it all the way without a mistake. I
believe you need twelve years of higher education to become NASA's
countdown man.
Finally, the numbers finished, and, with my slickly-whipped handy-dandy
nerd glasses in place, I watched. And you won't believe what I
saw................................
The setting was a small room made
entirely of wood. There was only one door, and the single window was
nothing more than a misshapen hole in the wall. Overall, there was
really nothing of interest in the room. Oh, and there was a sign
hanging on the wall that said, "Welcome to the Lees' happy hovel." It
was hanging at a 12 degree angle, which I quickly jotted down on my
handy-dandy notepad.
The scene didn't change for about
twenty minutes, but I was patient. After all, I had nothing better to
do, since I had no life. Suddenly, Dan Lee nervously rushed in. (On the
TV. Not in my gun shop.) He was holding something under his jacket, as
if he was hiding it from any video cameras that might be around.
Rapidly, but clumsily, he pulled up a
loose floorboard beside the window and dumped the contents of his
jacket into the hole that just happened to be there. I caught the
slightest glimpse of green as he hurriedly completed his task. Then he
replaced the floorboard and ran out. Soon afterward, the tape ended.
I sat there for several minutes,
staring at the blank screen. Suddenly, I shouted, "I'll bet this is a
clue!!!"
I flew to the Lees' house. It
happened to be directly across the street from the Van Pelts' mansion,
but I believe I said that before, so just ignore this overly-extensive
and increasingly stupid sentence.
As I've told you before, so you can
ignore the rest of this overly-extensive and increasingly stupid
sentence, the Lees were extremely poor. Their house appeared to be
nothing more than a pile of wood. When I knocked on the door, and the
entire thing fell apart, I realized it really was just a pile of wood.
I turned around and saw the Lees' house.
As there was no visible doorbell, I
knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked on the door again.
Still no answer. I was contemplating breaking in (no great feat), when
I heard a voice behind me call, "Coming!!!"
I turned to see Mrs. Lee come running
in from the garden, which was a good half mile away. (That's the only
part of their land where anything will grow.) The Lees owned so much
land, because nobody wanted to live anywhere near them. Even the Van
Pelts spent all of their time at the other end of their mansion.
Thinking quickly, I pointed and
shouted, "Hey, look at that!" As Mrs. Lee spun around, I ducked into
the house.
The setting was a small room made
entirely of wood. There was only one door, and the single window was
nothing more than a misshapen hole in the wall. Overall, there was
really nothing of interest in the room. Oh, and there was a sign
hanging on the wall that said, "Welcome to the Lees' happy hovel." It
was hanging at a 12 degree angle, which I quickly jotted down on my
handy-dandy notepad. And, there was a policeman lying on the floor with
his hand reaching into a hole under a loose floorboard beside the
window. It was Office Williams. I kept my eyes on my handcuffs.
I stood over Officer Williams and
said, "Ahem!" It's one of the more powerful words in the English
language. Used properly, it can induce fear in the bravest of men. It
has also been found to be a good word for two people to alternate
saying when they want to kiss each other.
I don't believe Officer Williams was
interested in kissing me, but he certainly was frightened. I considered
the word to be a success. I followed up with, "What the Hell are you
doing???" but it wasn't as effective. I could sense his fear fading.
"Nothing," he said.
"I'm going to have to frisk you." He
must have noticed my impressive muscles (or maybe he did want to kiss
me), because he didn't put up a fight. Unfortunately, I didn't find
anything on him, except for a piece of spearmint gum in his pocket. I
hate spearmint, so I threw it away.
I looked in the hole and found a
crumpled paper bag. I slickly whipped it out, only to find that it was
empty. I frisked the policeman again, and this time I found a perfectly
good piece of strawberry gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
But, the man seemed to be perfectly
innocent, so I said, "Okay. Get out of here! And don't get into any
more trouble!" (I read that in one of my paperbacks.) He was extremely
obedient.
*
* *
I rushed out of the house. Fortunately, Mrs. Lee was still trying to
figure out what I had pointed at. "You missed it!" I yelled.
"Oh," she said, as she resumed her
hike to the house. "What was it?"
"Um, you had to see it." I walked
forward to meet her halfway. "Anyway, I've come to try to figure out
who murdered..." and I promptly fainted.
I awoke to find Mrs. Lee holding a
rubber hose, which was spraying green slime all over my face. "Augh!!!"
I yelled. "What are you doing?"
"You fainted," she said. "I'm trying
to revive you. Now quiet down and let me finish."
"Well why don't you just spray water
on me, like the rest of the civilized world?"
"Oh, we can't afford water. We use
green slime instead."
I glanced around and observantly
noticed that the smelly green slime covered the ground everywhere, from
the garden all the way to the street. Somehow, though, the Van Pelts'
side of the street was quite clean. I figured they had a special street
crew just for that purpose.
"Is this slime always all over the
place?"
"Well, usually. But I was sliming the
garden just this morning. In fact, I was busy sliming the garden when
the mur... death of my husband occurred. I tend to spend a lot of time
in that garden, because I don't like being close to the Van Pelts.
They're just terrible people. I'm sure they're responsible for the
murdeath of my husband."
"Tell me. Precisely where did the
alleged incident occur?" (I was so grateful that I read those
paperbacks. Otherwise, I never would have known the meaning of words
like "did".)
"Right over here." She led me to the
side of the house. When we reached the scene I slickly whipped out my
handy-dandy magnifying glass and examined the footprints in the slime.
I easily matched one set of footprints to Mrs. Lee's shoes. There was
another set that I assumed belonged to Mr. Lee. The third and final set
of footprints was significantly smaller than the others. I attempted to
make them the same size with my handy-dandy magnifying glass, but I
failed. The footprints in the slime raised several questions.
"Why are there no police footprints?"
I asked.
"The policemen didn't come. They
refuse to be anywhere near my house. I've also heard rumors that
they're pretty stupid, too. Anyway, I had to bury poor Danny myself."
"Okay. That answers one question. Now
why is there a set of smaller footprints?"
"I don't know."
"Good. That takes care of two
questions. Now, how... What? Why don't you know?"
"I don't know."
I sighed. Detective work is sometimes
rough. I politely thanked Mrs. Lee for all her help and gave her a
light kiss on the cheek before leaving.