Onomatopoeiapocalypse Now
I’m not a happy person. Never have been. The rain in this city has a way of washing happiness down the sewer. Splat! Splat! I’m looking at the door and thinking some unhappy thoughts – something like: that’s not the sound I expect to hear from a door – when it opens up and in walks Inspector Alliteration. That’s not his name, of course, but it’s the one that’s stuck in my head ever since the case of the stolen similes. "You look positively miserable Rick," he tells me. "Not happy, even." I try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the top of the tumbler of malt to see if he’s right. It’s too dark to see much but he’s not wrong anyway. "You should water that down, you know? Bring out the aromas. Make it last a little longer." You learn something new every day. I’d just learnt that Inspector Alliteration must be taking whiskey appreciation classes somewhere in the city. I tell him I don’t drink for the aromas but I swivel around and stick the glass through the open window and get the rain from the filth-coloured sky to help out anyway. A large drip from the sill above lands smack in the centre of the tumbler’s contents with a loud guffaw. "Let me guess …" I start to say as I slide the drink away from me. "No dice Rake," he cuts me off. "I’ve not come here to play games. I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen. Then you’re gonna trawl the streets and crawl in the gutters and do what you do best." I’m not sure what it is I do best but I’m pretty good at staying quiet and listening unhappily to one of the city’s so-called finest letting me know what’s going down. "Tainted onomatopoeia," I say when he’s finished. "And no blackmail note? No suspects?" "The city’s full of suspects. Hell, you’re one!" "Me? Why, officer, I’m a paragon of legal virtue," I smile. Not a happy smile. "Don’t think we don’t keep tabs on all you private dicks whenever there’s a downturn in business. It wouldn’t take much for you to drum up some trade on your own now, would it?" I return to my whiskey and point out that there’s never a downturn in business. The cases keep on coming, one after another, each more soul-soaking than the last. * "You’re back from Literalville!" says Danny The Weasel with fake genuine warmth. Not a lot gets past street smart Danny which is why I’m talking to him first. There’s street smart and real smart and explaining...
A Statement To The Media
Ladies, Gentlemen, and In-Betweenonoids, I would like at this time to read out a prepared statement on behalf of Creamyhinge Buttwart into the findings from the inquest into the death of his loyal butler-toadfrog Timbo. Thankyou. "Ladies, Gentlemen, and In-Betweenonoids, I sincerely hope that my spokeslemming hasn’t commenced its address to you in the same manner in which I have started this communication or I shall be writing to its employer immediately following this statement and I shall not refrain from using some common words – such as those you might overhear while passing through the Port Sector of Flashem City – to express my extreme displeasure. Also, I shall impale it upon a trident and parade it across the cliffs overlooking the Tastesfishy Lake, and I shall berate it with insults while it writhes in agony, and I shall compose a song mocking its parents. Hang on, I’m its employer. Never mind all that then. "It has been a long triple-fortnight to uncover the truth about the deaths of my loyal butler-toadfrog Timbo and the Arsecheeky Girls. I am not the only person of sufficient social standing worth listening to who says that they were murdered. Timbo himself predicted he would be killed beyond the capacity for body-regeneration and how it would happen and he was right that one time when he flashed his torch at me and indicated there was a good chance of rain in the afternoon so there’s plenty of precedence for his precognitive powers despite all scientific evidence to the contrary. So I am disappointed. "The verdicts of accidental squishing through sexual shenanigannery and spontaneous guilt-driven combustion will come as a blow to my bank balance as shenanigannery is specifically excluded in the life insurance policy I took out on Timbo just last year following that fatal-looking orange rash around his central eye which eventually turned out to be Doritos and careless licking. "For the best part of a week I have endured two police investigations. The Dampflangian Contabulary and Semi-Hardonian Amateur Sleuthing Women’s Club’s inquiries were wrong. This inquest proves it. They said it was the work of the Godgoat Analphlegm drunk on prayervapour setting alight their tri-alcoholic sweat-drenched bedding with his fiery laugh while they slipped into post-coital comas and their findings are now dismissed. And I shan’t be singing at their Tertiary Christmas parties this year. "Contrary to the scrawled and childish musings of the verminous, scum-like, gutter press – and I’m fully aware that most of you will be present for the reading of this statement, you common trollfish not worthy to clean my outer anal flap following a night...
Literalville
I’m not a vacation person. Never have been. Vacation people are happy people and that’s not me. Maybe there’s a market in vacations for people bitter at the world. Maybe that’s something I can look into when the detective business really dries up. Really dries up. I know it’s not exactly flowing over right now but that suits me fine. Drip, drip, drip. I’m not a vacation person but I’ve got no qualms in accepting gratuities and I’ve never been this far south before. It’s warmer and the rain is noticeably absent. I miss the rain. Never thought I’d say that. This hotel’s called the Hotel Luxurious. If I had to describe it in one word then luxurious is the right one to use. I’ve stayed in hotels in the city from time-to-time. This one doesn’t have the stains, the stickiness, or that smell, and there’s a constant, gentle hum of quiet, happy talking from the men and women dotted around the lounge. Soft, clean chairs. Lots of smiles. Bright, open windows. The clinking of real crystal tumblers. One of them is mine. There’s an inch of dark, smoky malt in the bottom of it. I’m savouring it. It’s the only thing I don’t instinctively hate about this whole place. "That’s some outfit you have," says the lady in the off-white trouser suit across from me. She’s not wrong. I didn’t pack for this climate and my fit-in-anywhere clothes from back home are now fit-in-anywhere-but-here. "I won a vacation," I tell her and then fill in some more details when pressed. It seems the city has some well-off individuals and one of them was seemingly grateful to the tune of some time off at my resolution to the recent simile heist. There’s something you don’t do to gift horses and that’s why I’m here. Just a little unprepared is all. "How strange and delightful!" she exclaims. Strange, I’ll agree with. "And how are you finding Literalville?" she asks. I tell her I haven’t left the hotel yet. The plane touched down late last night. I slept and this is my first morning in the vacation spot. Her eyes widen and she smiles a knowing smile to herself. "It takes some getting used to," she continues. "If you want a private tour then give me a call." She hands me a card. There’s a number but no name on it. I make a show of nodding appreciation and pocket it in my inside jacket pocket. The one with the hole in the bottom. Old, lonely dears are the same the world over. * I don’t like Literalville and I’m beginning...
Sworn Affidavit Of Creamyhinge Buttwart
It was the third morning of the ninth day of Hugemember and I remember waking to the sight and sounds of a flock of Nudiehogs soaring across the crystal clear sky. It took but a few seconds for me to realise I wasn’t in my palace on the shores of the Dampflange Ocean as the roof I’ve chosen for this half-year is in the opaque style recommended by my favoured design magazine Just Palaces. Furthermore, the grey grass on which I was laying was sufficiently different from the Axminster-design Astroturf recently laid around my home as far as the upper eye can see for me to ascertain that I was probably still in the vicinity of the bars and restaurants of the old Semi-Hardonian quarter of Flashem City, around which I had been singing and drinking on most of the previous evenings of the preceding day. My loyal butler-toadfrog Timbo was also stirring as I staggered to my feet which was unusual as his tolerance for tri-alcohol is so poor as to typically require hospital treatment or body regeneration. I concluded that our drinks must have been spiked and we had fallen into unconsciousness earlier than expected at Bar No-Nads. I have a standing agreement with the bar owner, Ankleflakes Lubedup, that in order to avoid embarrassment and risk losing his licence he should simply dump us away from the premises in the event that we become too intoxicated to fight him off. While I now wonder angrily at who would have messed with another man’s drink in such a manner I confess that my brains were rather more spongey on that particular morning and with Timbo wheeling himself along as best he could I instead simply set off towards home using the peaks of Mount Sidewaysforfun as a reference point. In time we reached Flashem City and entered through the wallgate in the Port Sector. It was busy as the third morning had officially concluded and the pre-afternoon was on the verge of ditching its pre status in favour of none at all. I do not know which street we were in as the Port Sector is one I more often avoid thanks to its violent and seedy reputation clashing with my own. Nevertheless, the walk had cleared my minds and I took in the scenery with all my senses at full clarity. A market vendor was selling sweet-smelling Crotch fruit which was purchased and I spent some time being entertained by a puppeteer retelling the tale of Queen Spikedlabia Grunt And The Poisoned Mingepie. Scruffy children, no doubt from a Port Sector public school nearby, were equally...
Leopard Ladies Of Mercury
I arrived at Carruthers’ domicile in the fashionably decrepit part of South London with a severe case of butterflies in the stomach. It was my own fault for taking a shortcut through the 1889 Lepidopterist Gala in The Regent’s Park; oh, but how those Red Admirals entice the tastebuds! I over-indulged and was chased away by some angry and moustachioed gentlemen armed with nets. Exercise notwithstanding it was not the ideal start to what would be a momentous day. After losing my pursuers through a slight deception – I convinced a constable at one end of a long alley that the pack of irate fellows some seconds behind were Hungarian assassins trying to silence me for discovering their plan to kidnap Her Majesty and blackmail our country into commencing war with Austria – I rested to recover from my exertions and rapped the door to Carruthers’ home. "Doctor! Come in!" exclaimed Carruthers and he ushered me inside hastily. I barely had time to draw breath before my friend was urging me down the unlit hallway towards the drawing room. "Steady now, Carruthers, there’s plenty of time!" I blurted. It was a little after nine in the morning and Carruthers had been most insistent that I was to arrive as early as possible and no later than ten. His palm in the small of my back – at least, I hoped it was his palm – nudging me forward, therefore, was most unseemly. We reached the drawing room and I found myself staring at the thing which nearly filled the entire area. "As you can see Doctor, the tube is complete!" said Carruthers proudly as he rounded the great cylindrical object. I was momentarily distracted by my reflection in the brass outer casing, distorted somewhat by the many protruding coils, pipes, and bolts and didn’t immediately answer. I imagined briefly that I was a half-man, half-machine construct; a brass being; perhaps the future of humanity. "Tsk, tsk, you’re drifting off into one of your flights of fantasy again, aren’t you Doctor?" said Carruthers as he appeared from the opposite side of his tube. "I’m afraid you’re right, Carruthers," I replied. "Unlike you, I keep my fantasies locked inside my head. Yours become terrifying reality." Carruthers beamed first at me and then the tube. "It is a work of beauty, is it not?" he sighed. And then, suddenly, he shouted "Well, come come, dear man! We’re all here! Let’s not delay! Inside! Inside!" Once again I was ushered by Carruthers, this time around the tube to the side facing away from the entrance to the drawing room. Here there was a...
Simile City
I’m not a morning person. Never have been. I wake up like everyone else and I go to my office but the morning passes in a blur. I need coffee and cigarettes to get me out of my waking sleep. Alcohol too if it’s available. Sure, I sit at my desk and wait for clients like every other dick but nobody gets my full service and winning smile until the afternoon. Late afternoon. Everyone knows that. It doesn’t stop bums coming in off the street while the sun’s still low every now and then though. Like this guy. He’s wet and dripping all over my floor. I’m not worried because it’s been dripped on before. It’s always raining in the city. That’s a decent overcoat he’s wearing and the hat looks new. The water’s running off the felt in a stream onto my floorboards and making one heck of a racket. You’d think he could have shook himself dry on the way up to the office but I guess some people just have no manners. It’s hard to work up the enthusiasm to enter into conversation with inconsiderate bums like this and, besides, it’s morning so I let him shake himself dry and pat himself down while I draw on my cigarette and finger the rim of my coffee mug. He’s looking at me now. Probably wondering why he picked me. I’m wondering that too but I’m a halfway decent detective and I’m already detecting a few things about him now that his coat is unbuttoned and I’ve got a good look at his shoes. "You Rick Rake the private dick?" Hey! He broke the silence. Good going. I nod back by way of reply and then add "And you’re a cop. Hooray, we all know one another." "Your dour and dry demeanour is deserved I see," he says, lowering himself into my client chair. He’s getting it wet but I’m trying not to notice. "Well, I don’t know you but I’m betting you’re known as Inspector Alliteration." It gets a wry smile from him which is good. Those angry cops who fly off the handle at the slightest jibe can be real painful to work with and I really don’t work well in the mornings. "You been using any similes in your inner monologue this morning Rake?" That stops me. It’s not your usual opening sentence and I’m not entirely sure what to say; not a good thing for someone in my profession. I try to hide my surprise my putting on my thinking face. It looks like he’s buying it. I think back. "You know what? I...
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