Archive for the ‘David Kopaska-Merkel’ Category
Smokin’
Thursday, May 31st, 2007
My name is Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a P.I. In my business, trouble often comes calling. This time a giant bug grabbed my elbow and jerked me around, tearing my shirt.
“Lady,” I said, “violence is not necessary.”
“Emergency!” She screamed. “My house is on fire, my children will burn!” She pointed. A plume of black smoke rose a few blocks away.
“Did you call the fire department?”
She nodded, urging me in the direction of the blaze and ripping my sleeve clean off.
“Then fly away home; I’ll be along.” I started running.
*
By the time I got there, the fire was out. Her children huddled around her skirts, crying. She counted frantically. “Ann, my youngest, isn’t here!”
I waded into the rubble. I started in the wreckage of her kitchen. “Here she is ma’am,” I called, “under the pudding pan.”
While the frantic mother was cuddling the baby, a local cop arrived. Constable Johns and I went way back. Bridget had a sharp eye, she was tough, and she owed me, since the “Boy Blue” incident.
“Good work Hasp,” she said, “but why are you interfering with an arson investigation?”
“Arson!?” I exclaimed. “This just happened.” If I’d been thinking a little faster I would’ve claimed Mrs. Ladybird was my client, but just then the lady in question turned to us.
“Arson!” She looked at me. “Hasp Deadbolt?” I nodded. “I want you to help me nail the bastard who tried to kill my babies.” She turned to Constable Johns. “What do the police think?”
“Well, ma’am, I’m not at liberty…”
“Deadbolt, you’re on the case. Is 100 a sufficient retainer?”
*
“Constable,” I said, “we need to talk. Let me buy you a pastry.”
“I’ll fill you in,” she said, taking a bite, “if you help me.” There’d been a string of suspicious fires on the north side.
“We’ve kept quiet. We don’t want copycats.”
The fires were set in broad daylight; it had to be somebody who spent a lot of time in this part of town. I rubbed my chin. Old Miz Hubbard was doing time in the happy house. “This is not Georgy Porgy’s style. I like Dr. Fell, but I can’t say why.”
Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “I can put him near two fires, maybe more.”
“Let’s check his house.” I couldn’t do that legally, but Bridget could. The next day we waited until the doctor left on his rounds and we went in the back door.
*
Not much can turn my stomach, but all I will say about what we found there is this: I do not love thee Dr. Fell.
The end
For those unfamiliar with the two nursery rhymes referred to here, these are links to versions similar to the ones I used.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home
http://www-personal.umich.edu/~pfa/dreamhouse/nursery/rhymes/ladybug.html
I do not like thee Dr. Fell
http://www-personal.umich.edu/~pfa/dreamhouse/nursery/rhymes/fell.html
Pig Pong*
Monday, May 21st, 2007
Charley was on the verge of winning his 100th game of pig pong. It was a grueling sport, but he had made it his own by dint of countless hours of practice. He had sacrificed ice cream socials, Friday night dances, trips to the movie theatre, everything. All had been subsumed by his one life-consuming goal. And it had all been worth it. Now, with pig pong declared the newest Olympic Sport, he was perfectly positioned for a gold medal next year at the Pyongyang games. All the name calling, clod throwing, scum bunnies from Central High School would finally get their paybacks. Yes, they’d be sorry.
But now, it was time to focus. Randi had just backhanded a big hairy sow low across the center of the net. Squealing, the pig bounced in the near-right quadrant and spun towards the outside corner. *Wack* (“Eeeeeeeeeee”) Charley returned the hog, dropping it just on Randi’s side of the net in his patented pigspin return. No point. It was his serve.
“If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the smokehouse!” Charley laughed.
“Honey, I ain’t even rolled up my sleeves.”
Charley scowled, dropped the porker smartly for a good bounce, and slammed it towards the white line just below Randi’s navel. Yes, it took a big woman to play pig pong successfully, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her 6’1″ frame. She returned the swine to Charley’s left corner. Return. Right corner. Return. Left corner. Return. He began to sweat. This was a long volley for pig pong. Usually either the table or the suid gave out by now. Good thing they weren’t playing a boar. Right. Return. Left. Return. Right. Return. Sweat poured down Charley’s face. Randi was indeed a worthy opponent. He might just ask her out after the game. Left. Return. Right. Return. Left. Return. Right corner–and away. No point. Randi’s serve.
And so the game wore on, neither combatant yielding. Finally, the score was 20:18, Randi’s serve, game point. This was where he would do it. He would take the serve away one last time and crush her. She slammed the oinker down on the table and fired it straight for the right corner. Charley lunged and whacked the pig on the ham. He lurched back to position just in time to see the curly tail disappear over the other end of the table. He had lost. LOST! She must have cheated. Moved the table, something! He would NEVER ask her out now.
“Good game,” she said, grinning, “want to go for a root beer?”
*No farm animals were harmed in the writing of this story.
The end