English Club Chatter

I couldn't help but think of the last case we had worked on together--the infamous Case of the Mysterious End Quotation Marks. Yep, an otherwise competent writer could get easily get lost in those eyes--eyes that reminded me of that blue hole in Castillia everytime I made the mistake of breathing when she was in the room. I tried hard to avoid them this time by looking at her shoes. These were not what you would call sensible shoes unless the only sense you were into was pain. For what seemed like about twenty minutes I let my eyes work their way from her shoes up those twin tower gams of hers, the end of which, when she turned to look at a shiny object on the back wall she had seen reflected off my gaping eyes, made me understand the point of those shoes.

"Oink," I thought and chuckled like a doddering old drunk laughing at his own knock knock jokes.
"What's so funny," she asked in that sinewy way she had of making a guy wish he'd shut his mouth and just chew on his tongue or hum or something.
"Nothing, Doll, I was just thinking about something I read in the funny papers. I tell ya, if that Gasoline Alley don't beat all." I had to lie to get her to trust me again. I'd gotten used to being alone in this ramshackle joint and forgotten that certain noises might be taken the wrong way. Which way was the wrong way was yet to be seen, but I felt I needed to proceed with caution where this dame was concerned. It's not that I needed her, on account of the lack of business, but having her around gave me something to look at--something that wasn't dusty, or grimy, or at the bottom of a bottle. Just then the outer door slammed shut. We both turned toward the noise and then looked at each other. She shrugged.

I motioned with my head toward the door and Betsy slipped out to the reception area. Betsy had a way with bill collectors. She could make them forget why they came in or forget their wives or forget the tune to Pop Goes the Weasel if need be. A couple of minutes later, Betsy was back, this time accompanied by one of those blatantly wealthy society dames. You know the kind; dressed to the nines, professionally coiffured, and carrying one of those little King Charles dogs as an accessory. Only this wasn't some biddy. In another setting she would be what you call a hot tamale or maybe even a taco belle.
"I'm told you're someone who might be able to help me. Someone discreet, someone not afraid to get his shoes muddied." Her voice reminded me of one of those Chipmunk records, only played at a slower speed and sung by a boys' choir.

Turning around towards my cluttered desk I cleared my throat, and pushed some papers to the side. Making a customer that can pay wait seemed to fill my pockets more, a little trick I learnt from being in the business so long. I turned around to look at her, reaching into my side pocket for my cigars, and my back pocket for my lighter. Catherine was watching me, she had so much to learn, a young secretary coming into the business. She didn’t realize that you couldn’t get by in life by flashing your legs to everyone. She had probably been top of her class at her finishing school. I went to light my cigar, a chuckle out the side of my mouth again. Catherine rolled her eyes and took a step in front of me knocking the lighter out of my hand.
“Hello, miss. My name is Catherine.” I bent to pick up my lighter and watched her hold out her slender, unknowledgeable hand to the yuppie. “Now how can we help you today?” She said this like she was actually the one that was going to be doing the investigation. My airway suddenly choked I coughed and patted my chest heavily. Who was this woman I had hired?
“Madame Flora, Florien in you wish.” She shook hands with Catherine, suddenly seeming a little more relaxed knowing a woman was on her side. “I’ve got a huge problem on my hands…” She trailed off waiting for Catherine to refer her to me. But Catherine didn’t even budge. She was on a total female power trip. I decided to let this one go. When this Flora character wanted someone who could do the job she would resolutely turn to me.
“Well, if you will, take a seat Mrs. Flora.” Catherine so cordially and professionally then went behind my desk and sat down in my chair. This woman most certainly did not know her limits. My mouth agape then, because she was about to say the real kicker, she was about to push me over the edge.
“Sam, are you going to sit down to, or would you rather leave this one to me?” I had no reply to that. What was I going to say? I had decided that I would never let a woman tell me what to do. I wasn’t going to leave. She was staring at me, waiting. I exhaled so loudly that both women were now staring at me, blinking blindly. Surely I had not said anything of substance to either.
My feet shuffled so quickly across the office and to the door. I walked through, meeting a confused Betsy on the other. She looked up from the notes she was typing.
“Sir? Can I help you?”
I said nothing, I was peering down at my cigar, hanging limp in my hand.

All of a sudden I started laughing. Not just a little laugh, but a doubled over I think I’m going to puke laugh. What was I thinking, of course she could get through life flashing her legs to everyone, there will always be some dumb palooka that’ll take the bait. Hey, wait, why did I hire her in the first place? Didn’t she flunk out’a school anyway…geezzz I am a sucker.

Lisa, my junior partner, looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Between my chortles she managed to slip in, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I gathered my composure and admitted, “you were right Lese’, I was thinking with the wrong part of my anatomy. Ok, I’m going to give you an early Christmas present. You can fire that, as you called her, ‘annoying little strumpet.”
Lisa couldn’t control her glee. I think every one in the building herd her as she shouted , “That’s it you maniacal little control freak, your out’a here. And don’t even think about wasting time gathering your things, I’ll have them mailed to you!”
As Catherine left the office it became apparent that she was no ordinary human. The first clue was the glowing red coming from her eyes, the second was when her blouse ripped in the back and giant bat-like wings sprouted out. She jumped through the window and flew in a giant circle screaming, I’ll get you my pretty! And your little…wait, no, wrong threat. Anyway, I’ll get you.”

Lisa ran to the window and shouted, "i'm taking that widow out of your paycheck!"

It was pretty clear that I picked the wrong day to give up the bottle. "Betsy, I'm gonna step out and get some breakfast."
I thought about all that had happened this morning, and it wasn't even ten o'clock. Apparently some college improv group thought it was "play with the drunk's mind day". I gotta tell you, though, the idea of a junior partner sounded pretty good, especially if she looked like the coed who had just been in my office.
Just then Marlowe walked in with a fat man wearing shiny oxfords and a derby hat. I must have been really hungry, because I thought they smelled of bacon.
"Phillip. Sidney. How's your sister, Sidney?"

All of a sudden I realized I must have been mumbling because the bacon soaked fat man indigently said, “FAT? I’m not fat you filthy ‘size-est” I’m merely horizontally challenged!”

I realized I had indeed been insensitive, after all in these politically correct days we are not allowed to make fun of anyone or anything. Unless it happens to be the Amish, sure it’s no better but at least they cant call anyone to complain.

My world went dark, as I found myself on the sidewalk looking up I saw Catherine circling with a giant set of wings coming from her back. Oh God, it wasn’t a prank, she really is some sort of flying super-villain. Well maybe not villain, after all, all she has really done is drop water balloons and cackle. No, she was more like a super-annoyer with bat wings.

She screamed, “Fear me, for I am Batgirl!”

I shouted back, “Hey what are you trying to do? Get us sued by DC Comics?’

She screeched, “I don’t care, I’m really just that evil!” She flew out of sight, then without warning she re-emerged behind me shouting, “Ok, I though it over, I’ll be Chiroptera-Woman, It means bat but we cant be sued. Ok!” Then she flew away again but not before dropping a water-balloon on the Chief of Police. Like I said, annoying

I might have believed it was those damned college kids again--playing with my mind—but they were busy being beaten by the police, apparently it was ok to smoke pot, protest the war, and even jaywalk, but laugh at a soaking wet Police Chief and your getting a cavity search!

Well I guess there's no point in my voice over anymore. Apparently my narrative is obsolete in this crazy story. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

I was looking forward to see how you worked with it...Oh well, back it up a post or two if you like and we can take it from there.

What I needed more than another lonely breakfast was a case. Even if it was just tailing some dame's husband and camping out in front of The Notel Motel. For a c-note and expenses, I always told. Hell, maybe I needed a cavity search. Maybe they would find what is left of my soul up there. I don't know, it just seems difficult being the lead character in a hard-boiled detective story in this day of so-called political correctness. Because of the narrative style in the books and the voice-over narrative in the films, a guy even has to watch what he's thinking. Ah, the rhetoric of thought. It's not enough anymore just to carefully choose our words, we must also take into consideration what is implied by our non-verbals and, also, to a certain degree, by our particular stereotypes. Even should we choose to speak guardedly, does anyone believe that we actually think that way? Is there an entire silent dialogue being carried out in our society, where words become almost meaningless, and the interpretation of spin is the way we keep score? If the whole world became politically correct all of the time, where would people find ways to deflect their own esteem issues onto allegedly insensitive cretins? How does this benefit those who are still going to be paranoied about what people are thinking? Whose words can we trust? Where is the truth?
I was always the kind of person who called a spade a spade, or a hoe a hoe, though I sometimes incorrectly called a mattock a pick ax. And can I even use this reference anymore, or are words like spade or hoe too semantically challenging?
I wasn't mumbling when I thought about the fat man entering the room with Marlowe. Those were my thoughts. The fat man obviously, and correctly surmised that I was thinking he was fat. Was he correct, however, in pointing out my politically incorrect thought processes? I don't know, maybe he still needs to feel stigmatized and victimized. Hell, apparently I'm putting the anal back in analysis.

The fat man walked over to where I was sitting, he looked me up and down, then he laughed saying, “So you’re the big shot private dick huh?”
“Yeah? So what’s it to you?” I said as I balanced my still burning cigar on the edge of the saucer. It’s always the same, people hate my cigars so they hide the damned ashtrays.
“I need you to find some one for me.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, “This dame I’ve been, well…seeing. Yeah seeing that’s good enough, she got herself killed last night and I want you to find the son of a bitch what done it.”
“I’m booked up, sorry.”
The fat man smiled, “Do you have any clue who I am?”
That’s never a good sign, it usually means he’s some little bureaucrat with an inflated self opinion. “I don’t really care, besides, like I said…I’m booked up.”
Just then a short gut with a badly receding hairline stuck his shiny head in the door and blurted out, “Hey Bear, it s the fuzz.”
Then it hit me, this was no ordinary bacon smelling fat man. I had to run my mouth to Tony the Bear Brizionski, a big time hitter for the mob.
Tony looked at me, picked up my cigar and as he put it out by grinding it in the palm of his hand, winked and said, “Oh you’ll find time for this case. I have faith in you.” he turned and walked to the door. As he left he looked back and said, “Some one will be in touch.”

Opps, O meant short "guy"

Ok so I cant type today.

I wiped the drool off my face and realized I was sitting in astronomy still. I couldnt help but mumble. "what a *@#@!-ed up dream"