View Full Version : [Short Story] Chapter 1 - A Sticky Situation

Zom B
2010-01-14, 01:15 PM
This is the entire story. Enjoy! Sorry if the bleeped words aren't cool. But there are some in there.


. . .One time I was sitting in my parlor eating a smoked pikefish with jam and hollandaise sauce, when in storms a psychic wombat. His hackles were raised; I could tell he was irate, and irrational.
. . ."Where's my electric toothbrush, d*** it," he demands of me.
. . ."I don't have your toothbrush, electric or otherwise," I quip back at him.
. . .He's trying to figure it all out when John Wilkes Booth barges in and mows us all down. Oh, great. Now we're dead and I'm stuck in limbo with a telekinetic marsupial with a hygiene problem. I'm ticking off the eons and then comes the bright light. No, it wasn't at the end of a tunnel. It was neon, and orange.
. . .I move toward the light, and find myself on a deserted street. I'm in front of a 24-hour discotech/laundromat, and the jazzy sounds of Al Gore on the french horn are oozing out of the double doors. It's cold, so I pull out my trusty post-it note pad and fashion myself a hat. And then I turn around, and there stands the woman of my dreams.
. . ."H-hi," I stammer, as my feet begin to jig of their own volition.
. . .She's quiet for a moment as we watch the sailboats go by. "Do you want my number?"
. . ."Sure," I reply, pulling a note off of my head and looking around for a pen.
. . ."It's five," she says, as she turns and walks away, disappearing into the mist.
. . .I scribbled her number down and ran after her, my feet splashing along the dry city streets. I looked around for her, ate a tunafish sandwich I had in my shoe, took a nap, and then looked for her some more. It must have been hours that I drove along those streets, that little red car bouncing hard with each pothole in the dusty gravel path, kicking up dust and dirt that marred its fine white paint job.
. . .There, ahead, I saw it. Its roof was collapsing and ivy climbed along the house's walls. I could tell that sooner or later, my dream girl would have to come here. I waited, there behind some trees as I munched on some acorns. I hadn't eaten in days, and I was starving. I took another bite of the danish, and bit into a raisin. Ugh, I hate raisins. I sent the waiter off to fix the order, and he at last returned. I pointed over to the brick house, and we watched as a shadowy figure walked stealthily around it, his noisy footfalls loud enough to wake the dead.
. . .Since no dead awoke, I supposed it wasn't that loud. I motioned, and the waiter handed me the rifle I had requested. I cocked it, loaded a shell into its chamber, pulled the hammer back, fitted it onto its tripod, cocked it, and knelt next to the bicycle rack, propping the shotgun onto my knee so as to steady the shot.
. . .The shadowy figure walked out of the house then, his features vivid and clear. I could make out that, underneath his ski mask, he had a butterfly tattoo on her left cheek. She removed her coat, then, and hung it on the doorknob behind her. There was a moment of panic as she walked towards me, stopping halfway between me and the house to pull something out of her coat pocket. It was a poem. I listened as she read it silently, and could make out the lines of Shakespeare's immortal Ode to Autumn.
. . .Another figure stepped out from behind the post office then, joining the mystery woman. She removed her coat and handed it over to them, and I could smell the odor of gun oil. There was no gun nearby, so where could the odor be coming from?
. . .I turned off my laptop and then logged off of the website I had been browsing. I heard the click then of a gun being cocked behind me, and I turned slowly.
. . .There, standing in the middle of the ball pit, was the Frenchman.
. . ."I've been waiting for you, Detective Mann," he said in his distinctive Austrian accent. I could tell that he meant business by the knife he held in his hand.
. . ."I'm not Detective Mann," I replied in my best falsetto, hoping the comically large poinsettia tacked onto my shirt lapel would deter him.
. . ."You're whoever you say I am," the Frenchman replied, pulling the pin out a little further on the hand grenade. "Now, are you going to talk?"
. . .I glared at him, but it didn't work. I made kissy faces, but that didn't work either. I had no other options. "All right, I'll talk."
. . .The words were vinegar in my mouth; hot, chewy vinegar. The Frenchman waited, his hands wringing in anticipation. Right then and there, I spilled the beans. I also spilled the lemonade. I can be very clumsy.
. . .Just then, the mystery woman and her mystery friend struck the Frenchman from behind, the frying pan smashing squarely into his face, hands, and toes. He was out cold.
. . .I didn't know what to say, so I thanked her eloquently. Shrugging, she took off her coat and dropped it on the forest floor, along with the blood-spattered baseball bat. She set fire to them to destroy the evidence, and soon they were little more than ashes and purple-glowing embers. Finally, it was time to confront her about her part in the citywide bicycle thefts. But this wasn't the time for that.
. . .She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded note. I unfolded it, my eyes widening with every word as my hands began to tremble and tears began to stain the page. She then handed me the folded piece of paper, and with that, walked away, vanishing into thin air.
. . .Reaching down, I pulled the mask off the Frenchman. Underneath was a skull.

. . .My theories confirmed, I knew who the mastermind behind the counterfeit ring was. I shook the mystery woman's hand as I hopped on my horse, pedaling furiously down the busy highway.
. . .A few minutes later, I stormed through the front door of my own office building. My gun was in one hand, a pair of handcuffs in the other, and an arrest warrant in the other. Marching squarely into my personal office, I confronted myself.
. . ."You did it. You've been selling the drug-laced drugs to local kids, haven't you," I demanded.
. . ."You got the wrong guy," I shot back. I wasn't going to go to jail again. I reached under the desk, my hand touching the smooth metal of the gun underneath.
. . ."Take your hand off that firearm." I watched as I stood up, my hands in plain sight. "Now turn around, hands against the wall."
. . .D***. I had to get out of here. I had never been to jail and I intended to keep it that way. I lashed my foot out, and kicked the bedside table over. The distraction was all I needed. I bolted for the window, bullets wizzing past my ear as I leapt through. I hit the awning below, falling through to be caught by the awning above the front door. Panting, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me along the streets, the tires squealing as I blazed a path out of there.
. . .I was one lucky sonuvab****. But someone wanted me dead, that was for sure.

. . .And that someone, was me.

* * * * *

. . .The cool night air blew into my face as I ran down the deserted city streets, and the searing sun was worsening the stress of being stuck in a traffic jam. I brainstormed then, thinking of ways to get the serial arsonist. I knew that if I didn't catch them soon, that I would eventually track myself down and then all of my work would be in vain.
. . .Then a dame walked into the bar. Or it might have been a gentlemen. It's hard to keep track of these things. I'm not a detective, after all. They sat down next to me and ordered what I was having, which was odd since I wasn't having anything.
. . ."I hear you're looking for clues on these museum robberies. I think I can help you."
. . ."Oh, yeah?" I cocked my eyebrow in interest, which had no visible effect since I keep them shaved.
. . ."The man that does it goes by the name of El Cat. That's Spanish for 'The Gato.' His real name is Widdleford M. Zizzlebottom. He lives at 1987 Piddleford Lane, and drives a Dodge Charger, license plate 'ELCAT.'"
. . .I listened intently, but I doubted this tip would be of much use. I don't go running off in some direction based on some vague information.
. . ."Remember that name. Hamfiddle R. Nanelboozle."
. . ."Tomboddle N. Wasafozzit. Gotcha."
. . .Everyone in the bar was giving me strange looks, especially the person sitting next to me, as I had been the only one talking. Nevertheless, I paid my tab and headed out the door.
. . .I found myself on Piddleford Lane, in front of a luxurious mansion, but that wasn't where this Nozfozzle T. Shimisham lived. I walked another block to his house and knocked on the door.
. . ."Are you..." I checked the detailed notes I had been taking for the right information, "Homfobble G. Schnozzrocket?"
. . .After a few minutes, the door opened, and there stood a young man in his early 80's.
. . ."Your silence speaks for you, Mr. Wonknozzle. I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in."
. . .A woosh of wind and a blur of motion was all I saw as an arrow flew past my ear, striking Mr. Tooblydoozit in the neck. On the arrow's shaft was a note: "Dead men don't lie, Mr. Nozzawozzat. Now you are dead, because I shot you. In the neck. With an arrow. This arrow, in fact. Ha Ha. Kisses and hugs, The Mad Gunman."
. . .Despite his statements to the contrary, Mr. Humbuddle was dead. But for whom had the arrow been intended?

. . .Clearly, someone besides me wanted me dead.

. . .Running and ducking for cover behind mailboxes, small dogs, and washing machines – whatever was handy – I made my way across the street to the direction from whence the arrow came. From Whence the Arrow Came would make a great name for a book or a rock band or something. The Mad Gunman was gone, so I asked the squirrelly-looking fellow squatting in the bushes holding the bow if he had seen anything. He said he’d seen plenty of things.
. . .The trail was weeks old by now. Could I still find the Mad Gunman after all this time?
. . .“What should I do?” I asked myself as I hopped back on my bicycle.
. . .“Why are you asking me?” I replied. “I’m the one that’s trying to kill you.”
. . .I screamed, realizing that I had caught up to myself. I pedaled faster, but no matter where I went, there I was. I pulled out my gun. We fired at each other as I rode down the street, following closely on my heels. I was never that good of a shot, but I was a skilled marksman and knew that my chances of survival were nil if I stuck around too long.
. . .There, ahead in the road, was my answer: The Grand Canyon. I hopped onto a donkey and spurred it onward and down into the rocky ravine. Squeak, bump, squeak, bump went the old steam engine as it careened off of the rocky ledges and plummeted down toward the waters below. I was on a collision course with a small fishing boat full of small fishing men.
. . .Ker-a-a-a-a-sh-sha-sha-na-na! we went into the unsuspecting boat. I landed safely on my feet, having performed a triple somersault and a four-point landing. Some days I’m glad that I’m an Olympic gymnast.
. . . But now the Ace Bandit had gotten away.

. . . I cocked my eyebrow, and prepared to make a witty remark. I couldn’t think of any, so I cocked my other eyebrow as well. I began to swim to shore, all while bullets rained down around me. Funny, the weatherman hadn’t called for that. I swam up onto the beach, and kept swimming, deep into the vast and steamy jungle.
. . . Completely naked, I pulled out my machete and began to make my way through the dense undergrowth. Ahead, I could make out the fabled ruins of an ancient civilization. I cocked my safari hat, and pressed on. The arid, searing air of the northern tundra beat at my back as I pressed on against the wind. In the still night, I heard a ghastly howl echo through the trees that chilled me to the bone. I decided that I shouldn’t make that noise anymore.
. . . “How far do we have to go?” I asked my tour guide.
. . . “Eet eez, ‘ow you zay, a shaut deestawnce, haw haw haw,” he said, his deep Russian accent making it hard to understand his words. Or it could be the marmoset he was actively trying to cram whole into his mouth. That too.
. . . For week after week, we trekked through the hills and valleys and cities and frigid wastelands in search of civilization. I checked our rations. We were down to a mere three gallons of bouillabaisse. Things were looking desperate. And then things looked up for a while, and then looked desperate again.
. . . Collapsing and gasping for breath, I skipped merrily over the last sand dune, my eyes filled with the wondrous sight of a helicopter, waiting to rescue us.
. . . We paddled our way over to it, and detached the dangling line from the rescue diver. Giving the line a good yank, we were carried aloft into the sky.
. . . Over fields of wheat, and watermelons, and coconuts we flew, grasping tightly to the pterosaur’s legs. "GRKHLONNGGGGHKGFLFGLGLUMMMPH!!!!" Joffrey whispered seductively to it.
. . . I landed the hang-glider deftly on the rooftop of my office. Scrambling over the edge of the roof, I jumped toward the street below, but first made a detour through my window.
. . . Quickly, I shuffled through the papers on my desk. At last, I found the evidence I had been searching for. Suddenly, I burst through the door.
. . . “I knew you’d come back here sooner or later.”
. . . “I have to,” I said. “I kinda work here.”
. . . “I have the evidence right here that I need to put you away for a long, long time,” I said, holding up nothing in particular.
. . . “If I’m going down, you’re going down with me!” I shouted as I lunged across the room. I was too fast for me, but not fast enough. I grabbed my leg and yanked it out from under me, hitting my head on the ceiling.
. . . I crawled on top of myself and pinned me down, the hate seething in my eyes. “NEVER!” I shouted, the primal and dulcet tones of my voice sounding through.
. . . The cops burst through the wall then. The jig was up. I had nowhere to go, so I pulled my gun from my shoe and pointed it at the advancing policemen. “You’ll never take me!” I shouted, the froth from my mouth making a puddle on the floor.
. . . Behind me, I silently slid open the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out the gun I kept hidden there. I cocked it, and I jumped and spun with a deft pirouette, the gun in my hand pointing to me.
. . . Fortunately, I got off the first shot.




. . . We lay on the beach, the cool wind blowing through our hair at 165 miles per hour. I sipped a virgin martini with extra vodka, and sighed. Overhead, the suns were shining lazily through the hazy stratosphere as the waves crashed onto the beach and seagulls circled ominously overhead.
. . . I couldn’t help but think back over the last few days at all that had happened. I had lost, then met the girl of my dreams. Or the car, or perhaps the home of my dreams. Regardless, it was awesome that I had it, whatever it was.
. . . “It’s been perfect,” I said, looking in the direction of the recliner next to mine.
. . . “The perfect crime,” I agreed, looking back at myself. We shared a chuckle that echoed throughout the room as lithe Inuit women brought us drink after drink. We didn’t really want them to, but we didn’t know how to say “Stop bringing us drinks” in Spanish.
. . . I finished my hearty laugh. “The perfect crime,” I said.

Zom B
2010-01-17, 06:31 PM
I see that almost 50 views have been made of this, but anyone read it through?

Hate to bump this like this, but curious to know how well a story like this went over with the playgrounders.