Hey Guys! Guess what! I wrote a story! "Why?" you ask! Because I wanted to! And because I did it for a writting contest! You should all read it! Because it's funny! Or, at least I think so! So, go on! Read it! Or I will forever torture you with my endless exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Mystery of Bad Writing
He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he'd taken of his son. Which was, admittedly, rather difficult to do considering it was a life-sized, full color portrait that one overly-fond parent would likely hang above the mantle in their home. As he trudged through the rain, cursing as he ruined yet another pair of Versace custom hand-stitched leather shoes, he vowed that he would track down his son, even if it meant using the never-to-be-mailed child support check to buy another pair of designer loafers.
Yes, his son would be found. And he himself would be the one to find him, by hiring the best Private Detective money could buy. And once all of his efforts, and income, had been spent, he would be a hero in his son's eyes. But more importantly, he would make some pretty lofty headlines. The whole world would adore him as the clever, stubborn, determined--not to mention handsome--father who endlessly pursued the kidnapper of his only offspring and heir.
If only the rain would cease so he could get to the P.I.'s office before he ruined his tailored Armani suit, too. And this was his favorite one, hand knitted by thousands of teeny little silk worms. He often wondered how the worms could knit such fine fabric when they didn't have knitting needles. Or, hands, for that matter... But the suit was Eco-friendly and highly compostable, so when he threw it away next week, it would decompose into the land-fill, no problem.
He held on to his hat as a wind smelling of Creepy-Screams Donuts gusted against him, and a crack of thunder resounded through the heavy air. Turning into a back alley, he jumped when a flash of lightning zapped through the sky, briefly illuminating a silver and blue "happy birthday" balloon with a chihuahua tied to it bobbing through the sky. Looking onto this forlorn, and slightly disturbing scene, he wondered if sometime, somewhere his son was also floating through the sky, secured to a helium balloon.
In the blackness, he could barely decipher the rusting fire escapes that decorated the brick walls of the apartments he passed. It was strange, he thought, that The Best Private Detective Money Could Buy was located in such a shady part of town. That was the first incling he had that something might, if most certainly wasn't already, wrong. The second foreboding feeling came from the cliche foreshadowing that followed his suspicious thoughts.
Finally, after cutting through numerous backstreets and poorly lit cusdesac (did you know that "culsdesac" is the plural of "culdesac"?), he found the dimly luminated facade of Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I.
Emblazoned on the little half-umbrella-nylon type thing that hangs over the door so you don't get wet from rain, but that nobody really knows the name of, was a giant eye emblem, staring out at the bleak streets, red from the pollution caused by the smoke-stack houses. As he stared at the eye, he wished someone would give it some eye drops, because the irritated pinkness was really a turn-off. Suddenly, he realized how stupid he must look, standing there, and not underneath the half-umbrella-nylon type thing, and decided to step under it so that its life purpose would be fulfilled.
Feeling generous, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the building.
The first thing he saw was the secretary sitting at the reception desk. She was young, maybe in her late twenties, and she had a blonde, curly bob. She sat by the phone, flipping through a magazine and obnoxiously chewing a piece of obnoxiously pink bubble gum. He stood there, horrified, watching her mouth open and close, unable to look away as the slippery hunk of gum slid around on her tongue like egg-whites in the cookie batter, like a snake on the slip-and-slide, like Drano poured into a clogged drain, like.... Well, like something really slimy. It was kind of a turn-on.
The next thing he noticed was that the rest of the room was empty. He looked around and spotted an office door, wooden with a frosted glass window occupying the top half. It was dusty. On it was the same eye, still pink, probably because the janitor of the building obviously never cleaned any windows around here. Glancing back once more at the secretary, he adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket and strode toward the door. He was just about to knock, when a voice came from behind him.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she told him with a little gesture he had never seen before. It looked rather stupid, especially combined with the lip-smacking chewing and bubble blowing coming from the secretary's mouth.
Predictably, he answered, "Why not?"
"I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work," she said as she bounced up and down.
"What?" he asked, assuming that she was crazy. And foxy. They usually go hand in hand.
Suddenly, she stood up from her chair and sauntered over to him, swaying her hips in an exaggerated way, so that when she suddenly stopped in front of him, she stumbled a little into his arms. Still smacking her gum, she looked up at him from under her lashes, and leaned close to his ear. Once there, she licked his earlobe, and said in what he assumed was supposed to be a sultry voice, "For the longest time they said we didn't need one, but then something changed and they said that we did."
Figuring she was cracked, and that he better humor her in case she snapped, he leaned forward and kissed her passionately. Then he stopped, cradling her in his arms and asked, "You didn't need what?"
She suddenly straightened. "Well aren't you a card!" she squealed. "A Private Investigator, of course. What else would we be talking about?"
He just nodded and smiled. Pacify the crazy ones, and they usually didn't make any sudden moves.
Twirling around like a ballerina, she continued talking. "You know, a boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railroad tracks."
Edging slightly toward the door, he tried to wrap up the conversation. "Well, how fascinating. Really, we must talk again soon. It was nice meeting you, nice indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
He turned and speed-walked to the door, thrusting it open and diving inside. Before he bolted the door, he swore he could hear the receptionist shouting at him, "Don't say I didn't warn you! He's going to take all of your money and leave you to die in a ditch!" But maybe it was his imagination.
He turned around, and straightened himself, smoothing his suit as he did so.
It was a normal, everyday kind of Private Investigator's office. There was a desk in the corner, with heaps upon heaps of papers covering the entire top of the desk. There was a small lamp, much too small to give of any real light, but enough to throw shadows around the room. There was a book shelf, with a book on it, and a garbage can full of empty gourmet coffee cups and Creepy-Screams Donut boxes. Behind the desk was a big, huge, giant window, with the shades pulled and set so that no light from outside could get in.
Oh, and everything was in black and white.
Behind the desk, in an equal lack of color, was Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. He was a man in his late thirties, a camera strapped to his neck, and a magnifying glass gripped so tightly in one hand, death itself would have had a hard time prying it from his lifeless fingers. He wore a trench coat, the collar popped, and under it a white shirt without a tie. A fedora sat on his head, hiding his features and casting the good part of his upper body in shadow. The only visible thing under the hat, in fact was the glowing (in black and white) end of his hand rolled cigar.
He stared at Ignatius for a good three minutes, not saying anything until the silence that stretched became sufficiently awkward. Then, clearing his throat approximately 13 times, he said, "I've come because I need you to assist me with your services."
Ignatius ignored the question, and instead asked, "You been talkin' to Dolly?" He had a heavy Brooklyn accent, and it made it hard for him to concentrate on what the Private Detective was actually saying.
"I beg your pardon?" he said.
"Dolly? The secretary?"
"Oh," he stammered, blushing at the mention of the P.I.'s crazy receptionist. "Well, she might have said a few things to me, but I assure you, I didn't take any of it into advisement. And I certainly didn't talk to her. I don't find it amusing to humor crazy rantings."
Ignatius chuckled. "Oh, Dolly's alright. A little eccentric, always feeding you the Firstline that pops into her head. She's a local."
"Awwww. I see."
Pacified at this new information, he offered his hand and said, "My name is Fredrick Richard Blake Wellington The Third. I'm afraid I need you help."
At this, Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., stood and shook hands with him, saying, "The name's Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. Please, have a seat. How can I be of service?"
Taking a seat in the chair across from Ignatius's desk, Frederick Richard Blake Wellington The Third opened his mouth to start talking, when Ignatius got up from his seat, picked up a baseball bat, and began bashing at the wall. From the other side, a loud thump, and then a wail waifed into the room. Ignatius stopped banging, and then shouted, "Go back to ya desk, Dolly! This meetin' here is con-fee-den-chal." He waited for a few moments, ear to the wall, before adding, "Beat it, kid! Scram! Or you'll never work in this town again!"
Nodding his head in satisfaction, Ignatius went back to his desk and sat down. "Sorry 'bout that. that girls' a little too nosy for her own good. Now, tell me what you need me to do."
Swallowing once, Fred began to tell his grueling story of loss, hard-ship, stubborn will, and hopelessness.
When he had finished, Ignatius said, "Okay. Now tell me the real story."
Fred let out a breath of astonishment, and then said, "Alright. I was at the grocery store, picking up some laxative, and the little shit wandered off."
He didn't know how he knew, but when Ignatius leaned back in his chair, Fred knew he was smiling. "And then your son walked off somewhere."
Fred nodded his head. "Yes. And I couldn't find him, so I came here. You see, my wife and I are divorced, and so I get him every other weekend. Well, I can't lose him again when it's my turn to watch him, otherwise the judge will take away my custody rights."
Nodding slowly, the Detective said, "I think I understand you, Freddy. You can't lose your son again, otherwise all those big investors who come to your dinner parties won't pay as much because your kid isn't there to charm 'em."
"Yes!" Fred said. "Yes, that's exactly it. So, will you help me?"
Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., studied him for a long time. Finally, he said, "Did you know that Private Investigators are falsely named?"
Fred, scrunching up his brow in a cutesy way he knew was guaranteed to get him his way, said, "I'm not quite sure I follow you."
Continuing as if he had never spoken, Ignatius rambled. "Yes, P.I.'s were falsely named. They should really be called 'Private Observers.' But that wouldn't work for obvious reasons, would it? Damn the United States Postal Service and their 'P.O.' boxes! (It also sounds kind of dirty) So, Mr. Wellington The Third, I've observed you as you've been talking to me, and I've come to a few conclusions."
Fred, still inwardly chortling at the dirty joke, asked amusedly, "And what are those?"
Looking up, but still concealed under his hat, Ignatius said, "I see that you are a selfish, rich, melodramatic, rich, stupid, rich, greedy, rich--and I must say--handsome man who only wants publicity and money, the more the better."
Fred studied the Private I. in front of him. "So you won't help me, then?"
Ignatius back peddled. "Oh, no, no, I never said that. I quite admire you, really. You are quite cunning."
Fred, no longer laughing, rose from his chair angrily. "Then what is the problem?"
Ignatius followed the movement with concealed eyes. "Well, the matter is, is that I can't find someone who isn't lost."
"What do you mean, 'not lost?' I don't understand these words that are coming out of your mouth. Why, you might as well be speaking Swahili for the good it's doing me!"
Ignatius shrugged. "kusema chochote."
Fred grabbed Ignatius's shoulders and started shaking him. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, MAN!?"
Ignatius was being jostled too hard to say anything other than, "Stop! Dad!"
At the sound of his voice when he said "dad," Fred stopped. "What?"
Finally, for the first time since they had met, Ignatius removed his hat.
Fredrick Richard Blake The Third gasped. Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker gasped. Dolly stuck her head out of the vent in the ceiling and gasped.
Even the studio audience gasped.
***
He pressed the back-space. All of the words that he had just written disappeared into a place where they could never be retrieved. It was worse than outer-space. At least you could see there was someplace to go, unlike the computer screen of his laptop.
Sighing, he closed the top, letting the small computer hibernate for a while.
He never had been good at writing mysteries.
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