LJ Idol - Jack Batelin, Private Eye
I'm pretty sure I've lost them. I've put some distance between myself and the last place they tried to riddle me with lead. I step into a gritty alley to get out of the rain, adjust my fedora and light a cigarette. It's comin' down like someone shot a water tower full a holes with a tommy gun. Leaning against a dank wall I contemplate the day's events.
I woke up this morning on a filthy unfamiliar floor. This is significantly more disconcerting than waking up on a familiar filthy floor. The lack of empty liquor bottles nearby quickly ruled out the only good reason this would occur. This is the life of a private eye, tryin to make deductions the moment ya open yer eyes in the morning. Not just deductions, but you get a sort of sixth sense about things. I was pretty sure I had no idea where my day was going. I had this feeling in my bones though, real mystical stuff, this feeling, that there was gonna be a pretty good sandwich somewhere in my future. Roast beef I'm thinkin'. If ya'd told me then that I'd spend eight hours hiding in a dumpster to avoid getting shot, I might not have spent so much time thinkin' about a sandwich.
It was then that I realized something was terribly terribly wrong. Namely, I was not wearing my normal clothes. Instead of my normal slacks, cotton button-down shirt, vest, tie, overcoat, I woke up wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt that looked like it had someone else's name on it. Someone named "Ed Hardy?"
Realizing I was dressed like a total ninny I let out a shrill shriek -- err I mean a very hardboiled grunt of alarm.
I jumped up. The room looked like the habitat of college-age social deviants. Gaudy decorations festooned the walls, clothing strewn about. Unfortunately, it all appeared to be totally unsuited for a man with self respect. A small surveillance camera looked on from one corner. I flipped it off. If my day was going to be like this I was going to need a cigarette.
There clearly were no cigarettes in this room, I'd have to go downstairs. But my feet were cold and the only footwear to be found were some pink bunny slippers.
Sometimes in my line of work ya gotta do things that don't make ya feel real good about yerself, if you know what I mean. You gotta make decisions hard and fast.
So I put on the pink bunny slippers.
The downstairs room was even more garish than the bedroom. It looked like some kind of avant garde nightmare. Several people dressed variously in jeans, t-shirts, and short dresses were lounging about chatting. A woman in a yellow dress was relating the time she went hunting with mastiffs. A detective is always taking in all the details -- I quickly scanned the room for clues: a toaster sat on the oddly shaped table, light green walls, and the several couches were all primary colours: red, blue, yellow. Some kind of large sign or logo took up much of one wall. More surveillance cameras in various corners. No sign of a cigarette.
A pretty blonde man with a shit-eating grin bid me a good morning and I suddenly remembered the night before:
I'd gone to the park with my client, Andrea, to meet a potential lead. He'd been waiting there in the park in the narrow pool of light from a lonely lamp-post when we approached. I immediately recognized the devilish fellow, but where from? Someone from Dirty Jimmy's gang? Some rogue hustler from one of the meanest bars? Then it hit me, it was a joe I used to LARP with, by the name of Ryan Seacrest!
I immediately went to call out to him, "hey Ruh--" but I was cut short. Two ominous shadows were emerging from the shrubbery behind him. Not just any two shadows, but one of them I am even more shocked to recognize. It hits me like a large sack of flour being flung by a trebuchet. Yeah, you'd be shocked to be hit by that too.
"Harold Pleasants??" I gasp. "I thought I saw you die!?"
"Eh well, turns out I was wearin a bullet proof vest." he explains gruffly, still sounding like he's talkin' with a mouth full of candy. Turns out he is, starburst in fact.
I gotta get some answers here. The questions are piling up fast. So I tune up my most aggressive devil-may-care hardboiled attitude and put the pressure on. It's only a matter of time till he's sharin' the goods, turns out he had a whole bag of starburst he was holdin out on us with.
The rest of the night is a delirious blur of overdosin' on sugar. Man that stuff can be intense.
So this mornin then. I still don't remember how I got there but I'm in this building and it's definitely pretty creepy, like a cult or some shit. I'm trying to get answers now and I ain't talkin about candy, cause lord I don't want to see another starburst for the rest of my life after the night I just had (though I certainly heard that one before). Seems some guy named Claude is in charge around here. I'm trying to find out where I can find the big man himself but Ryan Seacrest keeps getting distracted by the conversations the others in the room are having.
Someone's saying they don't like catfish, someone's askin why, the first person is getting agitated with it. Next thing I know someone with a camera has taken the first person aside to another room and they are venting their feelings on the matter to the camera. That's no way to do a monologue. I glance again at the giant logo on the wall. "The Real World"? Hardly. I see a kitchen and go see what they have in there, hopin' for sandwich fixins.
So there I am just finishing makin a spectacular roast beef sandwich, my mind wandering to wondering if that dinner with that sexy beast Flash counted as a date. I paid, that makes it a date right? Surely we are on the same page. That nervous laugh he let out, he must have felt it too. Jack / Flash, Jack and Flash, Jack slash flash, it all has such a good ring to it, I wonder if he...
"HEY YOU!!" an angry young fellow in a polo shirt with a clipboard in hand is glaring at me. "How'd you get on set?!" Behind him two burly men with SECURITY emblazoned across their shirts come hustling towards me. Beads of sweat appearing on their tense faces as they strain to move as fast as they can.
Thinking fast I grab the sandwich in one hand, the box of saranwrap with the other, let out a frantic "DON'T TAZE ME BRO!!" and split out the kitchen door to the backyard.
I recognize the big boss Claude, in a hot tub surrounded by several gorgeous dames, but this is no time for further interrogation, the goons are only minutes away from traversing the kitchen and being hot on my heels. I have a clever trick up my sleeve involving the saranwrap though. You see, its transparent nature lends itself to laying traps for boorish pursuers. In theory at least. I don't know, I had a lot of time while I was hiding in the dumpster to think about what I could have done. In the mean time though I am very glad I did what I did, which is quickly wrap the roast beef sandwich in saranwrap. This was a very well made sandwich, it'd cost you at least seven bucks on the open market.
I noticed something else by the pool, though -- my original clothes! Certain elements of the night before, involving the hot tub, started to come back me. Eyeing the omnipresent video cameras I silently prayed I didn't find myself on television.
Goon #1 fired his tazer at me just as I ducked to scoop up my clothes, running past the hot tub. Shot went right into the tub, I don't need to tell you how that went over.
Moments later I was over the fence, down the street, down another street, and into a dumpster to hide out till things cooled off.
So here I am, hours later. What a day. It takes a certain kind of man to delve into the deepest secrets of a city like this. Thugs, gangsters, weird cults like the one I ran into today. Anything can happen out here. I take a long drag on my cigarette and let it out slowly, feeling particularly hard boiled and gritty. I gingerly unwrap half my roast beef sandwich and hungrily send a delicious chunk on a one way trip down my gullet. Well, I was certainly right about one thing this morning...
"Fan-fic" style intersecton with Jack-Batelin's continuing detective story. His entry this week here.