Monday, 2 July 2007

Chapter 1

The following is a little experiment in what I call 'literary improv.' I'm going to start a story, something silly and satirical and post a new 'chapter' every week, making the whole thing up as I go along without a plan, outline, or clue as to what I'm doing.

I'm also asking for suggestions from my readers, I know there are some of you out there for what you would like to see next, or if you'd like to be a character in the story, and if so, what kind of character.

So here goes...

6 Degrees of Decapitation

Chapter 1: Woe Canada!

The sun was beating down on Los Angeles like a steroid-juicing big leaguer on a baseball, the city was crying out to be turned over because it was done on this side and I was badly mixing metaphors. Meanwhile anorexic starlets staggered drunkenly out of their gold painted humvees, rattling overprice bling, adopted African babies hanging out of their purses wondering how they could get out of this mess, and paparazzi hoping for a new money shot that would have to be blacked out for gentler souls.

Luckily, I wasn't there, I was safely tucked away in Canada.

My name is Furious D, I'm a dick. Private dick to the folks possessing the sometimes dangerous combination of fame, money and chronic stupidity. Yep, I'm talking celebrities. It's lousy work, but I soak'em for all their worth.

I entered my office, a small log cabin on the fourteenth floor of the Mudzlinger Building. It was wedged so tight between an acupuncturist and an "Executive Massage Service" it had become the office equivalent of a thong.

But I didn't complain, it was cheap enough.

I clicked on my answering machine there was only one message.

"You goddamn rat-soup eating motherf***ing pig! You f***ing do that again I swear I'll f***ing wreck you like I f***ing wrecked my movie career!"

I clicked off the answering machine. It was Alec Baldwin again, scolding me over my dog piddling on his front lawn. It was pointless crazy talk since he lived in an apartment and I don't own a dog.

I sat at my desk, sorted the mail, and among the coupons, and declarations of impending wealth from Ed McMahon there was something I hadn't expected to see. It was a letter, in a pink envelope, smelling like sandalwood and lavender.

It looked special, it looked personal.

Suddenly someone rapped on my door. I pocketed the envelope before opening it and buzzed open the door.

In came a tall curvy drink of water, and it was being held by a redhead with a look so saucy it could used to flavour barbecue.

"I hear you're a dick," said the Redhead.

"I think I milked the dick joke," I answered. "Let's just say that I'm a problem solver for people with special problems."

"Then you're perfect," said the Redhead. "Because I have a problem."

"I don't normally work for people without names," I said.

"It's Gladiola Hassenpeffer," answered the Redhead. I didn't think that name could be fake, because I was too busy choking down a chuckle. "But folks call me Lola."

"Okay Lola," I said, lighting a cigarette and tossing it out the window, because I don't smoke. "Put down your glass of water and tell me about it."

She did, and when she sat she crossed a pair of legs long enough to be a pointless plotline on Lost. I was impressed, but I kept it businesslike.

"I'm being stalked," said Lola.

"I normally only do celebrity stalking cases," I said.

"I'm being stalked by a celebrity," offered Lola. "It's Tom Green."

"That's not much of a celebrity," I said.

"It was all a terrible mistake," said Lola. "I was at the multiplex and walked into the wrong theater. Freddy Got Fingered was playing and Tom somehow got it into his head that I was some sort of fan instead of a gal with great gams and a poor sense of direction."

"I believe you about the gams," I said.

"I want you to talk to him and make him leave me alone."

"I'm not above a little strong-arm work," I said, as long as my strong arm was holding a baseball bat.

"I'll even pay you up-front," said Lola, reaching into her ample cleavage and pulling out a envelope, thick with $100 bills.

"I'll come down on him like a review by Roger Ebert," I said, tucking her envelope next to the pink mystery envelope.

"If you need to reach me," said Lola, "I'll be at the Royal Arms hotel."

"I'll be sure to," I said. It was shame that she had to leave, but it sure was fun watching her go.


Tom Green had fallen on hard times and had resorted to one of the smaller mansions in Toronto's Rosedale district. I rested my Hollywood Slugger on my shoulder and gave the door a stiff rap.

The door swung open with a creak.

This just reeked of a set-up, but I wouldn't have much of a story if I just went home and watched reruns of Star Trek, so I went in.

Sometimes I hate being right.

Especially the times when I end up knocked out on the floor.

Something hard and heavy smacked my head and I went down like the box-office for Grindhouse.

I woke with a face full of shag carpet and the feeling that an orchestra of Kodo drummers were beating out the soundtrack of a samurai movie on my head.

I got up and looked around. Tom Green was sitting on his couch. Actually, most of him was sitting on his couch. The rest of him, namely his head, was mounted on an old fashioned record player rotating at 45 RPM.

Oh well, at least I didn't have to listen to him.

Suddenly I caught a flash of red lights in the corner of my eye. Outside was a cop car.

I had been framed.

Damn it.


This work is a work of very bad fiction, any resemblance to any real person isn't coincidental, but done purely for satirical purposes. So don't sue, cause I got nuthin.

1 comment:

  1. I am amused and bemused. Please continue.

    Dean Jones
    Lewiston, Idaho