Monday, 2 July 2007

Chapter 4

6 Degrees of Decapitation

A completely fictional mystery-parody-thriller-adventure thing. The real people appearing in this story are just (poorly) fictionalized parodies, and thus not worthy of legal action. Really, they're not.


Sometimes my life sucks meaty monkey fudge.

Especially on days when I'm framed for the murder of a comedian with the biggest gross out gag of his career, the only lead I have to clear my name gets offed, and I get stuck in a plane with a pilot, actor John Travolta, that had just lost his head.

No, I'm not talking figuratively.

He really did lose his head.

In fact, it was staring up at me from the co-pilot's seat.

Did I mention that the plane was heading for a mountain?

Yep, when it rains, it pours.

I had only one option to get out of this situation alive. So I picked up the pilot's head, punted it down the passenger cabin, strapped myself in and grabbed the yolk.

Why John Travolta kept fried eggs on the controls of his airplane I will never know.

I pulled the plane up. The engines roared, then they sputtered.

Triple crap.

The plane went into a death spiral. I was pulling heavy Gs, then Qs, then As and Ts. A luggage compartment in the back, spilling jumbo sized letter cutouts all over the inside of the plane.

The plane was going down.

I was going down.

And not in a good way.

There was a loud noise, then blackness.


I came to with a sore head and morning dew dripping on my head. This had been the 3rd time I had been knocked out lately, and I was worried that it could give me dain bramage, or is that crain spamage.... whatever.

"So," said a woman's voice, warm and sultry, like a warm blanket draped over a naked woman, "you're finally awake."

"How did I survive the crash?" I asked. As I looked around I saw flaming wreckage everywhere.

"I found you covered with giant plush foam letters," said the voice. "There was also fried eggs on your hands."

"Long story," I said, turning to face the source of the voice. "I'm Furious D."

"I know who you are, you're the dick of choice for the rich and famous," said the voice, which was coming out of a tall brunette in a v-neck sweater displaying enough cleavage to hide some impressive concealed weapons. "My name is Gina VaVoom, but my friends call me GiGi."

"You're GiGi VaVoom the globetrotting archaeologist?"

"You've heard of me?"

"No," I answered, "I'm just really good at guessing stuff."

"I was doing an archaelogical survey of this mountain when I saw your plane go down," said GiGi. "What happened to you?"

I told her to click the links to the first three chapters that were at the top of this post. GiGi did, and after asking me to explain some of the larger words, told me she knew what had happened to me so far, even though it didn't make a lick of sense, and was borderline litigious.

"Tell me about it," I said.

"It's interesting that this whole thing involves the Albanian Budgie," said GiGi. "I was just on my way to Hollywood to consult with Dr. Hugo First."

I knew that name, Hugo First was the world's biggest expert on the Albanian Budgie's history, and he was the author of the Pulitzer prize winning novel "Over the Cliff."

"Perhaps I could catch a lift with you," I asked, "my ride didn't quite work out, and I'd rather not hang around to talk to the authorities."

"I don't know," said GiGi. "People who travel with you have a habit of disappearing like Playful1 did at the end of the last chapter."

"I'm sure she'll turn up again when the plot needs her."

"There's a plot?"

"Let's just go," I said.


The City of Angels was hot, as usual. The streets were full of bony starlets wearing sunglasses that were too big, and outfits that were too small. I get an incredible urge everytime I come to LA, and it's not what you think, it's an urge to buy some sandwiches and pass them out, no to the poor, but to overpaid and underfed celebrities.

"If you hold celebrities in such contempt," asked GiGi as she steered her car, a new hybrid built in Chatsworth called the Priapus, "why do all your cases involve them in some way?"

"What makes you think I hold celebrities in contempt?"

"I can read the narration too," answered GiGi.

"I'm learning to hate post-modern writing," I said, adjusting my fedora to keep the sun out of my eyes. "Let's just say that I love movies, but I can't stand the things done by the people who become famous making them. Plus, they're behaviour makes them easy targets for bad jokes and satirical situations."

"Like this story?"


"By the way," I asked, "how does this car handle?"

"It's a little stiff," answered GiGi, "but it can really charge hard on the straightaways."

"That's nice," I said, "Do you know where Dr. First's office is?"

"It's at the history department of UCLA," answered GiGi. "That's in the basement under the film building."

My body tensed. In order to find Dr. Hugo First I was going to have to run the gauntlet of the most terrifying creatures on the planet.



"Tarantino's a complete hack," said one Film Student as we entered the building's lobby.

"Why?" asked the student's purple haired companion.

"Because people see his movies."

The rest of the clatch of students ooohed at this insight.

"I thought I had escaped this stuff years ago," I said.

"Come on," said GiGi. "His office is beneath the Foley studio." She walked, I followed, and so did the eyes of the film students.

"Was that a real woman?" asked one.


"Here it is," said GiGi, pointing to a narrow door between some hot water pipes.

I knocked on the door, time was shorter than the lifespan of a series on the Fox Network and I didn't have time for any more jokes.

"These are jokes?" asked GiGi, "I just thought you were a bad writer."

"A little of column A and a little of column B."

The door opened with a creak and an owlish man wearing glasses thick enough to stop bullets looked out.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who is in a lot of trouble," I said, "someone who needs info on the Albanian Budgie."

"You're the one I've been expecting," said Dr. First.

"Me too," said a voice behind me. I would have turned around, but felt a barrel touching my back, and above the barrel, was a gun. The voice was colder than the heart of the studio executive who passed on the screenplay I spent 3 goddamn years working on and .... oh, wait, I'm just venting a little.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked.

"He's gotta gun," said GiGi.

"My name is not important," said the man with the cold steel and the cold voice, "but I have someone on the phone you already know."

The man pressed a cell phone to my ear.

"Furious," said a voice I recognized as Playful1's. "They somehow snatched me from the plane. They're holding me hostage. They want you to bring them the Albanian Budgie."

"I'm a dick," I said, "not a treasure hunter."

"You're the best man in the world at finding things," said the man with the gun. "You found Tom Arnold's career."

"That wasn't exactly something I'm proud of," I replied.

"Find the Budgie," said the man, "and all your problems with missing heads and wanted posters will disappear. Fail and you, the girl, and your new buxom friend here will disappear."

"You're going to sign us to CAA?"

"No time for jokes!" said the voice. "Get what you need from Dr. First and figure it all out. Then you can joke like Carrot Top."

"Eeww," said GiGi.

"I'll do it," I said. "You know, you could have just hired me. It would have been a lot less trouble, and cheaper."

"This way is more fun," said the voice.

I felt the gun leave my back, but as I turned, my attacker was already at the other end of the hall. He was faster than the LAPD on a minority.

"We have a lot to discuss," said Dr. First. "Come in."

Dr. First's office was exactly what I expected for a historian's place. It was loaded with books, maps, and a shiny new bomb on the windowsill.

"That bomb shoudn't be there," said Dr. First.

Quadruple crap.

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