Chapter 5

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION
Chapter 5: The Curse of the Budgie

Picture it: the basement of a building in UCLA. I'm in the office of historian Dr. Hugo First, and joined by travelling archaeologist GiGi VaVoom, former sidekick Playful1 had been kidnapped by the same folks who have been chopping heads and leaving me holding the proverbial bag. They wanted me to find the lost Albanian Budgie, but then somebody put me in a room with a bomb.

That's the sort of thing that happens when you're me, Furious D, Private Dick.

"Let's get out of here," said GiGi, "I'm scared and totally dependent on your rugged manliness to save me Furious D."

"If we run, the bomb will go off and destroy the entire building," I said, my tone reminiscent of a young Charlton Heston.

"It is full of Film Students," said Professor First.

"Yeah," I said, "they may be a dime a dozen, but the equipment in this building is valuable. I have to defuse it. Does anyone have a screwdriver?"

Dr. First shrugged.

"I can help," said GiGi, dipping a hand into her ample cleavage and pulling out a screwdriver.

"Thanks toots," I said, downing the screwdriver and tossing the glass aside, "now I need the tool screwdriver, not the drink screwdriver."

GiGi nodded and reached down again.

"Will a Phillips head do it?" asked GiGi.

"Yes," I said, taking the screwdriver and carefully opening the case.

Inside was a bomb, a big one, and it was pretty fresh. It was Grindhouse.

"Okay," I said, "I need an editing suite and some marketing materials."

"I'm on it," said GiGi, dipping again into the depths of her V-neck shirt.

It took a lot of work, but I defused the bomb.

"Well this twist is confusing," said Dr. First. "First this guy with the gun frames you, kills two celebrities and also takes a hostage to make you find the Albanian Budgie, and then he leaves a bomb."

"He didn't leave the bomb," I said. "Someone else left it. Someone who doesn't want us to find the Albanian Budgie. How did you know all that?"
"GiGi told me about the links at the top of the post," said Dr. First. "They really are convenient."

"Yes," I said, "they are, but we don't have time for that. What we do have time for is another screwdriver and everything you have on the Albanian Budgie."

Dr. First nodded and scurried to his bookshelf, while GiGi passed me a fresh drink.

"I have a map to the Albanian Budgie's location," said Dr. First, taking out a rolled up parchment. "But the directions are in ancient Beothuk."

"I just happen to be fluent in Beothuk," I said, "in fact, I'm the only living person who is."

"How?" asked GiGi.

"Let's just say that I'm a cunning linguist."

"Worst double-entendre ever!" declared Dr. First.

"Why is the map showing the location of an Albanian treasure written in the language of a lost tribe of North American natives?"
"It's a long story," I said, "and it involves Vikings."

"That makes perfect sense," said GiGi.

"Can you read the map?" asked Hugo First.

"Yes," I said. "But according to the text this map leads to another map, which leads to another, each one leading us closer to the Budgie."

"That sounds like a pointlessly complex way to hide a treasure," said GiGi.

"Yeah," I said, "but it's a great excuse to drag out the story. Let's roll."

#

The three of us hopped into GiGi's car.

"Where to," said GiGi, revving her engine.

"The next map is in Beverly Hills," I said. "But first we have to stop at Sony Pictures."

"Why?"

"I have to pick up an old friend who can help us," I said.

#

We zipped into the Sony lot and made a bee-line for the executive building. The bees pointed us to the building and buzzed off.

We came up to a door on the top floor, the sign on it said C.T. Badger, VP-Development.

"What can a studio executive do to help us?" asked GiGi.

"He's not any studio executive," I said opening the door, "he's the best back-up man a Private Eye can have."

GiGi stepped inside the office and froze.

"He's a badger," said GiGi. "I thought his last name was badger, but no, he really is a badger."

"How are you Chompy!" I said, as my old buddy leaped from his desk with a happy snarl and gave me a hug.

"How can a badger be VP of a major studio?" asked Dr. First.

"It's not that odd," I said. "Paramount is run by wombats, and do you know who runs Fox?"

"Foxes?" asked GiGi.

"Nope," I said, "ocelots."

"I give up," said Hugo First. "I can't stand this inanity, you're on your own."
And with that Dr. Hugo First stomped off in a huff.

"That's okay," I told Chompy, "he did his part for the story. Now I need your help."

Chompy nodded.
"Hey," said GiGi, "who parked the tank outside?"

"Run!"

KABOOM!
TO BE CONTINUED

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.

CHAPTER 4: ALL DOWNHILL

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?"

"Exactly."

"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.

FILM STUDENTS.

#

"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.

Chapter 3

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A SATIRICAL MURDER MYSTERY THRILLER COMEDY ADVENTURE THING... SORTA...

CHAPTER 3- UP, UP, & AWAY!

Funny things happen when you think you're going to bite the big one, get snuffed, go for a dirt nap, and ring down the curtain and join the choir invisible.

Your life flashes before your eyes like a movie with not enough sex scenes and a really crappy ending. Plus, you also get a damp sensation in your pants. Or is that just me?

I had just escaped a hotel crawling with cops out to bust me for a murder I didn't commit and a sniper out to plug me and a dame named Playful1. I was just thinking I was in the clear when I saw what looked like an 18 wheeler barreling down the road hell bent on turning my pate into pudding.

But just before I was about to become roadkill I heard the squeal of breaks catching, I sniffed the smell of tires burning as they scraped asphalt, and I caught the sensation of a gold plated bumper striking me in the chest.

I felt my arse go over my kettle, spilling my tea, but luckily my head didn't spill my brains. I hit the ground with a thud, or to be more precise, Playful1 hit the ground with a thud, because I landed on her.

I heard a muffled grunt and then freakishly strong hands tossed me aside.

"Dammit!" gasped Playful1, "have you considered 'slim-fast' or perhaps bulimia?"

I didn't have time to discuss such weighty topics with her, because I saw that what had hit me wasn't an 18 wheeler after all. It was an SUV, and a familiar one at that.

"Britney?" I asked.

Britney Spears stepped out of the SUV, the streetlight glistening off her freshly shaved head.

"Furious D?" said Britney surprised, of course sunrises surprised her, "whatcha doing here?"

"We need a lift," I said, "can we ride with you."

"Sure," said Britney, "y'all can come on."

"You know Britney Spears?" asked Playful1.

"I was the one hired to tell her Kevin Federline was a douchebag," I said.

"Anyone could have told her that," said Playful1.

"Yeah," I said, "but I'm the only one who thought of charging $150 an hour for it."

"How long did it take?" asked Playful1.

"About 10 hours," I answered, "I had to resort to puppets to explain it."

"I hope you don't mind being in a parade," said Britney.

"Parade?" I asked, as I climbed into the Hummer's capacious backseat.

"It is a parade," said Playful1 pointing out the back window.

She was right. Behind Britney's Hummer was literally a long line of SUVs of every conceivable make and model priced above $100,000.

"What kind of a parade is this?" I asked.

"We're parading our SUVs to protest Global Warming," said Britney as she revved the engine, sending a thick plume of black exhaust into sky, momentarily blotting out the moon.

"Makes sense," I said. "Let's go."

#

The parade took us through downtown Toronto and ended at the city's hippest and most happening nightclub, Canadian Legion Branch #1313. What can I say, Toronto ain't as hip as it likes to think it is.

The second Britney parked her Hummer she leaped out, a baby under each arm, and charged into the bar.

"Now what do we do?" asked Playful1.

"This whole Albanian Budgie business has got me thinking," I said.

"I thought I smelled wood burning," said Playful1.

"We need to find out more about it," I said, "and the world's only expert on the Albanian Budgie is in Hollywood."

"How are we gonna get to Hollywood?" asked Playful1. "We're in Canada."

I turned and smiled. The solution was right in front of us.

John Travolta's personal Boeing 767 was in the parking lot, it's front landing gears crushing a Volkswagen beetle containing several members of a Ukranian immigrant family. As luck would have it, John Travolta was standing right there, fishing for his keys in his pockets. At least I hope he was fishing for his keys.

"John," I said in my friendliest, and completely insincere tone.

"Furious?" said Travolta, "I didn't know you cared about the planet?"

"Sure," I said, "this planet's my favorite. I need a favor."

"What kind of a favor?" asked John.

"The kind of favor that could get certain pictures of a certain person doing certain things burned," I said.

"Really?" asked Travolta, a gleam of hope in his eyes.

"All we need is a lift to Hollywood," I said.

"Okay," said Travolta, "but I gotta make a stop in Oregon, I have to stop a store for some toilet paper."

"Why do you have to go to Oregon for toilet paper?" asked Playful1.

"It's my contribution to saving the planet," answered Travolta. "The paper's hand made by organic farmers out of recycled Mexican currency."

"That makes sense," said Playful1.

"Then let's go."

#

The 767 carrying me, Playful1 and piloted by John Travolta took off down Yonge Street, the roar of its engines shattered the windows of a public housing project, and the exhaust scorched a city park to ashes, but it was all in a good cause.

While Travolta was in the cockpit piloting the plane, I was busy jimmying the lock on the mini-bar in the back of the plane.

"What's that thing about you having pictures of John Travolta?" asked Playful1.

"This is between you, me and the stubborn lock," I said, "but I happen to have pictures of John Travolta committing a horrible crime."

"Really," asked Playful1, her interest piqued. "What is it, murder, drugs... bestiality?"

"I have evidence that he's the man who secretly created According to Jim."

"Eeeewww," said Playful1, a disgusted look on her face.

"Pretty shocking stuff," I said as I finally beat the lock on the mini-bar.

Then the mini-bar beat me.

A boxing glove, mounted on a spring, shot out and hit my glass jaw. I was sorry to lose that, it was left to me by my grandpa, Enraged D. As I dodged the shards of glass flying from the shattered heirloom, I tripped on a wrinkle in the carpet and fell over.

I must have hit my head, because I was suddenly seeing stars, then I saw blackness.

#

It was cold when I woke up.

Somebody had left the door open, letting an icy wind in.

Then I remembered that I was in an airplane, and that doors shouldn't be open on airplanes.

I got on my feet and staggered to cockpit. The door was open, the cabin was de-pressurized, Playful1 was nowhere to be found, and I had the feeling that I was in deep doo-doo, again.

I opened the cockpit door and saw that John Travolta was still in the pilot's seat, his hands on the controls.

Too bad his head was in the co-pilot's seat.

"Oh crap," I said.

Then I looked out the cockpit window and saw that the plane was heading straight for a mountain.

"Double crap."

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter 2

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

(A SATIRICAL MYSTERY)

Chapter 2: Furious Got Fingered

Okay, here's the deal. It was supposed to be a simple case where I strong armed a guy to make him stop pestering a certain femme-fatale named Gladiola Hassenpeffer. But things are never simple for me, I ended up having person or persons unknown play my head like Keith Moon on a meth binge. Now I have a sore head, and the guy I was supposed to muscle, comedian Tom Green, had been beheaded. No doubt by the same person or persons unknown who gave my noggin a floggin.

There was a rap on the door. It was the cops, also most likely called by the person who coldcocked me.

That little bastard had been busy.

But it's all in a day's work for me.

I'm Furious D, and I'm a dick.

I'm also not above rehashing a predictable joke.

I pulled myself up off the floor and snuck out of the living room and into the kitchen. Normally I would have liked to have looked for clues as to the identity of the person who was deserving a heaping helping of hurting, but I liked going to jail for a murder I didn't commit even less.

Sure, it was only a fifty dollar fine in Canada, but that was only if you were guilty. Innocent men did hard time in this country.

There was a window in the kitchen that led to Rosedale's only back-alley, but it was too high for me to reach. So I pulled the Drew Barrymore dummy made of sacks of flour, a wig made from Barbie doll hair, and a Catholic Schoolgirl uniform off its shrine and climbed over it to get out the window.

I was free, for now, but there was still somebody out there richly deserving some payback.

And I just happened to know where to look.

#

The Royal Arms Hotel was one of the city's classiest places. They even rented rooms by the night, but I wasn't there to rent one of their elegantly furnished suites at an unbelievably reasonable price, partake in the all you can eat buffet, enjoy the sociable ambience of their Oak Room Lounge, or try out their Olympic size swimming pool and world class gym facilities.

I had other tasks to do. One of them was to pick up the check for shilling the hotel in this story, the other was to find Miss Hassenpeffer and start getting some answers.

I got her room number from the desk clerk who gave me my check, and I headed up to pay her a visit.

I gave the door to room 1313 a sharp rap. But the door didn't respond to my rendition of 'Straight Outta Compton,' so I knocked on it.

The only answer was a low moan from the other side of the door.

Someone was in trouble.

Gave the door a swift kick, and I realised that it was unlocked when it spun back and smacked me on the nose.

It really was one of those nights.

A woman was lying spread eagle on the floor. I pulled the eagle off her and sent it squawking out the window. Damn birds could be a nuisance.

"Oh thank you," said woman as she got up off the floor.

"Where's Lola?" I asked.

"I don't know any Lola," said the woman, "got a call for a photo job, I come up here and suddenly there was an eagle on my back. Then I heard what sounded like someone doing a human beat-box outside, then you knocked."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"My eyes are up here!" she replied.

"That's an unusual name," I said.

Then she slapped me.

"My name is Playful1," she said.

"That smack wasn't exactly playful," I said, rubbing my cheek and looking at her face. "And it's still an unusual name. I'm Furious D."

"The private dick?"

"Know anyone named Furious D who isn't a dick?"

"Nope," she answered, "the only one I've heard of is a real big dick."

"Okay," I said, "let's leave the 'dick' double entendres now and get to business. What kind of photo job were you hired for."

"Somebody said they wanted a picture of something called the Albanian Budgie photographed for an insurance policy," answered Playful1.

I froze, then I turned up the thermostat and thought for a second about what she just said.

The Albanian Budgie was a rare treasure, the stuff the dreams were made of, but what did it have to do with framing me for murdering a comedian?

"Isn't that the person you're looking floor," said Playful1, snapping me out of reverie.

"Where?" I asked.

"If you pulled your eyes up, you'd see her," answered Playful1.

I pulled my eyes up and turned around. There was a familiar tall curvy drink of water. It was on a table, next to the corpse of Gladiola Hassenpeffer. She told me her friends called her 'Lola,' and I guess her last visitor didn't call her that, because friends don't give friends .38 caliber heart attacks.

"Oh crap," I said.

"I'm calling the cops," said Playful1.

"Don't," I said. "Not until we get out of here."

"Why?" she asked. "We both have alibis."

"Yeah," I said, "but I'm about to accused of killing Tom Green."

"It's only a $50 fine in Canada," replied Playful1. "It'll probably even less if the judge saw his show."

Suddenly the window shattered and a bullet ricocheted off the wall.

"Someone's shooting at us!" screamed Playful1.

"Run for it!" I yelled.

"Where's it?" she asked.

"Away from the shooting!"

Another bullet charged its way into the room, smashing a mirror like Alec Baldwin smashing his child's self esteem. Whoever was out there was packing serious firepower.

So I hauled ass out of there, once the ass was safe and galloping down the hall, I went back into the room and dragged Playful1 out into the hall, since she was still trying to figure out where 'It' was.

#

We ran down the stairs, to the ground floor. The door to the lobby was a jar, so I moved the massive jar over a bit so I could look inside. The lobby was mostly empty, only a guy sitting by the jar reading Entertainment Weekly. One side was the entrance to the Royal Arms Dinner Theater. They were doing Fiddler on the Roof with Ben Affleck in the lead role. On the other side of the lobby was the exit, but it was crawling with cops.

I don't know why the cops were crawling instead of walking, but I didn't have time to find out. I needed a distraction.

Then I noticed something.

The man reading Entertainment Weekly was none other Mel Gibson.

With cat like reflexes I grabbed Mel Gibson in a headlock and dragged him past the jar into the stairwell.

"What are you doing?" asked Playful1.

"I'm getting us a distraction," I answered as I popped open a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and poured it down Mel's throat.

"Crikey!" declared Mel, displaying the rare ability to speak while being force-fed booze. He was about to say something else, but then his speech slurred and he started griping about Israel.

"Here goes," I said, shoving Mel Gibson out into the lobby and into the theater showing Fiddler on the Roof.

"What are you doing?" asked Playful1.

"Wait for it," I said.

As if on cue, several theater seats flew out the door of the dinner theater and crashed to the floor harder than critics on Gigli. Screams and roars also burst out of the theater, there was a full blown riot going on in there.

The cops stopped crawling, got up and ran into the theaters, nightsticks ready if any of the audience turned out to be hippies of members of minorities.

I had the distraction we needed.

"Run for it" I said, then corrected myself, "run for the door!"

Playful1 ran for the door with me right on her back. She had to be pretty strong to carry me like that.

We were out of the hotel and onto the street.

I was just about to let out a sigh of relief when Playful1 let out a scream.

A massive 18 wheeler was heading straight for us.

It really was one of those nights.

TO BE CONTINUED

If you have any suggestions, ideas, or jokes you'd like to see in this story, or if you'd like be a character, drop me a line.

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.

TO BE CONTINUED

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.

An important announcement!

...about censorship from those wacky Aussies...

What The DaVinci Code Doesn't Want You To Know!

We're currently beseiged by hype for the book/movie/upcoming fad diet program The DaVinci Code. Bookstores are swamped with tawdry little tomes all claiming to uncover the secrets of the mysterious Priory of Sion.

Well look no further.

The final, and I mean final word on these issues can be found right here on this blog. I have obtained a record of the last meeting of the Priory of Sion. Take a look and judge for yourself who has the real truth!

TESTIMONY RECOLLECTING THE LAST MEETING

OF THE PRIORY OF SION

BY BROTHER GUISEPPE WASSAMATTA

It was a dark and stormy night. Abbot Gregorius, an aged yet still spry monk and most senior member of our dark conspiracy had seemed tense, but you'd be tense too if you were about to engineer a coup of your Grand Master.

"Is everyone here Guiseppe?" asked Abbot Gregorius, his voice creaking like old boards on an ancient ship sailing some cold and prehistoric ocean.

"The High Council is all here," I said, looking over my shoulder at the impressive gathering of Cardinals, Princes, and Scholars. Some would say the most brilliant minds in Europe were in attendance in that simple back room at the Vatican. We were one brilliant mind short, and that was why we were meeting.

There was a knock on the secret chamber door. It was the classic "shave & a haircut--two bits" knock. That wasn't the right secret knock, so we knew who it had to be.

"Enter Leonardo," commanded Abbot Gregorius.

The mighty oaken slab swung open and in walked the man whom many said possessed the greatest mind in all of Italy, if not the world. Leonardo DaVinci himself.

"Hi guys," squawked Leonardo, his voice echoing down the halls and onto the street outside, barely drowned out by the thunder. "Am I late for our secret meeting? I hope I didn't miss on any conspiracies."

"Indoor voice Leo," said Abbot Gregorius.

"Oops, my bad," said Leonardo as he slammed the door loud enough to, if not wake the dead, make them grumble and turn over. "Wow, looks like everybody's here. What's with the pow-wow boys?"

"Leonardo DaVinci," said Abbot Gregorius, his tone grave, "you have been summoned to the High Council to be stripped of your post of Grand Master."

"What?"

"You're fired."

"You can't fire me," declared Loenardo, "I'm the Grand Master of our secret conspiracy."

"You obviously haven't read the charter," grumbled Cardinal Adolphus of Umbria shaking his massive head like a boulder in an earthquake. "If the High Council decides unanimously to fire your skinny dago ass, we can fire your skinny dago ass. It even uses those exact words!"

"Why?" asked Leonardo, looking confused. "I thought you gave me the job because I was the most brilliant man in Italy!"

"We did," said Abbot Gregorius, "and you are brilliant. You're mind is unsurpassed in many artistic and scientific fields, but..."

"But what?"

"You're a flake Leo," answered the Ancient Abbot. "You have the attention span of a flea that's hopped up on caffeine. You rarely, if ever, finish what you start, you can't concentrate on anything for longer than a minute-- LEO!"

"Sorry Greg," said Leonardo, "Umberto's hat pin is just so damn shiny."

"Pay attention," snapped Gregorius. "You're unreliable with the simplest tasks. Dammit Leo, you even forgot to wear your pantaloons to this meeting!"

"That's it," said DaVinci. "I thought it was a little drafty."

"Plus," continued Abbot Gregorius, "your decisions lately have been questionable at best. Take for instance your hiring of the six and half foot tall albino to be the Priory's Assassin."

"Come on," pleaded Leonardo, "Paulo looks real intimidating with height thing and the white hair. How can he not be great?"

"He's half blind!" barked Abbot Gregorius. "Last week he was supposed to assassinate the Turkish Ambassador, I found him garroting a coat-rack!"

"An easy mistake," said Leonardo, "the Ambassador's a skinny little bastard."

"Plus," interjected Prince Otto of Scheissekopf, "what's with all the stupid code crap your planting all willy-nilly all over Europe about a child borne of relations between Our Saviour Jesus and Mary Magdalene?"

"I just think it sounds cool," answered Leonardo, shuffling his feet.

"Cool!" barked Gregorius. "We are a secret society, we do not advertise, even in a silly code, nor do we advertise stuff we just pulled out of ass! Don't you realise what some dorky hack writer could do with all your code crap in future years."

"Yes," added Cardinal Adolphus, "we could be looking at an entire generation overwhelmed with annoying conspiracy theories and hype."

"That's why we are stripping you of your title of Grand Master!" declared Gregorius. "Hand over your secret decorder ring. You can keep the official secret society underwear until you find your pants. You are banished from this organisation, and to make your banishment even worse, we're having ribs and Otto's brought a keg."

"Noooo!" wailed Leonardo as two council members dragged him away. That was the last time I saw Leonardo, and the last meeting ever of the Priory of Sion.

We decided to disband the next day, declaring that the real secret we kept was so horrible, that it was best if we scattered and allowed it to be forgotten.

Alas, I did not forget, and I will tell you that secret. The secret is.....

Whoah, better wrap that up before someone gets hurt. Well, I think that clears up this whole Dan Brown/DaVinci business once and for all.

YouTube is Evil

And that is what makes it so damn good...

Enjoy this traditional Irish ditty... (Warning NSFW)

My Paul McCartney Temporal Paradox Story...*

News of his impending divorce has led to renewed interest in ex-Beatle/seal-hugger Paul McCartney.

This includes the crazy rumour that he had died in the 60's and had been replaced by a look-alike.

Well, that crazy story happens to be both true and untrue at the same time.

Allow me to explain...

It all started when was playing around with my temporal anomaly generator. I had opened a portal into London in the mid-1960's, and looking to cause some havoc with the timeline I packed up my pet badger Chompy and we jumped in.

Well to make a long story short Chompy and I ended up at a card game in a swank private club in the Mayfair district and before the night was through I had shagged Ursula Andress, bitch-slapped David Hemmings, a gun went off and Paul McCartney lay in a bloody heap on the floor, with Chompy chewing off his right foot.

I came back to my own time to discover that while my little misadventure had prevented that shitty duet with Michael Jackson I had done terrible damage to the timeline and put the Earth on a course of inevitable destruction.

In this timeline DISCO NEVER ENDED!

I'm not sure why this had happened, just that it did. The ebb and flow of temporal space is infinitely complex, but I did know that the death of Paul McCartney had somehow caused it. So I fired up the time machine, set it for two minutes before the gun went off, and leapt in.

Long story short, I prevented Paul from getting shot, shagged Ursula Andress again, and bitch slapped David Hemmings again, for no good reason.

When Chompy and I came back the world was back to normal.

Almost.

Disco was over, but the world was ruled by a race of superintelligent cockroaches. I had to go back again to prevent it from happening, but that's another story...

Chompy in one of his quieter, less homicidal moments

*The story contained in the post is not in anyway true and should only be believed by folks who think the DaVinci Code is non-fiction.

I'd like to tell you about...

...the time I got fired from Sesame Street.

As a young man I was hired as a writer for the internationally acclaimed children's show Sesame Street. Alas, I only lasted a week.

My first script involved introducing a new character, a rascally little rapscallion in a cowboy hat and black mask who ran around the neighbourhood stealing the letter 'R' from words.

For some reason the folks at Seasame Street didn't think a character named The Rs Bandit was right for them. To this day I don't know why.