Chapter 10

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A satirical blog-parody thing that is in no way connected to or endorsed by anything or anyone real nor is it actually connected to any actual quality. So don't sue, cause I got nuttin.

CHAPTER 10: DEADLY DANCE OF THE CANNES CAN

When life tosses you lemons, you make lemonade.

When life tosses you a machine gun toting maniac in the middle of the Cannes International Film Festival, you make punch.

POW!

I gave the maniac one of my patented left hooks, then a right cross, then a hot cross bun, followed by my personal favourite, the bag tag. Our assailant fell like a sack of boiled meat under the onslaught of my furious fighting fists.

"Die scumbag!" I bellowed loud enough to drown out the roar of the private jets overhead.

"Furious!" screamed GiGi, her Dolly Parton disguise jiggling like mad. "That's not a killer!"

"It's Sylvester Stallone," added Playful1, ruining the almost perfect illusion of her Willie Nelson disguise, "he's just doing a publicity stunt for Rambo IV."

Chompy, disguised as Courtney Love for reasons that make sense only the snake pit of his little badger mind nodded.

I paused and looked down at the man I had been so vigorously pounding. Beneath the blood and the bruising it really was Sylvester Stallone.

"You really are Sylvester Stallone," I said in repetitive amazement.

Stallone nodded.

"Die scumbag!" I bellowed as my fists resumed their bloody work. "This one's for Rhinestone! This one's for Cobra, and this one's for..."

#

One hour, twelve cops, an escape from a paddy wagon, and a car chase ending in a twenty vehicle pile-up later we were at the Lucasfilm suite at Les Auberge Expensif. We had been forced to ditch our disguises, what with arrest warrants out for Julio Iglesias, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Courtney Love. The French reputation for tolerance apparently ends at assault, resisting arrest, unlawful escape, reckless driving, and destruction of property.

What a bunch of prudes. Getting so you can't have any fun.

"What a day," said GiGi, as she flopped down on the couch upholstered in imported Jawa leather.

"Totally," said Playful1 rubbing the rash her Willie Nelson disguise left on her chin. "I'm calling room service for something for this rash. Damn cheap disguises."

Chompy just grumbled and waddled over to the mini-bar. I didn't mind, unlike a lot of other badgers, Chompy was decidedly less psychotic when drunk.

"Yeah," I said sitting in an easy chair. "I've been running around like a maniac since this whole business got started, I haven't even had a chance to read my mail."

That reminded me.

I still had that letter in my jacket pocket. The pink envelope with the mysterious floral scent.

Since we had some time to kill before we went after the next piece of the map, needing the cloak of darkness, I decided to read it.

I pulled out the envelope and opened it. Out flopped a small business card....

...and the next piece of the map.

I had the damn thing on me the whole time.

I picked up the business card, it read:

Saccharine's Shack de Sugar

227 Rue De Julianee

Cannes, France.

And it also happened to be the very same address the map was pointing too.

Someone was playing a game that was either extremely intricate, or extremely stupid. I had to find out, and the next piece of the puzzle was at Saccharine's Sack De Sugar.

I knew about the place and it's reputation. It wasn't the sort of place you take two, relatively, innocent and naive Americans like GiGi and Playful1 to without some careful diplomacy.

"So," I said in my most diplomatic tone, "who wants to go with me to a whorehouse tonight?"

When I regained consciousness I explained the piece of the map and the business card and managed to make them understand that it was purely for solving this mystery. And any services I may procure while there with George Lucas's credit card, will be purely for investigative reasons.

I still don't know where GiGi got the frying pan from.

#

It was close to midnight before the heat on the streets cooled down enough to make it safe for us to head down to the Rue De Julianee, which was lined with ornately decorated clubhouses for the rich and decadent, and the richly decadent, and some even served those rich Decadent chocolate chip cookies you get in Canada...

...But I digress.

I gave the door to the Shack De Sugar the secret knock, and when I got the 'two-bits' response, a small peephole slid open.

I flashed the beady little eyes my new wallet and the door opened.

"Welcome Monsieur Stallone," said the doorman, a rat-like fellow with a pencil moustache who smelled of clove cigarettes and old spice, and I'm not talking about the cologne.

"Did you steal Stallone's wallet?" asked Playful1.

"Let's just say that I collected reparations for for too many bad movies," I answered. "Plus, I'm a bit of a klepto. How's Chompy doing?" I asked GiGi.

"I think he's enjoying his stay a little more than a badger should," she answered, adjusting her bra to handle the extra weight of a slightly robust badger.

I turned to the rat-like door man.

"Okay Willard," I said flashing one of Stallone's hundred Euro bills, "I want to speak to the management. I want to speak to Madame Saccharine."

"It will take more than a hundred to open her door," sneered the doorman with contempt.

"How about I toss in an extra---FIVE!" I said just as I delivered a short sharp jab to his gut.

The punch must have sloshed around a lot of wine and escargot, because he went down on his knees.

"I'm sick and tired of getting the run around," I said. "Now you can take the hundred, and tell Madame Saccharine that Furious D is here to see her about a bird, or I could pay you another twenty."

The doorman did the math and then followed in the great tradition of the French nation.

He surrendered.

#

"You gave poor Pierre a nasty shock," purred Saccharine as she languidly lounged on a sofa in her office shaped like a heart. Her lips were poutier than a teenager on an Emo bender, and wore an outfit so tight it left just enough to the imagination.

She was undressing me with her eyes, which was a pretty slick trick, but I had to stop her before she revealed my official Spider-Man underpants.

"First business," I said, shooing her eyes away and zipping up my fly, "then funtime."

"We're here too," said GiGi, pointing to herself and Playful1.

"There's plenty of me to go around." I said.

When I regained consciousness, I decided to skip talking funtime for now, because it was giving me a frying pan sized headache, and stick to business.

"You seek ze Albanian Budgie," said Saccharine passing me an icepack for my head.

"Yeah," I answered. "Someone sent me a part of the map, that tells me the next part of the map is right here."

"I'm afraid that I sent you that map," answered Saccharine.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I made her do it," said a voice I didn't expect to hear.

I turned around and came face to face with....

GASTON LAFARGE

Notorious dealer in weapons, antiquities, antique weapons, and weapon shaped antiquities.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" I asked.

"Well Monsieour D," said LaFarge with a Gallic sneer, "when you shoot a man three times in the head, stab him in the chest, set him on fire and throw him off a high bridge, you better make sure he's dead."

"I thought I did," I said. "So you were behind all this."

A dozen goons stomped into the room, their pistols drawn, GiGi, Playful1, Saccharine, and myself all put up our hands.

"Yes," answered LaFarge.

"But why were you trying to kill me and make me find the Albanian Budgie at the same time?" I asked. "I mean, you can do one, or the other, but you've been trying to do both."

"I have a multiple personality disorder," answered LaFarge, drawing a menacing looking pistol of his own.

"No he doesn't," said LaFarge with a decidedly Irish accent, "it's not a bloody disorder. I'm the only one will to talk reason. Hi, me name's Seamus."

"Shut up Seamus," said LaFarge, to himself.

"You shut yer cake-hole froggy," replied Seamus, to himself. "D's the only one who can interpret all the pieces of the map. We need him to find the budgie."

"But I want to kill him you bog trodding potato boiler!"

"Find Budgie, then kill you cigarette sucking surrender monkey!"

I was just about to suggest that we leave to let Gaston and Seamus work this out, but I heard a click, and then felt the floor beneath me disappear.

It was a trap door, and I was falling fast...

TO BE CONTINUED!

Chapter 9

6 Degrees of Decapitation

A Mystery/Thriller/Adventure thing that is a complete work of baldfaced fiction, especially the parts involving real people, so don't sue me, cause I got nothing.

CHAPTER 9: FILM FESTIVAL OF DOOM!

"Hell no," I said.

"Shouldn't we do something about George Lucas before we go to Cannes?" asked Playful1.

I looked down, lying at my feet was George Lucas, the mind control device Chompy disabled in Chapter 8 still clamped on his neck.

"Do I have to?" I asked in a tone that cannot be described in any way as 'whiny' and anyone who tells you otherwise is a damnable liar.

"That would be the right thing to do," added GiGi, Chompy nodded in agreement.

"Et tu Chompy?" I asked, "You used to be amoral about stuff, what happened?"

Chompy shrugged.

"Fine," I said, "I'll take off the mind control device, since I'm suddenly no longer allowed to leave him a vegetable. I need a set of screwdrivers, a wire cutter, and a hacksaw."

"Coming up," said GiGi reaching into her bra.

"Now," I said, "this is a very delicate operation, but luckily I have the hands of a surgeon." I reached into my pockets and took out the hands, which I had won in a game of Saudi Hold'Em Poker from a heart surgeon from Lubbock Texas and placed them under George Lucas's head to prop it up.

#

"That was an incredible feat you did," said Playful1 sipping on a martini in her seat in the Lucasfilm Company jet.

"Nothing a man of my brilliance, and modesty couldn't accomplish," I replied, leaning back in my plush seat. "I was a little worried when his head fell off, but... oh, you know the rest of the story."

"Nice of him to lend us his company jet to take us to the Cannes Film Festival," said GiGi, doing her part in the cause of plot exposition.

"All part of his penance for creating Jar-Jar Binks. Plus I have the keys to the Lucasfilm luxury hotel suite," I said, jingling the keys in victory.

"He gave you those too?" asked Playful1.

"Yeah," I replied, "he gave them to me...."

"Are those his house and car keys too?" asked GiGi.

"Enough talk about keys," I said, sticking the evidence, I mean keys, back in my pocket. "The people who used a mind control device on George Lucas and framed me, are deadly and powerful. If we are going to beat them to the Albanian Budgie we're going to have to be clever. We need clever, nay, brilliant disguises."

"I got just the thing," said GiGi, pulling a case, much to the surprise of everyone, from beneath her seat. It was marked: Professor Paparazzi's Celebrity Disguise Kits.

"It's what the paparazzi use to fake pictures of celebrities doing stupid things," said GiGi.

"How come you have it?" I asked.

"I do have a life outside of this story," answered GiGi, "plus I got it at a yard sale, since there's never a shortage of celebrities doing stupid things it's never been used."

"Let's get to work."

#

"Well," I said, adjusting the tie on my tuxedo, which was part of my Julio Iglesias disguise, "don't I look smooth."

"Yee-hah!" said GiGi, looking like puberty had been inordinately generous in her white sequined Dolly Parton disguise.

"I see you're getting into character," I said.

"What character?" asked GiGi.

"Why do I have to be Willie Nelson?" asked Playful1.

"You drew the short straw," I answered. "Besides, you're too sober to pull off the Lindsay Lohan disguise."

"Couldn't I have been Courtney Love?" asked Playful1.

"For some reason Chompy called dibs on that," I answered. "And I don't want to know why, so I'm not going to challenge him on that."

#

We stepped off the plane and into the blinding glare of the Mediterranean sun.

At one time Cannes was a sleepy little coastal town described as the unshaven armpit of France in its own travel brochures. Then they rewrote those brochures and started the film festival hoping some movie glamour would rub off on the town.

I'm not it was glamour, but there was certainly something in the air, smelling vaguely of cigarrettes, car exhaust, suntan lotion, overpriced food and drink, pretension, and above all, money.

It was the smell of Hollywood.

"Julio!" screamed a woman in oversized sunglasses and and an overpriced designer dress. "Won't you introduce me to your Willie?"

"What?" I asked, having never been propositioned like this in any situation outside of my brief career as Lance Goodthrust, porn star.

"Willie Nelson," said the Lady, "Oh you must all sing for us!"

Suddenly we were surrounded by a gaggle of international celebrities, press, and hangers-on. Our disguises were a little too good.

"Okay," I said, clearing my throat, preparing to wow them with my dulcet tones.

To all ze girls I've loved before....

Who travelled in and out my door...

It's to you I give my thanks...

Even to the skanks...

Who are why when I pee I get sore...

The crowd cheered. It was working.

"Nooo!" screamed a voice from the crowd.

The crowd parted revealing a burly man with a machine gun.

"You're all a bunch of fakes!" declared the man with the machine gun. "And for that you must die!"

TO BE CONTINUED....

Chapter 8

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A Thriller/Adventure/Parody/Satire Thing that I'm just pulling outta my ass so don't sue me for libel if you're in it, because I got nuthin' and it's all a joke anyways...

CHAPTER 8

FURIOUS D & THE WATTLE OF DOOM

"Wake up D!" said a voice in the distance, but I ignored, being too busy frolicking through green forests with a variety of female elves from the Lord of the Rings.

"Wake up!" said the voice again.

"Buzz off," I said, because Cate Blanchett as Galadriel had broken out a bottle of schnapps.

Then I felt a hand slap my face.

The green fields of Lothlorien disappeared, replaced by what could only be the dungeon beneath Industrial Light and Magic.

"You know," I said to GiGi, "you could have just shook me."

"Slapping's more fun," answered GiGi, "I have a latent dominatrix streak."

"It's not that latent," I said, then I looked around the dungeon, and I was very surprised. There was my one-time sidekick Playful1, and the supposedly dead John Travolta and Tom Green.

"Hey Furious," said Playful1, "I must say that your rescues leave something to be desired."

"I came to get you didn't I?" I asked.

"But you're a prisoner now too," replied Playful1.

"It's all part of my plan," I said.

"What's the next part of your plan?" asked Playful1.

"I haven't gone that far yet in the formulating," I answered. I then turned to face Travolta and Green.

"Aren't you two supposed to be dead?" I asked.

The two actors shook their heads, which, though empty, were still attached to their bodies.

"We were kidnapped by guys in Storm trooper outfits while you were knocked out and replaced with animatronic doubles," answered Tom Green.

"What an intricate and utterly pointless plan."

"Yeah," said Travolta. "I'm sorry my mini-bar knocked you out, but you set off the Kirstie Alley trap."

"So that's what that was," I said, rubbing my sore noggin which has taken one hell of a flogging lately. "How do we get out of here?"

"Hmmm," said a gruff voice from the shadows in the far corner, "escape no from here."

"What?"

"It's the crazy guy," said Playful1.

A figure emerged from the shadows, his eyes were crazed, his hair disheveled and there was a Yoda puppet on his left hand.

"Mark Hamill?" I said in amazement.

"Yeah," said Hamill in his normal voice, "I've been trapped down here for years. For years I was down here alone, with no one to talk to but this Yoda puppet-"

"Hmm," said Hamill through the Yoda puppet, "Go off his nut he did. Too much jerkin' his gherkin."

"Shut up Yoda," said Hamill. "I don't need you anymore, I have real people to talk to now. You are real, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said.

"That's good," said Hamill, "because I ate some mold off the walls one day and spent a month talking to the Teletubbies."

"Are those real?" asked Yoda, pointing to GiGi's chest.

GiGi punched Hamill in the face.

"He said it," pleaded Hamill pointing to the puppet.

"Hmm," said the Yoda puppet, "escape we could, but big wussy Hamill is."

"What?" I asked.

"Sorry," said Mark Hamill, "but Yoda here is crazy, he thinks I can do all that crazy Jedi shit. But I'm just a goddamn actor!"

"Explain," I said.

Mark Hamill pointed to the heavy steel door at the far end of the cell.

"Yoda thinks I can open that door with my Jedi powers," said Hamill, "but I'm just a goddamn actor! AN ACTOR!"

"Calm down," I said. "Have you actually tried it?"

"What?"

"Hmmm, tried he has not," said Yoda.

"Why not try it now?" I asked.

"Okay," said Hamill holding his hand out towards the door. His face crunched up with concentration.

"Do you think this will work?" asked GiGi.

I shook my head.

"It should shut him up for a while," I said. "And that will give me time to think."

Suddenly the door clanked.

"What the hell?" said Playful1, "It's working. It's actually working!"

"I'm really a Jedi!" screamed Mark Hamill.

"Hmmm," said Yoda, "great powers chronic masturbation bestows."

The door swung open with the creak of unoiled hinges.

"CHOMPY!" I declared as my long-time buddy waddled into the cell, the keys to the steel door locked in his teeth. I thought he had been blown up with GiGi's car, but there he was, a little singed around the edges, but otherwise healthy.

"I'm not a Jedi," said Mark Hamill.

"Screw Jedi," said Yoda, "the fucking door is finally fucking open!"

"Let's go," I said as I went out into the hall.

#

The vast underground complex beneath ILM was a maze, wrapped inside a labyrinth, lodged in the rich nougat center of a... I don't know any other synonyms for 'maze.'

Anyhoo...

Tom Green and John Travolta bolted off in their own direction, mostly because they fulfilled their part in the story, leaving me, GiGi, Playful1, Mark Hamill and the Yoda puppet.

"I need to find a place called Room 1313," I asked Hamill.

"That way down it is," said Yoda, nodding his head.

"Is that where the 3rd part of the map is hidden?" asked Playful1.

"How did you know about the maps?"

"I read the other chapters while I was locked up."

I opened the door to Room 1313 and went in.

Room 1313 was a long narrow chamber with a pedestal at the far end. On the top of the pedestal was what I was looking for, the early draft of the second Star Wars trilogy that didn't suck.

I carefully approached the pedestal. It had to be a trap. These sorts of things are always traps. I needed something the same weight as the massive script to trick the trap.

"I need about a 1000 manuscript pages," I said.

"I can help you," said GiGi reaching into her ample cleavage and pulling out a massive collection of paper. "It's my novel, it's taken me ten years."

"I'm a slow reader myself," said Playful1.

I took the manuscript and carefully nudged George Lucas' script aside and left GiGi's book in its place.

"Easy peasy, slightly sleazy," I said in victory.

I spoke too soon.

The back wall opened up, revealing a massive ball of unsold Jar-Jar Binks merchandise and it was rolling right at us.

"RUN!"

GiGi, Playful1, Chompy and myself turned tail and ran. But Mark Hamill wasn't fast enough and disappeared beneath the ball's hulking weight.

"Remember me as a sex machine," called out Hamill as the ball squished him like a ketchup packet.

We ran, and ran, the ball so hot on our tails, that I swear I could smell burnt tail hair.

"That door!" I said pointing to an open door.

The four of us dived through the door and landed hard on a bed of grass.

"So," said a voice, "you have retrieved the third part of the map."

I looked up.

"George Lucas?"

"Yes," said Lucas. "I was behind it all."

"Somehow I don't believe it," I said, studying the billionaire filmmaker's throat very carefully. "Chompy! Sick the wattle!"

Chompy the Badger leaped at Lucas and sunk his teeth into the wattle that jiggled around his neck.

There was a horrible ripping sound as the wattle came off, revealing that it was nothing more than silicone and latex.

George Lucas moaned and fell over.

"What the hell just happened?" asked GiGi.

I turned over the unconscious billionaire and revealed a strange mechanical apparatus locked on George Lucas' neck.

"Is that a Omnitech mind control clamp?" asked Playful1.

"You've seen them before?" I asked.

"Nope," said Playful1. "I'm just good at guessing."

"And stealing other people's gags too," I added. "You're right. Someone has been controlling George Lucas, and through him, his vast empire. Someone evil."

"But who?" asked GiGi.

"I have a theory," I replied, "and if it's true, then god help us all."

"At least we have the map," said Playful1. "Where's the next part?"

I looked at the map.

"Looks like we're going to the Cannes Film Festival."

"France!" said GiGi, "Does that mean I can stop shaving?"

"Hell no!"

Chapter 7

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A Thriller Parody-Sorta-Satire-Like-Thing

CHAPTER 7: HOLY SITH!

"What's that sound?" asked GiGi VaVoom, globe-trotting archaeologist and part time refugee from the shelter for stray sex-kittens. It had been a couple of hours since we left the City of Angels and the Suburbs of Hobgoblins and were heading north for the 3rd piece of the puzzle when we heard that noise.

I sat up in the passenger seat. It wasn't Chompy the Badger snoring, he was wide awake, and his snoring was more akin to a sawmill with rusty equipment run by the souls of damned American Idol rejects than the high pitched nasal sound we were hearing.

"Turn off the CD player," I said, partially hoping to hear the sound clearer, but also because I was creeped out by a grown woman listening to so much N'Synch. I could hear the sound clearer, in fact, I could make out words:

"I don't like these grapes."

"The weather's too hot."

"It's too sunny."

"Those trees are ugly."

"The wind is mussing my hair."

"I know what that noise is," I said, "we just entered Whine Country. Skywalker Ranch can't be that far."

Chompy gave that psychotic smile of his. He was itching to give some folks there a piece of his mind, preferably while biting a piece of them. So I calmly negotiated with Chompy to not go on one of his mad mauling sprees since we were on a mission to recover the lost treasure of the Albanian Budgie, rescue former sidekick Playful1 from kidnappers and clear my name of the numerous and sundry crimes that I didn't actually committ.

Of course by 'negotiated' I mean 'smacked Chompy on the back of his head with a cricket bat,' 'til he agreed to play nice until we got the job done. Then he could maul to his heart's content.

#

WELCOME TO SKYWALKER RANCH said the sign.

ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT said a larger sign above it.

I aimed GiGi's binoculars down to the compound's main gate and zoomed in. Two security guards, fittingly dressed like Storm Troopers were at the main gate. Their guns looked like more than the usual special effect, so storming the gate was out of the question.

I was going to have to be subtle.

"Furious," asked GiGi.

"Yeah."

"It's about my binoculars."

"You can have them back in a minute," I said, "I'm busy checking out the lay of the land."

"Could you at least take the strap off my neck," said GiGi between gasps for air.

"Fine," I said, wasting time untangling it. "The security here is tighter than the arse-hole of a bug. We need a plan."

"Where is the next part of the map specifically?" asked GiGi.

"It's in a secret chamber called the Secret Chamber of Secret Stuff," I answered, "and the last part of the map is printed on the back page of the draft of the script for Attack of the Clones that didn't suck."

"How do we get in?" asked GiGi.

"We need a diversion to keep the guards occuppied then we can sneak in," I said, "and I have just the plan. Do you have a blackberry?"

GiGi nodded a pulled one out of her considerable decolletage.

"Is there anything you don't keep down there?" I asked.

"Just take your blackberry."

I typed out a quick e-mail and hit send.

"What did you do?" asked GiGi.

"Get in the car," I said, "this should only take a few minutes and we should be ready."

"Ready for what?"

Suddenly a massive horde of angry geeks came over the hills howling in nerd rage.

"I just leaked out plans for a Jar-Jar Binks movie," I answered, slipping into the driver's seat.

"Now what?" asked GiGi as I gunned the engine.

"While the guards are distracted with the angry geek horde, we'll sneak in with the silent subtlety of a silently subtle ninja," I answered, putting the petal to metal, rocketing down the hill and into the chain-link fence.

Sparks flew as we tore through the fence. GiGi screamed.

"Was that fence electrified?"

"Yeah," I answered, "but that's nothing compared to the minefield."

BOOM went a landmine directly behind us.

"You call this subtle?"

"It's as subtle as I get," I answered.

"We'll get blown up!"

"The key is keep a constant speed over 50 MPH," I explained, as another mine went off, raining dirt on the roof of the car. "That way the mines will explode behind us. I learned that when I was smuggling refugees out of East Germany. I also learned to have air holes in the hiding places, or things will get messy."

BOOM!

More dirt rained onto the roof of GiGi's car.

I spun the car out over some more mines and onto the relatively mine free main road through the compound.

"Easy as pie," I said.

Then the car's windows shattered in a flurry of blaster fire.

GiGi and I dove out of the car, just as it burst into a ball of flame.

"CHOMPY!" I cried out, seeing no sign of my furry, psychotic little friend.

I realized that I had no time to grieve when I felt the barrel of a blaster pressed into my back.

"Furious D," said a Lucasfilm Stormtrooper, "put your hands up, you are now our prisoner."

I put my hands up.

Then I felt the butt of a blaster rifle hit me on the head.

Then I felt pavement on my face.

Then I felt nothing.

Sometimes life sucks.

Chapter 6

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

CHAPTER 6: REVENGE OF THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES

The following story is a poorly written satire or parody, and everyone and everything in it is fictional, especially the real people mentioned, so don't bother suing me.

"GiGi," I said putting Chompy's official Sony Brand Rocket Launcher back in its case. "When someone is trying to kill you with every silly and melodramatic means available, you don't no tell them that there's a tank outside when it's only a water tank truck."

We were standing in the parking lot outside Chompy's office at Sony Pictures busy talking in front of the wreckage of the water tank truck I had blown up with Chompy's rocket launcher. We should have been getting some dirty looks from the truck's Teamster, but giving dirty looks to non-studio employees was left out of his contract, so he just took the pay-off from Chompy and left.

"Well your friend didn't have to bit me," snapped GiGi.

"He's a badger," I answered, "it's what badgers and studio executives do. Besides it's just a nip, you should have seen what he did to Andy Dick?"

"What did he do to Andy Dick?"

"Ate his brain."

"How does anyone know the difference?"

Ba-Dum-Dum-Tish!

"Put the drum set away Chompy," I said, "we've got a map to find and some serious harshness to dole out."

Chompy snickered and rubs his paws together with glee. His days as a studio suit, though well paid, just didn't fulfill his need for carnage. Something this case was promising to deliver in spades.

"Start the car toots," I said to GiGi, who responded with a girlish giggle. "We're heading to Beverly Hills."

#

The drive to Beverly Hills was uneventful, full of the familiar sights of Southern California: sunshine, sand, palm trees, and people with too much money and too little sense.

"Where exactly is the next part of the map?" asked GiGi.

"It's in a boutique called Cette Merde est Chère," I said, "just turn onto Rodeo Drive and it should be right there."

It was right there, but so was the SWAT team from the Beverly Hills Police Department. You could tell that it was the BHPD because their body armor was made by Versace, and their M-16s were gold plated. They had our little boutique surrounded with their extra-pimped out Lexus patrol cars and Land Rover Paddy Wagons.

"Wait here," I told GiGi and Chompy, "I'll go find out what's happening."

I got out of the car and went to the SWAT commander, a tall police Captain in a Giorgio Armani uniform.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"Paris Hilton's inside and she won't come out," answered the Captain.

"Gee," I said, "can't you get her out, I really need to find something in there."

"Sorry," answered the Captain. "She's a celebrity with a gun, we're stymied."

"You're not taking me alive coppers!" screamed Paris from inside the boutique while letting out a burst of machine gun fire. Windows shattered, holes were punched into cars, and several rich people, not smart enough to run for cover, were smacked into hamburger. "All I did was drive recklessly, you're all being mean to me!"

"Sweet zombie Jayzuz," I said, "where the hell did she get a machine gun?"

"AK-47s are the latest accessory," said the police captain. "They're the new chihuahua."

"I thought adopted 3rd world children were the new chihuahua?"

"They were," answered the Captain, "now it's assault weapons."

"Sounds dangerous," I said.

"It sure is," said the Captain. "We lost Nicole Richie last night."

"Homicide? Accident?"

"Her gun weighed more than she did and crushed her."

"Yikes," I said.

Another burst of fire came from the store, taking down some more bystanders determined to not let violence stop them from shopping. I crouched low and got back to GiGi's car.

"It's bad," I said. "Paris Hilton's got the shop all locked up."

"How do we get her out?" asked GiGi.

Then Chompy poked me with his claw. I turned to see him pointing excitedly.

He was pointing at our salvation.

Naomi Campbell was walking down Rodeo Drive, an M-60 heavy machine gun draped over her shoulder, oblivious to the armed standoff and flying bullets.

"GiGi," I said, "I need your cell-phone."

GiGi reached into her ample cleavage and pulled out a cellphone.

"Thanks," I said and quickly dialled Naomi Campbell's number.

"Hi Naomi," I said, "it's Furious D, did you know that Paris Hilton just called you a bitch."

Suddenly the roar of the gunfire was drowned out by a howl of rage. Naomi charged the boutique, her eyes ablaze, and her claws out. She didn't bother opening the door, preferring to just plow through the wall.

"Now that's cruel," said GiGi.

"Sometimes the ends justify the means," I replied.

There were some screams, some shots, and then Paris Hilton flew out of the store and came to a crashing thud on the hood of a police Lexus.

"Paris Hilton," said the Captain as he took out his gold plated handcuffs with the faux-fur comfort lining. "You're under arrest for probation violation, and six counts of first degree murder. You're gonna do 50 days in jail and have to pay a hefty fine."

"Why are you being so mean to me?" howled Paris as she was placed in the back of the Lexus.

"Let's go," I said, "Naomi's going to be coming down, it'll be safe for a while."

We went into the boutique, Naomi had been distracted from her rage by a new shipment of handbags, and sure as shooting we found the map. It was tacked to the cash register, right next to the celebrity bum-check list.

"What does it say?" asked GiGi.

"It says," I answered, "that the next part of the map lies in the heart of darkness itself."

"You're not saying..."

I nodded.

"Skywalker Ranch, here we come."

TO BE CONTINUED

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.