The Case of Bud Lite
by Ken Samuel
Once upon a time, the world was a very nice, round place.
Everything moved properly; everything turned properly; everything slid properly.
Then, along came a man.
One man.
One man who would live to change the universe!!!
Into a nauseating, messy glob of yuck.
This is the story of that man.
When he was still small.
And slippery.
CHAPTER ONE
Hello.
I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Buddinsky Carphlator Lite.
Stop laughing.
I happen to be an incredibly successful private detective, and this is the story of my very first case. Please bear with me until I get the hang of writing, since I’m a much better detective than author. My main problem right now is where to start. I suppose I could start at the beginning, but the clouds of dust floating through space weren’t really that interesting.
I could start on the day I was born, but I can’t seem to remember what happened that day. When someone realizes how important I am and writes my biography, I’ll read it and find out.
I suppose I’ll start with that sunny last day of June.
* * *
It was the last day of June. It was sunny. I wasn’t a full-time detective yet because, considering that I had never had a case before, the job didn’t pay too well. Instead, I worked in my own gun shop, handed down by my father (when he was shot by a customer), from five in the evening until three in the morning. (You’d be surprised by how much business we get after dark.) My store was right next to the bank, which didn’t seem to hurt, either.
I had originally become interested in detective work at the early age of forty-two. As soon as I realized it, I ran out and bought three paperback mysteries, which I read over and over again. I was starting to solve the cases before the sleuth in the book did, so I knew I was ready for my first case.
Unfortunately, I had no idea where to find a case. So, I sat down to cogitate, while watching “The Smurfs.” When they began to play the theme song, I naturally got up and started dancing. Suddenly, the show was interrupted by a newsman who stared at me quizzically. My face turned a bright shade of red as I quickly pulled my clothes back on. The newsman gave me one more weird glance, just for good measure, before reading his report.
“This just in!” he yelled, as if his life (or worse, his job) depended on it. “The Thirteenth National Bank has been robbed again!” (I used the underlining to represent the lines that formed on his forehead as he read that word. Good use of my writing tools, eh?) “A mean man ran out of the bank with nine hundred ninety-nine dollars (He dropped one in his haste.) in a brown paper bag. I don’t believe he stole the bag, but if you’re missing one, please contact your local police.
“Anyway, the thief was chased by several policemen, but they lost him when they stopped to fight over the dollar. They heard a sharp bang emanating from nearby alley and rushed in to find the robber dead, with a bullet-sized hole in his chest. Experts believe he was shot. The money was gone, and so was the paper sack. Experts believe someone else now has them. We now return to ‘The Smurfs’, already in progress. I’m sorry.”
I shut off the television set. Personally, I had to agree with the experts, but you never can be too sure. One thing was certain, though. The policemen were too stupid to solve the mystery. That’s one thing I learned from my paperbacks. The detective always solves the mystery, while the idiots who call themselves our protectors just end up congratulating the sleuth. So, I immediately realized that THIS WAS A JOB FOR BUDDINSKY CARPHLATOR LITE!!!
Stop laughing.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what to do first. I sat in my big easy chair to do some heavy thinking. I do this sometimes for recreation, but I would advise that you don’t try this at home without expert supervision. Anyway, my superintelligent brain soon deduced that I had to go somewhere and do something. I gratefully patted my brain on the head for a job well done.
I didn’t want to ask any more of my brain, so I decided to find out how the sleuths in my murder mysteries started out. I opened up one of my paperbacks, and in just thirty minutes, I had read the first page. Two hours later, I discovered that the first thing the sleuth did was go to the scene of the crime.
“Aha!” I told myself.
“Right!” I answered.
“To the scene of the crime!” we shouted simultaneously.
Great minds think alike.
* * *
With my handy-dandy detective kit in my upper-left shirt pocket, (Don’t worry. I have a pocket protector.) I arrived at the alley next to the Thirteenth National Bank. I also happened to be right next to my gun shop, but I’m sure that’s totally irrelevant. One of those stupid policemen was standing there, staring at the ground. I stuck my tongue out at him and walked on.
I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy detective notepad, which had cost me only $13.27 (11.5626% off — a real bargain!) Turning to the first page, I began to take notes.
- Alley is long.
- Sun is shining.
- My feet hurt.
I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy thermometer and took a temperature reading: 98.6 degrees — perfect! Then, just when I was having fun, the policeman walked toward me. I was on my guard.
“Did you hear about the robbery today?” he asked.
“No.” You should never tell the truth to a policeman.
“Well the bank was robbed by a man who has been identified as John Richards. As he was escaping, he was shot and killed instantly. Now he’s awaiting trial in the state penitentiary. But the gunman and his partner, who drove the getaway car, escaped with the money as well as the bag.”
I cleverly deduced that the policeman’s name was Officer Salad. I read his badge.
“Well,” I said, “I heard on the radio that the gunman and his partner turned themselves in at the police station.”
A look of great shock crossed Officer Salad’s face. “I’ve got to be going,” he mumbled as he ran off. I laughed. Policemen are so stupid.
I reminded myself to get back to work. I acknowledged the reminder. But as usual, I had no idea what to do. So, for lack of any better idea, I sat on a relatively dirty garbage can to wait for the criminals to return. Unfortunately, the only people that passed by were two women with strange expressions on their faces and one man who picked up a garbage can lid and handed it to me. I threw it at him, and he left.
Suddenly, I remembered that there were always suspects in my paperbacks! I jumped up, pulled off the garbage can, and ran out of the alley. I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy handcuffs and caught two suspicious-looking men. (The handcuffs had only cost $1.50, but the key was worth $24.95.) The criminals yelled and screamed as I dragged them off to the police station, but I knew that only made them more suspicious.
But when we arrived, to my dismay, a stupid policeman ordered me to release the murderer and the getaway car driver, simply because I couldn’t tell which was which. They wouldn’t even take mug shots.
Then, to completely ruin my mood and sit on it, I discovered that I couldn’t find the key to the handcuffs. Moments later, I found seven fists in my mouth. One of them was mine.
While the three men were occupied with the task of decimating my stomach, I tried calling for help. I soon ran out of breath, so I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy tape recorder, recorded, “Help!” on it, and played it back several times.
Finally, the policeman, who I cleverly deduced was Officer Williams, cut open the handcuffs. I very politely requested that he give me a new pair, and graciously showed me what the door looked like. I can take a hint.
CHAPTER TWO
Back at home, I turned on my television set to find the news reporter on the screen.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “I’ve got another news flash for you. Two men have been murdered...”
I was about to turn off the television to stop myself from getting into another mess, but I punched myself in the stomach just in time.
The news reporter continued. “Jason Van Pelt, Sr. and Daniel Lee have both been murdered at approximately the same time. There are absolutely no clues, so don’t look for any.”
When I caught my breath, I turned the television off. I was ready to forget the whole thing, but I convinced myself that I was a better detective than I thought I was.
Besides, if I didn’t take the case, this story would be over.
Now let me offer you a little background information, so maybe you can solve the case just seconds after I do. Jason Van Pelt, Sr. and Dan Lee are (or, I guess, were) very famous people in this city. Mr. Van Pelt was filthy rich. Mr. Lee, on the other hand, was so poor that he didn’t even have any hair. The two men hated each other’s hearts. Or is it livers? Large intestines? I don’t know.
I contemplated which house I should visit first. After a couple of short hours of thought, I realized I might get a free lunch at the Van Pelts’, so I went there.
* * *
When I rang the Van Pelts’ doorbell, it began playing an exceptionally stirring rendition of “Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.” Before long, I felt the beat in my soul, so I began dancing. (Since it was a public place, I kept my underwear on.) When the song ended, the door opened.
An incredibly old woman stood before me. I mean she was really old. No, I mean really old! She had wrinkles all over the place. Think of the oldest person you’ve ever met, invite him over, and stare at his wrinkles before continuing.
She asked me (very slowly, for I’m sure her vocal chords had wrinkles all over them), “What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Ma’am,” I said. “I’m here about the murder...” and she promptly fainted.
I rang the doorbell again, and when the song finished, she woke up.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “But I wonder if you could tell me who you think murdered...” This time she fell forward and tumbled down the porch steps. I decided to let myself in and make myself comfortable until she came to. Perhaps, I thought, I should turn the subject towards the idea of lunch.
When Mrs. Van Pelt awoke and realized where she was, she entered the house and said, “To answer your question, it was that evil Damn Lee who did it. I’m sure of it. He was so jealous of the wealth of my dear late husband. Hey, I like the way that sounds. My dear late husband.”
“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, for it’s a very matter-of-fact kind of word, “How did your husband get so darned rich?”
“Watch your language. He earned his wealth through intelligence and foresight, with a generous helping of stinginess tossed in. His parents gave him a weekly allowance of five dollars, and he kept every penny. That’s still our primary source of income. So, are you married?”
“Um, no. I’m not.”
“How do you feel about dating older women?”
“Well, I...”
“Have you ever made love to an older woman?” She pulled off her blouse in one smooth motion, exposing two extremely large and unappetizing wrinkles. I threw up on them.
She screamed a wrinkled scream and ran off shouting, “Worthless! Worthless!!!”
A butler ran into the room, picked me up, and threw me in the direction of the front lawn. Then he opened the door and tried again. As I lay there, counting my bruises, young Jason Van Pelt, Sophomore (Jason Van Pelt, Sr.’s grandson) came up the walkway and stepped on my face. “Aw, you made me lose count,” I cried.
I didn’t even get a free lunch.
* * *
As I lay there on the ground, trying to decide which part of my body ached the most, the butler stuck his head out a window and shouted, “And don’t come back, Dummy!”
I jumped up, shocked that I could ever live to be called such a horrible name. But the butler slammed and locked the window, pulled two sets of curtains across it, and pushed some heavy furniture against the front door before I could rush over there to beat him up. Nevertheless, the fact remained that he had called me the ‘D’-word. I had to get revenge. I decided to put live food in his bed.
Looking for the butler’s room, I noticed a white sign on the wall next to a third story window. The sign had bold black letters which read, “Butler’s Room.” You can never be too sure of anything, but I decided to believe the sign.
I searched for a method of defeating gravity. Fortunately, right against the wall was a... a... oh darn! What is that thing called? You know. It’s a structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained. Jeez! I just can’t remember its name. Well, anyway, I started climbing the structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained until I reached the butler’s window. Then I noticed a smaller sign (with light blue letters) which read, “Watch out for the poison ivy on the structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained.” I quickly let go of the structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained. Needless to say, I fell.
The fall wasn’t so rough, but hitting the ground sure takes the fun out of it. I acquired several more bruises as a result. I was going to need a calculator to keep track of all these bruises.
I looked up at the structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained — lattice! It’s called a lattice! That’s right. Anyway, right beside the structure of thin strips of wood in an open pattern of squares on which vines are trained, I noticed a ladder conveniently leading right up to the window. I swiftly flew up the ladder and flung myself through the butler’s window. Too bad it wasn’t open.
I found myself on a bed full of broken glass. I realized that the glass probably looked a little suspicious, so I hurriedly swept it under the covers.
I immediately discovered rows and rows of neat black penguin costumes in the closet and underwear labeled, “Worthless,” in the drawer. By the powers of deductive reasoning, I decided that this really was the butler’s room — the sign outside was honest. Unfortunately, I realized, the other sign was probably right, too. I felt poison flowing through my veins.
At this point, I realized that I didn’t bring any live food, so I decided to steal something instead. In the closet, I found a video camera — too big, a speck of dust — too small, and a video tape — just right!
After I stuck the tape in my upper-right shirt pocket (pocket protector in place), I heard a noise in the hall. I was scared out of my wits. It was footsteps — growing louder! Quickly I jumped into the bed. I felt an incredible surge of pain, but that was probably just the poison ivy starting to work.
After a couple of hours, I realized that no one was coming, so I jumped out the window (this time, I opened it first) and landed with great agility directly on my head.
CHAPTER THREE
I sat down and contemplated what my next move should be. I realized that I should go to the Lee’s house, which was conveniently located across the street. I also had to visit the local department store (which was inconveniently located on the opposite side of town) to pick up some new handcuffs, a video tape player, a calculator (to help me count my bruises), and some poison neutralizer (in ivy form). Since I’m incredibly stupid, I decided to go to the department store first.
I began walking along the roadside. I continued walking along the roadside. I continued walking along the roadside some more. Finally, I saw a green sign with white lettering in the distance. I said, “Hey! That’s a good sign!” Then I laughed aloud, hysterically. (Well I thought it was funny.)
As I approached the sign, I was able to make out a few words that were in larger, bolder print. They read, “to to the the”.
Finally, I arrived at the sign and read it in its entirety. It said, “If you’re trying to get to the department store, you’re going the wrong way!”
“Well which way am I supposed to go?” I asked.
The sign said, “The other way.”
I turned left and began walking.
“No! Not that way!” the sign shouted. “And look out for that car!!!”
I jumped out of the way just in time. Angrily, I charged at the sign and shook it furiously, yelling, “Why don’t you be more specific, you metalhead!!!”
“Hey. Calm down. Now simply turn around so that your face is where your back was and your back is where your face was.”
“What do you think I am? Some kind of contortionist?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll show you.” The head of the sign unscrewed itself and began hopping along. I followed it. “All right,” it said. “Do you understand? Now, I have my duties, you know. I have to get back to my post.”
“Goodbye, and thank you,” I said, because I’m really a very good-natured guy.
* * *
So, I continued my quest for department store material objects. Before too long, I reached another sign. This was a dumb sign, because he couldn’t talk. (I knew he was a boy sign because of his impressive stick.) But I could guess what he would say if he could. It was written all over his face: “If you’re going to the department store, you’ve got a long, long way to go.”
So, I walked a long, long way. Then I came to another sign. The words written all over his face said, “If you’re going to the department store, you’ve got a long, long way to go.” I sat down and wondered if I was going in circles.
But I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t give up until he has failed three times. So I kept walking until I had gone a long, long, long way. I was getting tired, frustrated, and fed up, when a police car pulled up beside me. A female police officer stepped out. (I could tell she was female because of her incredible... perfume.)
“Oh, jeez!” I exclaimed. “Was I speeding, Officer?”
“No. Nothing like that,” she said.
“Well, were you speeding?”
“Well, yes. But I’m allowed to break the law.”
“So, what’s up?”
“Oh. Well, you looked like you were going to the department store.”
“Yes, I was,” I said, accidentally telling the truth to a police officer.
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that you passed it.”
I quickly whirled around, and there it was. It was a tremendous building — the kind you couldn’t miss. I nervously muttered with conviction, “I knew that.”
“Well I’m sorry. I was just doing my job. There aren’t enough signs to explain all the traffic directions in the entire city, so they make police officers do it in a few places.”
“I see.” I tried to deduce the policewoman’s name and failed. Then I realized what was wrong.
“Hey, Officer,” I said. “You’re not wearing a badge.”
The officer stared at her chest. I stared at her chest, too. “Oh,” she nervously muttered with conviction. “Well you see... um... I was off duty. Yeah, that’s it. Off duty!” She clumsily whipped out a badge. I continued staring at her chest.
“See,” she said. “There I am. Officer Tanktop.”
“I cleverly deduced that,” I said.
“Well, I’ve got to be going,” she mumbled uneasily, as she drove her car over my foot.
* * *
In the department store, I ran straight to the information desk to hit on the girl there.
“Hello,” I said. “Were you born with those good looks, or did you buy them?”
“Born,” she said. “May I help you?”
I could tell she was hot for my bod. “Yes. Do you have a phone number?”
“Yes, I do. Next please.”
The next man pushed me aside. As I turned toward the back of the line for another try, I heard him say, “Hi.” Suddenly, the girl leaned across the counter and gave him a big luscious kiss. I ran to get a good place in line.
When I reached the counter again, I said, “Hello. What size bra do you wear?”
“It’s a size 42D. Go to aisle six, women’s apparel. Next, please.”
I didn’t want to seem rude, so I went to aisle six, women’s apparel.
* * *
So, I went shopping at the department store. I bought three pairs of handcuffs (after trying a pair out on another customer), a state-of-the-art videotape player, and a solar-powered calculator. They were all out of poison neutralizers, so I got some chewing gum, instead.
Next, I headed back to my gun shop to view the videotape I had borrowed. (I have a television set in the corner of my store to attract business.) On my way back to the store, I passed a bunch of boys (Do boys come in bunches?) playing softball in an old abandoned lot. One of them yelled, “Hey, Bud! C’mere!”
I walked over to the field, trying to figure out how this stranger knew my name. The kid who had yelled at me was probably the umpire. (He was the fattest one there.) He said, “Hey, d’ya know how ta play soffball?”
“Well actually, I am extremely well-known for my incomparable slugging capabilities,” I said modestly.
“Huh?”
I sighed. “Yeah. I know how ta play soffball.”
“Great,” he said. “Ya see, we don’ have ’nuff guys. Now Rocky’s Rebels, they got the bases loaded, an’ they ain’t got no more batters. So, ya’ wanna bat?”
“Indubitably,” I muttered sarcastically.
I stepped up to the plate. The imaginary crowd stared intently, silent with fear. The pressure was on.
“Hey, Bud,” yelled the runner on second. “There’s two outs an’ it’s the bottom of the ninth. So, DON’T SCREW UP!!!” I pleasantly thanked him for his support.
I stared directly at the pitcher. I knew what my plan was. These boys were never going to forget the day they ran into Buddinsky Carphlator Lite. Stop laughing.
I let the first two pitches whizz by, with my bat resting lazily on my shoulder. “Strike one!!!” “Strike two!!!” Now I was ready.
I offered the pitcher the meanest glare I could. He paused with shock and backed up a step. He knew he had met his match.
He tossed the ball to first base a couple of times. He knew he was only delaying the inevitable. He wanted to go home to his mommy.
Then he threw it. It was right where I wanted it. A perfect pitch! I took a step forward, and then I swung the bat with all the might I had in my entire body. The ground trembled in awe for miles around. It was incredible. Every boy’s mouth hung wide open as I headed for first. Nobody could believe what had just happened, except me.
I reached the base in two seconds flat, taking the wide turn towards second. I glanced into the outfield — The ball was nowhere in sight. I zoomed to second base, blowing down the fielders with my steam. Nothing could stop me. Nothing!!!
Nobody gave me a signal at third, but I knew what that meant. I touched third base and went chugging on home. And then I saw it!
The catcher had the ball. He was standing there in front of home plate, holding the ball out menacingly toward me. I knew that this was going to be an incredible challenge, but stranger things had happened. He wasn’t going to stop me. I was destined to reach home plate safely.
I jumped higher than I had ever jumped before and came down in the most graceful, most masterful, most perfect slide in the history of man. I slipped right through the catcher’s legs, just millimeters below the ball, and ended up sitting on home plate. It was a masterpiece performance.
As I sat there, truly glowing, everyone began leaving. I yelled, “Hey, is it over? Did we win?”
One kid turned around, glared at me, and said, “You struck out swinging.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I was lying on home plate for about six minutes. I was lying there, wondering aloud. “Why me? Why am I always the goat instead of the hero? Why...”
Some guy across the street leaned out of his window and yelled, “Hey, you! Shut up!!!”
I sighed. I could have stood up, run across the street, and beat that big idiot to a pulp. But I’m just too nice a guy. So I whispered my thoughts. “Why me? Why am...”
“I can still hear you!”
I was beginning to get a little angry. But, I told myself, I didn’t need to put him in his place. He just wasn’t worth it. So I continued wondering, silently now. Why me? Why am I always...
“Oh, why don’t you just give it a rest, Kid!”
Furiously, I jumped up and walked swiftly toward the man’s house. He pretended that he wasn’t afraid. I quickened my pace, my eyes focused directly on the open window. He didn’t even back off. As I came within a few feet of the man, he leaned out a couple of inches further. I continued walking right past the house. He didn’t even close the window. I just kept right on going. For all I know, he’s still there now.
* * *
My next objective in life was to return to my shop and view the videotape. But I didn’t really feel like walking the long, long plus long, long, long minus short way back to the other side of town. So I hotwired a car. (I do have some skills.)
I chose to steal a Corvette, because I hear the chicks really go for that sort of thing. When I got on the highway, I started speeding, so I wouldn’t look conspicuous. That car certainly was fast. I almost made it all the way there before I even started. Almost. When I got out of the car, I decided to leave all of the doors unlocked. I pulled one wide open, just for good measure. That really made me feel good.
I entered the store and told my assistant, “You’re dismissed. I don’t need you now.” He walked out slowly, with tears in his eyes.
I surveyed the store, my pride and joy. There were guns all over the place — on the shelves, on the counters, in the windows, in the cupboards, on the ceiling, in the hands of a customer sneaking out the door, everywhere. And there were all sizes, from the microscopic pea-shooter to the colossal elephant gun. Naturally, every single one was fully loaded.
Jason Van Pelt, Sophomore was there. (If you don’t remember who his grandfather was, you’d better reread this story.) He walked over to me and said, “Hello.”
Now you must understand, I wasn’t offended by this comment. The nine-year-old boy was actually a friend of mine. He came into the shop all the time to chat about unimportant issues. As for that incident in chapter two, where he stepped on my face, it doesn’t mean anything. All my friends do that.
I said, “Hi,” because it would sound stupid if I said, “Hello,” right after he said, “Hello.” In the same way, if he had said, “Hi,” I wouldn’t have been able to say, “Hi,” without sounding totally ridiculous. But those are the only two expressions in the English language that can never be repeated. For instance, if somebody says, “What’s up?” you can say the same thing. Or if they ask, “Did you borrow my pencil?” they’re probably expecting you to repeat their question.
So, then he popped the question. “How are you?”
Naturally, I responded, “All right. How are you?”
“All right. How are you?”
This is what they call ‘small talk.’
But the conversation quickly took a turn for the wild side, when he said, “Your shoes don’t match.”
I looked down. On the left was the ugly faded brown shoe I knew my mother had tied for me that morning, but on the right, I was wearing a bright green shoe with equally bright green shoelaces.
“Wow,” I said. “I don’t know where that green shoe came from, but I like it.”
“Me, too,” he said. “It’s freshhhhhhhhhh.”
The way these kids talk today.
I walked behind the counter, to hide. Instantly, I noticed that the sign on the wall was crooked. “Hey, Jason. Fix the sign. You can’t see the word, ‘offense’.”
He did so. Then he turned to me and said, “That’s funny! The sign was saying, ‘Selling weapons to minors is a federal.’ ” He began laughing hysterically. I joined him so that he wouldn’t feel stupid. That’s what friends are for. So we were both rolling on the floor, laughing until we cried.
But time was running out. Even though policemen are stupid, they do eventually solve the case if the sleuth spends too much time rolling on the floor. So I told Jason, “Go away.”
So he left. Friends leave when friends tell them to. If I had been making mad, passionate love to Marilyn Monroe, and Jason told me to leave, I would. (Don’t think I’m that noble. Necrophilia isn’t all that people say it is. I know.)
Anyway, I slickly whipped out the videotape. (Did you remember which pocket I put it in? I didn’t. I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy notepad before I realized my mistake.)
The videotape began playing. I always count along with the numbers that run from ten to one at the beginning. Actually, counting backwards is very challenging, and I seldom make it all the way without a mistake. I believe you need twelve years of higher education to become NASA’s countdown man.
Finally, the numbers finished, and, with my slickly-whipped handy-dandy nerd glasses in place, I watched. And you won’t believe what I saw................................
CHAPTER FIVE
I stared intently at the television screen, unaware of anything else around me. If the world ended, I’d find out about it later.
The setting was a small room made entirely of wood. There was only one door, and the single window was nothing more than a misshapen hole in the wall. Overall, there was really nothing of interest in the room. Oh, and there was a sign hanging on the wall that said, “Welcome to the Lees’ happy hovel.” It was hanging at a 12 degree angle, which I quickly jotted down on my handy-dandy notepad.
The scene didn’t change for about twenty minutes, but I was patient. After all, I had nothing better to do, since I had no life. Suddenly, Dan Lee nervously rushed in. (On the TV. Not in my gun shop.) He was holding something under his jacket, as if he was hiding it from any video cameras that might be around.
Rapidly, but clumsily, he pulled up a loose floorboard beside the window and dumped the contents of his jacket into the hole that just happened to be there. I caught the slightest glimpse of green as he hurriedly completed his task. Then he replaced the floorboard and ran out. Soon afterward, the tape ended.
I sat there for several minutes, staring at the blank screen. Suddenly, I shouted, “I’ll bet this is a clue!!!”
* * *
I flew to the Lees’ house. It happened to be directly across the street from the Van Pelts’ mansion, but I believe I said that before, so just ignore this overly-extensive and increasingly stupid sentence.
As I’ve told you before, so you can ignore the rest of this overly-extensive and increasingly stupid sentence, the Lees were extremely poor. Their house appeared to be nothing more than a pile of wood. When I knocked on the door, and the entire thing fell apart, I realized it really was just a pile of wood. I turned around and saw the Lees’ house.
As there was no visible doorbell, I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked on the door again. Still no answer. I was contemplating breaking in (no great feat), when I heard a voice behind me call, “Coming!!!”
I turned to see Mrs. Lee come running in from the garden, which was a good half mile away. (That’s the only part of their land where anything will grow.) The Lees owned so much land, because nobody wanted to live anywhere near them. Even the Van Pelts spent all of their time at the other end of their mansion.
Thinking quickly, I pointed and shouted, “Hey, look at that!” As Mrs. Lee spun around, I ducked into the house.
The setting was a small room made entirely of wood. There was only one door, and the single window was nothing more than a misshapen hole in the wall. Overall, there was really nothing of interest in the room. Oh, and there was a sign hanging on the wall that said, “Welcome to the Lees’ happy hovel.” It was hanging at a 12 degree angle, which I quickly jotted down on my handy-dandy notepad. And, there was a policeman lying on the floor with his hand reaching into a hole under a loose floorboard beside the window. It was Officer Williams. I kept my eyes on my handcuffs.
I stood over Officer Williams and said, “Ahem!” It’s one of the more powerful words in the English language. Used properly, it can induce fear in the bravest of men. It has also been found to be a good word for two people to alternate saying when they want to kiss each other.
I don’t believe Officer Williams was interested in kissing me, but he certainly was frightened. I considered the word to be a success. I followed up with, “What the Hell are you doing???” but it wasn’t as effective. I could sense his fear fading.
“Nothing,” he said.
“I’m going to have to frisk you.” He must have noticed my impressive muscles (or maybe he did want to kiss me), because he didn’t put up a fight. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything on him, except for a piece of spearmint gum in his pocket. I hate spearmint, so I threw it away.
I looked in the hole and found a crumpled paper bag. I slickly whipped it out, only to find that it was empty. I frisked the policeman again, and this time I found a perfectly good piece of strawberry gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
But, the man seemed to be perfectly innocent, so I said, “Okay. Get out of here! And don’t get into any more trouble!” (I read that in one of my paperbacks.) He was extremely obedient.
* * *
I rushed out of the house. Fortunately, Mrs. Lee was still trying to figure out what I had pointed at. “You missed it!” I yelled.
“Oh,” she said, as she resumed her hike to the house. “What was it?”
“Um, you had to see it.” I walked forward to meet her halfway. “Anyway, I’ve come to try to figure out who murdered...” and I promptly fainted.
I awoke to find Mrs. Lee holding a rubber hose, which was spraying green slime all over my face. “Augh!!!” I yelled. “What are you doing?”
“You fainted,” she said. “I’m trying to revive you. Now quiet down and let me finish.”
“Well why don’t you just spray water on me, like the rest of the civilized world?”
“Oh, we can’t afford water. We use green slime instead.”
I glanced around and observantly noticed that the smelly green slime covered the ground everywhere, from the garden all the way to the street. Somehow, though, the Van Pelts’ side of the street was quite clean. I figured they had a special street crew just for that purpose.
“Is this slime always all over the place?”
“Well, usually. But I was sliming the garden just this morning. In fact, I was busy sliming the garden when the mur... death of my husband occurred. I tend to spend a lot of time in that garden, because I don’t like being close to the Van Pelts. They’re just terrible people. I’m sure they’re responsible for the murdeath of my husband.”
“Tell me. Precisely where did the alleged incident occur?” (I was so grateful that I read those paperbacks. Otherwise, I never would have known the meaning of words like “did”.)
“Right over here.” She led me to the side of the house. When we reached the scene I slickly whipped out my handy-dandy magnifying glass and examined the footprints in the slime. I easily matched one set of footprints to Mrs. Lee’s shoes. There was another set that I assumed belonged to Mr. Lee. The third and final set of footprints was significantly smaller than the others. I attempted to make them the same size with my handy-dandy magnifying glass, but I failed. The footprints in the slime raised several questions.
“Why are there no police footprints?” I asked.
“The policemen didn’t come. They refuse to be anywhere near my house. I’ve also heard rumors that they’re pretty stupid, too. Anyway, I had to bury poor Danny myself.”
“Okay. That answers one question. Now why is there a set of smaller footprints?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good. That takes care of two questions. Now, how... What? Why don’t you know?”
“I don’t know.”
I sighed. Detective work is sometimes rough. I politely thanked Mrs. Lee for all her help and gave her a light kiss on the cheek before leaving.
CHAPTER SIX
I found a place where I could get some peace to try to piece together the pieces of the mystery. I was in the men’s restroom at a gas station. I’ve found it to be a very quiet place, in general, but for some strange reason, the women’s restroom is just the opposite. I walked into one once, and there was so much shrieking and screaming that I couldn’t hear myself think. You’ve got to wonder what kind of weird secret things they do in there.
I lifted the seat and sat there with my head resting on my closed fist. I stared at my watch for exactly two thousand four hundred sixty-two seconds. Suddenly, (I even startled myself.) I jumped up and shouted, “I know it! I know who the murderers were! I know who stole the money! I’ve solved the entire mystery!!!” The toilet flushed in admiration.
I realize that in most mysteries, this quote would have come at the end of the last chapter, but I’m new at this and still a bit slow. So sue me.
Obviously, I’m not going to tell you the answer. First of all, the sleuth never tells before everyone is all crowded around listening. Second of all, you’d probably go tell the police everything before I can figure out how to get this stupid door open. And third of all, I just love knowing something that you don’t.
I’m sorry. I seem to have accidentally slipped into the present tense. Don’t worry. I fixed it. Now I was back in the past tense.
So I squeezed through a large hole in the bathroom wall and ran all the way to the police station.
* * *
Officer Williams, Officer Tanktop, and Officer Salad were the only people at the police station. Perhaps they were the only ones who worked there.
I finally caught my breath and shouted, “All right, guys. Let’s get everyone to the Van Pelts’, and I’ll tell you who’s guilty.”
They simply stood there, glaring at me. I realized I was outnumbered. I didn’t stand a chance.
So I said, “Officer Williams and Officer Tanktop, please leave the room for a minute so I can talk to Officer Salad.”
They left and I turned to Officer Salad. “All right now! You’re going to drive me to the Van Pelts’ mansion! Understand?”
Obviously stunned by my massiveness, he stuttered, “Yes, Sir!”
“Good. Now go to the other room and send Officer Williams in.”
When Officer Williams came back, I said, “Now you’re going to pick up Mrs. Lee and bring her to the Van Pelts’! Understand?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Now bring in Officer Tanktop and then follow your orders immediately.”
She entered, and I said, “All right! You’re going to have sex with me right now! Understand?”
“Yes, Sir!”
I love power.
* * *
We were all gathered around the Symposium Room in the Far-Lee wing of the Van Pelts’ mansion. I just hate when people skip over a word they don’t know without stopping to look at it in a dictionary. Yeah, you. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. No, ‘symposium’ is not a proper noun. Now you get a dictionary, and don’t come back until you’ve figured out what ‘symposium’ means. Okay. Did you do it? Good. Now you may continue reading this apologue.
The three police officers sat on a love couch, glaring at me. To my left, Mrs. Lee and Worthless, the butler, were getting rather friendly. On my right, Mrs. Van Pelt and Jason Van Pelt, Sophomore were getting rather friendly, too. And there I was, with nobody to get friendly with.
Unable to find a mallet, I banged my head on a table, saying, “All right, everyone. Attention please. Ouch.”
When they finished their incoherent murmuring and hostile muttering, I rubbed my head and announced (at the same time), “The Lee and Van Pelt murder mystery, as well as the Thirteenth National Bank’s robbery mystery have all been solved by me, Buddinsky Carphlator Lite!” Everyone started laughing.
After about fifty minutes of that, Mrs. Van Pelt broke in. “Okay, so tell me. Who killed my dear late husband. My dear late husband.”
“Aha,” I said. I enjoyed saying that, so I repeated it. “Aha. Aha! Aha!!!”
“Gesundheit,” Jason said.
“Uh, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for.”
“Anyway,” I said, “first of all, the Thirteenth National Bank was robbed by John Richards!!!” I pounded the table for emphasis.
“We already know that,” Officer Salad cried impatiently. “I told you that he’s in prison now.”
“Uh, right.” Slightly dejected, I continued. “Well, anyway, as for the double murders, the fact that ties the whole mystery together is obvious when you consider the idea of motives. Dan Lee killed Jason Van Pelt, Sr., and Jason Van Pelt, Sr., killed Dan Lee!!!” Mrs. Van Pelt and Mrs. Lee engaged in a mild fistfight that required all three police officers to break up.
“Excuse me,” said Officer Williams. “Aren’t you forgetting that the murders occurred within seconds of each other? Do you expect us to believe that the two men shot each other at the same time?”
“N-n-n-no,” I stuttered. (Can you tell?) “No, you see, they each paid someone to do the dirty work for them.”
“Excuse me again,” said Officer Williams. “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t Mr. Lee too poor to pay an accomplice?”
“Aha!” I shouted, and this time it echoed through the room, so I didn’t have to repeat it. “This morning, the Thirteenth National Bank was robbed of a thousand dollars. The robber was killed for the money in a dark alley, by someone who had a desperate need for the money...”
“You mean Dan Lee killed John Richards?” shouted Officer Salad. Everyone looked at him and said, “Oooooh!”
I hesitated, my spotlight stolen. But I regained it when I slickly whipped out the handy-dandy videotape (by that time, it was an integral part of my handy-dandy detective kit) and shouted, “I have proof!” Everyone had to gather around and stare at the film in the light, since we didn’t have a videotape player on hand.
“Now,” I said, finally holding everyone’s attention, “at the Lees’ house, under that very same floorboard that you saw in the film, I found the paper bag that was stolen this morning. Officer Williams, you were there, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” mumbled the policeman in a daze. “He’s right. Mr. Lee must have killed Mr. Richards.”
“And now, that money was supposed to go to the person who murdered Mr. Van Pelt. So the only people who would know where the bag was hidden would be Mr. Lee and the murderer. Well, this afternoon,” I paused momentarily for oxygen, and everyone leaned forward, “I caught Officer Williams looking under the floorboard. If necessary, I have a photograph to prove it.” I was bluffing, but it was good enough. Officer Williams confessed, and I easily clipped a pair of handy-dandy handcuffs on the policeman. Mrs. Van Pelt hit him over the head with her purse.
“Good work,” said Officer Salad. “I’ll take him to the police station right away.”
“Wait! I’m not finished.” Eventually, I regained everyone’s undivided attention. “Let me review the morning’s events. Mr. Richards robbed the bank and evaded the police. But in an alley, he was killed by Mr. Lee, who took the money and escaped in a getaway car. The driver of that getaway car is IN THIS ROOM!!!” I glanced over at the guilty person and detected a slight shudder of fear.
“Then they went to Mr. Lee’s home, and the car drove up the driveway,” I continued, “which was covered with a fresh layer of green slime. This green slime!!!” I pointed at my right shoe, which was still a beautiful bright shade of green.
I went on. “Now the bottoms of my shoes are green, because I was walking on the Lees’ property today. But the top of this one is green, because Officer Tanktop ran over my foot with her car!!!” Everyone was frozen. It was wonderful.
Officer Salad locked a pair of handcuffs on her as I said, “She would have no other reason to be on the Lees’ property, and people always avoid their house anyway. She must have been the getaway car driver.”
“I’m a police officer!” she screamed. “I’m allowed to break the law!” But nobody believed her.
As I bathed in the brilliance of the moment, Office Salad muttered, “My, oh my. I’ve never seen so many corrupt police officers.”
“Yes,” I said, approaching him with a pair of handcuffs. “And what did you do?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” he shouted into my face. I backed off, my bubble burst.
I attempted to reestablish the mood. “Okay then. When I found the brown paper bag under the floorboard in the Lee’s house, it was empty. I figured out that Officer Williams hadn’t taken the money. I won’t tell you how.” I winked at Officer Williams. “So the money had already been stolen again. But who else knew where the money was hidden?”
Nobody responded. I sighed and said, “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Come on. Play along.” Everybody looked at each other, trying to avoid my gaze. So I waved the video tape in the air.
“Aha!” shouted Worthless. “It must have been whoever set up the hidden camera to make that recording.”
“Right!” I said. “And I attest that I found this videotape and the video camera in your room!”
“Oh yeah...” he said softly.
Officer Salad approached the butler and said, “I’m going to have to frisk you now.” And he found the entire nine hundred ninety-nine dollars.
Worthless was furious. He shouted, “Well, while I was stealing the money, I witnessed the other murder. Jason Van Pelt, Sophomore killed Dan Lee!!!”
“I knew that!!!” I shrieked.
“That explains the small footprints,” said Mrs. Lee.
“Augh!!! I knew that too!!!” I screamed, truly upset.
“And my husband was so stingy that he would never hire anyone that he would have to pay,” commented Mrs. Van Pelt.
“I knew that,” I cried, with my head in my hands.
“Yeah, well,” retorted the boy, “I have a receipt for the gun I used. You’ll see that I bought it at Buddinsky Carphlator Lite’s stop laughing gun shop.”
Office Salad approached me. “Don’t you know that there’s a law against selling guns to minors?”
“I didn’t know that,” I sobbed quietly as he slipped a tight pair of handcuffs onto my hands.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Well, now I get a free lunch every day.
My new name is “0930721.”
Stop laughing.
It’s a rather strange coincidence that 0930721 happens to be my favorite number. Go figure.
There’s not much to do in prison. I spent some time using my handy-dandy solar-powered calculator to try to figure out how many bruises I had. But when the prison guards saw what I was doing, they took away all my light. So now I’ve got nothing to do but wait for my next lunch and scratch this strange rash. I have no idea how I got that.
* * *
This last paragraph is here for cheaters. I know about those people who always skip ahead to the end whenever they read a mystery. So, I’ve appended this paragraph here, which says absolutely nothing of any substance. You’d better change your ways, Cheater, or you might end up in prison. Believe me. (By the way, that’s the moral of this apologue.)