Cliché Ridden Detective Story
Once there was a guy in a room where he was a detective. His name was written on the door, but he couldn’t claim to be a detective. He was more like a defective. His name was Johnny Ace Montoya. The city had broken his heart. He was about to hang up his badge when
she walked into the room. Her bosoms were ripe like fruit at the store that has special lighting and makeup and stuff because everything is fake in the store nowadays. He could feel the heat in his fingertips. He dropped his drink which was probably a scotch on the rocks. It was very unprofessional of him to do so. The dame was wondering whether or not he could handle a case if he couldn’t handle his drink. Her name was Marylou Semaphore, but she smelled like pure crotch lightening.
“Listen tart, I’ve had enough of this job. I’m hangin’ it up, ya hear. The city has broken my heart. No, the city has done more than that. The city has gang raped my heart.” Ace said in his usual manner.
The woman was having none of it. “Check this shit out.” She took out a huge roll of money. The roll was larger than the meager piece of bread that Ace had eaten for breakfast. “I’ve heard stories about you from places. Stories that tell of a detective who solved a crime based on nothing but intuition and totally without evidence. I thought to myself ‘hey I need to have this detective solve my crime also’ so then I came down here to hire you.” Marylou’s mouth was extra big, like on of those pop music singers.
“You sure got it right. I’m the best detective there ever was times like fifty. But that is not important because my heart is no longer in it.” Ace was pretty much staring right down her cleavage when he said this. He could see down her cleavage passed her boobies because there was a space between her tits. Her tits weren’t all squashed together like tits usually are. They were pulled apart by her bra sort of. It was an amazing effect.
“Well, how much does your heart cost?” Marylou’s wad of cash was wafting delicious flavor into Ace’s nostrils.
It was trendy in Ace’s neighborhood to have a whole bunch of money and spend it on stuff like wristwatches, candy, and rims. Ace pulled himself out of his momentary daydream. He grabbed Marylou by her wrists and said, “When I first became a detective I had values. They were important to my core being. The foundation upon which I built my identity was concrete ethics. Morals were my compass. I followed them into the darkest alleys. Fearlessly, I solved my crimes with a pure heart. But, now I shudder at the decay of the city. When I taste the decay in my mouth as I walk down the street, I want to spit. But I can’t because I find spitting to be a distasteful habit. So, I swallow the decay. I am what I eat. I am decay and also a roll of bread from breakfast.”
“Nice speech. I am not looking for an elocutionist. I’m looking for a detective.” Marylou took a deep breath. “My daddy always told me that there were two kinds of cowards. One that is just all fucked up and cowardly all the time because they are pussies. The second type is even more cowardly though. I mean more cowardly by quality of the cowardliness and not the quantity, because obviously you can’t spend more time being a coward than someone who is a coward all of the time.”
“Clearly.” Ace was wondering if it were possible to bounce a nickel off of her tits.
“This second type of coward is actually really great at doing stuff. But they are afraid of greatness. They are afraid of their own selves.” Marylou was considering whether she should have a seat on the chair provided. She thought it might make her points more emphatic if she crossed and uncrossed her legs as she made them. Her legs were really long like a bunch of sky scrapers stacked on top of each other.
“You got me. Tell me about the case. But it better be the most moral-tastic case ever.” Ace said as a teepee began to form in his pants.
(A teepee erected by a father and son of the Navajo tribe. The newly formed dwelling was the only thing that broke the serenity that was drawn from the entirely flat horizon. During the brisk work the little boy was playing with many things in his mind. With the teepee nearly completed, the boy was contemplating asking his stoic father a question. It was the way of the older Navajo people to speak plainly and seriously. However, the older members had recognized a new seriousness among the younger members of the tribe. The times were changing them.)
Ace would be changing his pants if the deal wasn’t closed soon. “Don’t be such an ethics snob.” Marylou lobbed the cash at Ace, pleased that his hands greedily grabbed for it. “My X-husband may be coming into a lot of money and I need the help of a detective to bamboozle it from him.” Ace’s erection subsided with the mention of both Marylou’s X and the ethical dilemma.
(The teepee began to sag. The old Navajo father knew the boy’s mind was elsewhere. The father used his gigantic torso to straighten the teepee. For the first time ever in native history the Navajo were on a deadline. The boy would have to be dealt with promptly. There was a look in the young boys eyes that the old Navajo did not understand. The young Navajo began to speak of something that he felt was strangely taboo: his fears. “Papa, what is the white man?”)
“This is not a detective case, this is a scam” Ace was incredulous. He was also incredible: an incredible detective. He wondered why he hadn’t detected the mischief this breastful woman was up to.
(The old Navajo wondered why he did not detect the fear in his son. He decided to be direct in a stern stereotypical American Indian way. “Sonny boy, the white man is a greedy fascist that we got to cut deals with just so we can survive.” The father surprised the boy by not using some kind of crazy metaphor about serpents.)
“The Serpent Racing Company.” Marylou blurted out. The Serpent Racing Company was the largest racing venue in all of the metropolis of New Haven. Access to the top tier of leadership at the Serpent Racing Company could be quite lucrative. They move billions of dollars a year. They didn’t race serpents. That would be stupid. They raced cars. The cars were grotesque machines that hurled around a poorly maintained circle of pavement.
(The dust cloud raced towards them. The young Navajo had never seen anything move so fast. He felt vertigo watching them approach. He did not know if his feelings were because of his imagined fears or because of this rapidly approaching reality. The man leading the cloud was a spectre. In Navajo the word for this colossus was asdfghjkl;. He was more than a man. He was like machine. Industry wrapped up in flesh. It was Teddy “Theodore” Roosevelt.)
“Actually, I don’t know if I can take the case. I have a funeral to attend.” Ace began fidgeting.
“You are just making up random shit. When are you going to embrace your destiny? Destiny… Destiny…” . Marylou took out a cherry lollipop and began playfully licking at it. She slowly slid the head of the lollipop around her big lips, which became bright red from the lolly and from the excitement of the oral stimulation.
(The white man was impatient for drugs.)
“Look, my plan is not entirely nontruistic.” Marylou began playing with the loose threads at the bottom of her skirt. The frayed bottom began to unravel. More of her upper thigh was exposed. “My X will upset the racing world forever with his scam. His actions during the race on Tuesday will cripple the country‘s gambling economics.”
“And you want in on some of that action?” Ace concluded.
“Shooby dooby doo wop.” Marylou alluded.
(When the white man moved he seemed like a large sack with a child inside clawing for freedom. He was Bogarting the stash. The Navajo anxiously listened to the white man. They did not believe his words to be wisdom, merely useful. “Pop music generally uses a simple, memorable melody and may use stripped-down rhythms. The songs are often about love or dancing. It is considered to be the most popular genre of music today.” Once his judgment was clouded with narcotics General Roosevelt got right down to business. “Me have many land canoes to trade with you. How do you say… Big heaps? Big heaps land canoe.”
The Navajo did not understand why the white man used the objective first person singular pronoun when he should have been using the subjective form. They also puzzled over the meaning of land canoe. Perhaps a land canoe is- )
“A horse?” Ace queried.
“Yes, my X plans on entering a horse in the big big car race on Tuesday. Exacta. Quinella.” Marylou licked the back of her hand like a cat and smoothed the hair out of her face. The gesture was more erotic than fifty porno movies. “The odds are the oddity will pay off. Imagine a panicky horse among all those revving engines. Those cars cause so much vibration in the ground that it can shatter a pit boy’s teeth. Horses are delicate, so much so.” Ace imagined the amount of money the Serpent Racing Company would make would be one followed by about a billion zeroes.
(Theodore Roosevelt paraphrased the concept of Manifest Destiny like fifty times while he showed the horses to the American Indians. The horses that were up for sale were fine specimens. But they were not of the West.
“We are absolutely ready to accept this agreement. We would like to hide our eagerness but we cannot. We as a people have no guilt. We freely ignore the fact that we enslaved ourselves to demons. We like the worldview that you represent.” The ancient leader of the tribe chose his words carefully.)
Marylou was getting all kinds of sexually aroused with the hot prospects before her. Johnny capitalized, “Remember when you were a little girl. You envisioned your ideal man. He was strong, powerful, and compassionate. He made you feel safe in his giant arms. You would bury your face in his chest and feel deeply close to him. That ideal guy is a total faggot compared to me.” Ace was wondering whether or not his Catholic upbringing had prepared him for the sex that was about to consume him.
(The boy damnably opposed.)
The sex was intense for Marylou. It felt like the top of her skull was being removed and dipped in melted butter.
(President Roosevelt and the elder Indian performed a Western style handshake of good faith. The boy remained in the tent. He was pouting over his lost heritage.)
The erection subsides.
(The tent collapses and kills the boy.)
I have seen servants upon horses, and princes walking as servants upon the earth. He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it; Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment; and a babbler is no better.
-Ecclesiastes 10:7,8,11
Explicit Moral: Americans should have respect & reverence for India.
