Sometimes they just jump out at me.

So, it seems that Miyamoto Musashi once fought a whale. With, like, a sword and shit.

I wouldn’t shit you.

You know, I keep thinking that I’ve seen it all. I keep thinking nothing can shock me. You’d think after The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife there wouldn’t be anymore surprises in store for me. But a samurai, surfing on a right whale, and getting ready to stick it in the back with his sword?

Yeah, sometimes stuff just sumps out and reminds me that the world is a seriously messed up place.

Cartoon Review: Garfield’s Thanksgiving

Garfield’s Thanksgiving (1989 Dir. Phil Roman)

Even Garfield can’t believe he’s in this stupid special.

You know what I’ve discovered recently, I hate Garfield. It’s really sad when the best part of your cartoon is that Lou Rawls sings the song over your credit sequence. It’s doubly sad because I always sort of saw that as an attempt to copy the Peanuts Specials with their use of Vince Guaraldi’s jazz music. Of course since Garfield was a cynical and calculated attempt to cash in on what had gone before, it pretty much measures up. I hate to be really nasty, but it is true that Garfield hasn’t been funny in 20 years and these specials pinpoint that fact. There is a joke in here that shows up in all three of the specials on this DVD, pretty much at the same time in each one too. It’s pretty sad to see how little effort went into each of these cartoons.

I kind of hope he’s signed up for the Big Sleep.

We start with Garfield waking up Jon by playing marching music through a boom box. See, Garfield wants breakfast and not just breakfast but a huge breakfast. See, that’s funny because big G is fat and he’s fat because he eats too much. That’s funny because… well it isn’t funny actually. Another thing not funny “About those pancakes? Next time a little less pan a little more cake.” What the hell does that even mean? Are we to understand that Jon, in a desperate attempt to free himself, decided to scrape up some of the Teflon coating from the pan to poison Garfield? Are we to also understand that Big G not only knows, but laughs at Jon’s try at murder because he can’t be killed? What is going on here?

Hey kids, I’ll haunt your dreams. You’ll never be free of me. Give in to madness now! Only in insanity will you find refuge.

Anyway, lets gat back to the story. Garfield notices that the calendar, which strangely has the day but not the date or month on it, says that Jon is to take Garfield to the vet. We are then treated to a not very funny mental run through about why the vet is bad because she prescribes what’s good for him, which he believes to be bad. Only bad things are good, all good is bad, Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia. Garfield is so comically afraid of the vet that he decides to remove Wednesday from the running and make it be Thursday. He yanks the day off the calendar and rams the day down Odie’s throat. Poor Odie seems to almost choke on the hate leveled upon him.

Now none of those pesky orphans or widows will have ANY food.

This leads Big G to see that Thursday is Thanksgiving Day. He then explains the Garfield view of thanksgiving. “That’s the day people celebrate having food by eating as much of it as possible.” As this was aired November 23rd 1989, the 80s and their excesses weren’t quite over yet. Song likes like “The more you eat, the more grateful you will feel” weren’t quite embarrassing yet, but it was near. The special almost never got played after this one year because everyone was kind of embarrassed by Garfield in the 90s. It’s also never shown outside the US and Canada, not because we’re afraid of shoving our holidays down the throats of other cultures, but because we feared the backlash that might occur if we showed that this is how Americans treat this holiday. So disastrous was this cartoon, that they never made another Garfield Holiday cartoon again! In fact there were only two other attempts to do Big G on TV at all after this. Anyway, Garfield tries to convince Odie that eating a lot on Thanksgiving is a tradition and then asks us to remember how he loves tradition. The problem is if you saw the Christmas episode the year before you would note he hates tradition. Not only is he not funny, now he’s teaching children to lie.

They are smug in their evil.

Garfield gets so excited he runs to Jon and shows him the calendar, hoping Jon will remember to get lots of good things to eat. Jon actually says that they had better go to the grocery store to get lots of good things to eat. Who the hell talks like this? Even in a cartoon? Lots of good things to eat? Could you make that a little more vague? Maybe, lots of things that you can get at the grocery store? Why say it like that? Not “I’ve got some things to pick up.” Or “I’ve got to go get the turkey.” Or “I’m a useless pimple on the face of humanity I’d better blow out the pilot lights, turn the stove and oven all the way up and light a match.” No! None of that, lots of good things to eat. And then the opening credits start. Yeah, we’re only 3 minutes into this show so far. I should probably pick up the pace. It’s hard when they give you so many things to complain about though in such a short space of time.

Man found dead with can of pie filling stuffed up his nether regions!

So anyway the credits end and Jon has bought more food than I’ve ever seen anyone else buy like ever. I drive a Mini Cooper and my car has never been as stuffed as his car is in this cartoon. He also took his cat to the grocery store, which had to violate some health codes. Big G babbles about all the wonderful things there are to eat, putting an ingredient to Jon when he mentions it, despite Jon trying to drive. Instead of taking his cat to the vet to be put down for being such a pain, he takes the cat to the vet for a check up, and to check out Liz the hot vet he likes.

Secretly, she delighted in their dual tortures.

Liz Wilson, the long suffering veterinarian has to try and give a cat an examination while this idiot sexually harasses her. He begs for a date, acts like a moron, and then holds his breath until she agrees to go out with him. She leaves him to hold his breath and tells him about how Garfield needs to go on a diet. This brings in a lot of not funny comedy, all while Jon is turning red. When Jon finally collapses Liz inexplicably agrees to go out with him, instead of calling for security or something, which is only encouraging negative behavior. Jon then announces that it’s wonderful and he’ll serve her Thanksgiving dinner for them. Does Liz have no family? No friends? Not even a co-worker who takes pity on her and invites her over? She has to go to stalker-boy’s for thanksgiving dinner? I ask again, what the flipping hell?

Told you not to eat that hot pepper.

Now we get a lot of not funny “comedy” about Garfield having to be on a diet. Things like him only getting half a leaf of lettuce and things. After that, the filler starts. Odie has a whistle to tell when Big G is going off his diet. This isn’t funny, but it kills time. He weighs himself on a talking scale, who mistakes him for Orson Wells. Then there is this truly messed up bit. Garfield decides to get some cookies, so he walks to the cookie jar to get some cookies. But Odie is in there with his whistle. There isn’t enough room for him in that jar, but his head pops out and he blows the whistle. So Big G goes for… flour? He decides to just eat flour? Odie is in there too. Then he proves to be in the salt and sugar jars as well. Where did the salt go? Did Odie just cut out holes in the table to mess with Big G? And why after blowing, when Garfield isn’t trying to get anything does he then pop up blowing the whistle? It makes no damn sense. Nothing in this show is making sense. It’s like the cartoonist are challenging me!

If my weight goes down, that means I’m not depriving the poor of enough food.

They don’t even have an agenda. They’re just daring me to watch the whole thing. They have such contempt for their evil masters and the viewing public that they’ve decided to turn in a product that is unwatchable. They’re sneering at us and laughing as they sit in their unlighted cages, unable to see the sun or ever know the love of another human being. These are horribly twisted up people, the monsters that made this.

Clearly his smack is kicking in. Also, where are his legs?

Anyway, after a commercial break we come to the morning of Thanksgiving day. Big G is cranky, Jon is creaming his shorts. We learn that Jon is not only a jerk, but he’s a frickin’ incompetent cook too. I can stand many things. A person who doesn’t know you’re supposed to thaw out the damn turkey is just not to be borne. He rubs butter all over his arms when it says “rub skin with butter” because he’s just that dumb. He stuffs the frozen bird into the oven and turns up the oven to the top. He puts all the vegetables into one pot, not sliced or anything, into a pot and pours water over them. This is supposed to be funny I think, but all I can think of is my wish to get a dimension jumping device so I can go to where ever this place is and shoot Jon in the back of the head, execution style. Even cartoon food deserves better than this. So then Big G decides to cover the veggies in garlic powder, which I think is supposed to display evil on his part. The problem is that at this point it might actually help the situation rather than hurt it. That bit doesn’t even go anywhere. The next time we see the kitchen that is completely forgotten. This cartoon is the most hateful thing ever done in the name of Thanksgiving.

It is through will alone that I set my mind in motion.

We then get Jon changing into a dozen different outfits, including a gorilla costume. The whole show is like this, just sight gag after sight gag in a row. This thing was padded to within an inch of its life. I can only imagine that the script was only about four pages long. He then forgets to wear his pants and we see him with sock suspenders. SOCK SUSPENDERS? IN 1989? NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!! I do not accept this! Anyway, he goes and answers the door in his undies, and then runs back to put on pants. It’s humiliating just to watch, it’s too much. Jon goes and checks the food in the kitchen, and during that we learn just how incompetent Liz is. She decides to explain to Big G all the problems a person has when they crash diet. Each symptom she mentions is instantly displayed by Big G in order to get her to think he should be allowed to ditch the diet. Seriously, how stupid do you have to be to accept that when you tell someone who doesn’t want to have the treatment you prescribe the side affects and the watch them have them all as you describe each, to then accept that! To believe that he’s having all these symptoms at once, she must be an idiot. Maybe that’s why no one wants her over. I can accept her talking to the cat, most people talk to pets.

He honestly thought this was the best way to tell Liz how he feels about her.

Anyway, she nixes the diet and Big G remembers what a pig’s ear Jon has made of the meal. They then decide to call Jon’s Grandmother, which takes some difficulty because they needed to pad out the episode. So they get grandma over, who rides a motorcycle like all grandmothers in TV do. It’s supposed to be shocking and strange, but we’ve seen it so many times its cliché and hateful now. While grandma comes to save the day, Jon recites the encyclopedia entry on Thanksgiving for Liz. See, he never tells her that Grandma is cooking, so he has to pretend that he’s doing it all. See, lying is okay if you’re doing it to a good looking vet is seems. He doesn’t suffer any evils for this deception, he’s allowed to win. No morality in this story, just evil heaped upon evil. I’m pretty sure after the show is over Jon and his pets follow Liz home and sacrifice her to Satan or something.

Jon has been lapse in his evil. Big G saw him not kick a puppy the other day.

When they show the dinner table laden with food, Big G turns to the camera and says “Nice Touch” which he says in every show at about the 20 minute mark. Every! Single! Time! I hate this cat. So they have the meal, choking on their bitter resentment of each other and the knowledge that they are all hateful monsters. A bit of useless music is sung, and the food turns to ashes on their tongues. Liz leaves after dinner fortunate not to have been killed for nearly discovering Jon’s house of cards that would be quick to collapse if examined.

Oh look, an old woman who rides a motor cycle! I’ve never seen that on TV before. Mostly because I only heard about TV 15 minutes ago.

The end of the show is so hateful that I can’t even bear to talk about it. No evils are punished, the republicans were in power when this was made and that probably says everything you need to know. At the next election, Clinton won. I can only think that the country needed a change after this despicable attack on our most beloved of all holidays.

There is no hope, you will all be eaten.

Even Camo Ninja couldn’t save us now

Camo Ninja, trying like hell to help cheer you up.

I Wrestle Sharks

Guys, let’s have a talk real quick. We’ve got saying where I come from… “Go big or go home.”

If you’re going to lie to a woman, don’t tell a little lie. If you must be dishonest, tell a whopper of a lie that no one will ever take seriously, but tell it like you’ve got photos and documents in your wallet to prove every word. Don’t tell her you’re the manager of the I.T. department when you’re really the assistant manager… tell her you wrestle sharks! She’s going to assume you’re building yourself up a little anyway, might as well strain the very fabric of credulity and reality.

Now you can’t just leave it at “I wrestle sharks” of course, you’ve got dress it up in that dress you like and make it strut in front of the audience. You’ve got make that line seem like it has a shred of plausibility.

On my shark example…
“You know those documentaries where they get the close up shots of sharks? Well they don’t like using a cage these days, so someone has to watch out for the cameraman while the get the footage. So I swim near by and if any great white looks like it’s getting to close I get it in a headlock and give it a noogie.”

Don’t leave it hanging like that though, you’ve got to explain which documentaries you’ve worked on, what channel she can see them on, and how that has made you capable of making the perfect omelet. Obviously, you add that the perfect omelet can only be made in the morning after a night of sheet tearing sex.

If you don’t think you can pull off the shark wrestler thing, you could try a different tact…
“You ever read the comic strip The Phantom? I do body modeling for them. I pose for The Phantom actually, sometimes for Mary Worth as well. Not the torso, obviously, another guy does that. I do the hands for The Phantom. I can throw a still punch better than anybody else in modern comic strips, except the guy who does Mark Trail of course. That guy’s an artist though, you can’t compete with him. If you’ve got a newspaper, I can show you some of my work.”

Now if you think you can’t even pull that off, you can try something truly bizarre.
“I design leaves for a biotech firm. Have you seen those oaks outside the new town hall? Yeah, those are mine. It’s a totally new strain of leaf that turns a trade marked shade of orange. I didn’t do the color though, I designed the shape. If you look carefully, all the leaves on those trees are perfectly uniform, you’ll always get the same leaf from one of our trees.”

From there on out, you’re on your own obviously. I don’t condone lying to women anyway, I am only suggesting that if you do it then don’t tell these boring little lies.

In the Cabinet (Part Eleven)

 

In The Cabinet

A Jack Collier Short

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

 

 

Day Eleven: Jack The Cat and the Murderer

 

            It may not be a surprise to you that my trip took me back to the house I’d been at when Knock decided to use my left hand as a testing pad for his sap. The sick fucker behind all this had probably watched from the window as Knock smacked my hand, which was now swollen and blackened. I would have to go to the doctor, get an x-ray at least. I squeezed my fingers closed, which caused an incredible amount of pain. The hand would close and open though, which meant I could go ahead with my plan. As I rested it on the steering wheel and hooked my thumb around the wheel, I noticed the arthritis in my right hand was hurting as well. That was nice, it’s always helpful when both sides get together and pitch in. Teamwork, that’s what I like.

 

            I noticed something different when I pulled up to the house though and I felt a new anger growing up as my lights passed over it. I got out the car and approached he large oak tree in the front yard. From one of the lower branches, a cat had been lynched. It was a completely black cat, hung by a formerly white piece of rope that looked like it might have started out life as a clothesline.

 

            I couldn’t stand to leave it there, besides there was the chance that it might not be dead yet. Of course it would be, with its legs waving in the growing wind, but I was going to make a stand with this one. Alive or dead, I was going to cut this animal down and I was going to take it into the house. There are some things I can’t stand, and some bastard hanging a cat is one of them.

 

            I’d never replaced my jackknife after I’d broken the blade off in Chester Cat’s thick skull. At this point though, I wasn’t terribly worried about that fucking monster seeing that I had the bowie knife on me. I pulled the knife out with my sore left hand and took hold of the cat under its chest at the rib cage. I can’t really explain why, but something inside me made me want to treat it as if it were still alive. I gently cut the rope away and set the cat down on the ground before slipping the knife back in place.

 

            As I pulled the noose away, I noticed that one of the cat’s eyes had been taken out sometime ago by violence. The place where the eye would have been was puffy and pink, missing a lot of hair but having more than enough scar tissue to replace it. I was going to kill the fucker, that should be clear by now, but I decided after noticing that fact it was going to take a bit longer and it was going to be a great deal nastier. I was going to make this a grisly, nasty kill, with lots of blood and screaming. I picked the lifeless animal up in my arms and stroked the cat’s soft fur as I walked to the front door. When I opened the door and walked in I heard a voice coming from where I thought the study was.

 

            “That seems to have taken longer than it should have.” The voice came from my right.

 

            “I came as fast as I could.” I said walking into the study and setting the cat down on a black velvet chair that the cat was likely never allowed on in life.

 

            Sam Hain wasn’t ancient, but he was old. A ring of white hair crowned his head, but his face was fairly free of wrinkles. He looked at me, setting his pen down on the paper he was writing on. He leaned back in his large throne like chair, which had imps and goblins carved into the wood. His eyes fixed on me and his tongue moved around inside his lips.

 

            “Jack Collier.” He announced, and I could hear the lilt of his Irish origin in his voice. “The private detective.”

 

            “Here Peter Quince.” I responded, taking a step towards his desk. “Why the cat Sam?”

 

            “Not why Rebecca?” He asked lacing his fingers together and laying his forearms down on his desk as he leaned forward. “Or why all those other victims?”

 

            “Why the cat?” I asked. “We’ll get to the others. We’ve got time.”

            “Have we?” He asked smiling. “Aren’t the agents of justice winging their way to us now?”

 

            “No.” I shook my head. “No one knows you’re here but me. Why the cat?”

 

            “If one is going to perform a scorched earth campaign, one must scorch the earth?” He smiled at me. “Have to keep one’s hand in, you know.”

 

            “Let’s start with Hewie.” I tried to keep my voice from growling.

 

            “The little queer?” he asked leaning back again and resting his left hand on the desk, right at the edge. “Who cares about him?”

 

            “He cared about you.” I said reaching into my coat and touching the kurki’s handle. “He loved you.”

 

            “That’s the little queer’s problem.” He said trying to smoothly move his hand to the desk drawer.

 

            My hand snapped out of the coat and swung the huge wedge shaped blade of the kukri down at the corner of his desk. I didn’t do it as fast as I could though, giving him time to pull away, and the edge cut away a bit of the corner of the desk instead of his fingers. I smacked him across the face with the back of my left hand, which exploded into pain that I couldn’t dare how. I reached over and opened the drawer myself. A small chrome pearl handled S&W sat in the drawer. I tucked the kukri back into place and hooked the gun out of the drawer with my pinky stuck through the trigger guard.

 

            “Lame.” I said tossing my right hand up and letting the gun slip from my finger and cascade over my shoulder. “All this time, being such a scary guy, and you go and reach for a dinky little gun?”

 

            I turned and walked away from the desk and towards the cat. Somewhere along the line, the cat had actually started breathing again. The animal’s single yellow-green eye was open and looking up at me. It wasn’t sitting up yet, still building up it’s strength for that I suppose. I think it may have only just woken up in fact.

 

            “I am not a homo.” He announced suddenly. “It’s not my fault if Hewie decided he was gonna run away with me or something.”

 

            I picked the cat up gently and stroked its head. It purred softly, but didn’t rub its head against me because it would have to move its neck to do so. I suspected the cat probably had quite a sore neck, but it was alive. I probably would have found it funny that the one person I thought I had no chance of saving was the one person I’d managed to save.

 

            “You know, it’s the fact that you’ve decided even at this late stage to deny things that annoys me.”

 

            “I’m not denying anything.” He snarled. “I got Hewie and Knock kill those people for me. I even got Hewie to go against his nature and fuck my daughter before killing her.”

 

            “But the only one you actually killed was the cat?” I looked down and stroked the animal’s head. “And didn’t even manage to do that?”

 

            “I managed to get Hewie to kill himself, granted he went to your office for whatever reason.” He smiled broadly. “That’s killing someone, getting them to do it themself.”

 

            “Whatever reason?” I asked.

 

            “Yes.” He nodded, “How did you get involved? I’ve read about you in the paper a couple of times, but I wasn’t aware we had any connection.”

 

            “You don’t remember me?” I must say I was a little surprised. “I was Becky’s best friend for all of high school and a bit beyond.”

 

            “Oh.” He shook his head and then shrugged. “Are you one of the boys who hung around fucking my daughter?”

 

            “No.” I said. “Becky and I were never fucking. I was the one she always came back to.”

 

            “She said she was going to see that friend of hers from school to get me out of trouble.” He said rubbing his chin. “That actually was you?”

 

            “Yeah.” I nodded. “That was me, like I said before.”

 

            “She pay you in blowjobs then?” He said it so calmly, so matter of factly, that it was supposed to elicit an explosion of rage from me. I decided it wouldn’t.

 

            “No.” I shook my head and said in the same soft tone he’d used, “You got your little lover boy to kill her before we could discuss payment.”

 

            “I told you, I’m not a fucking sissy faggot!” He shouted and pointed his finger at me. The cat leapt off my lap and ran under the chair.

 

            “No.” I said remaining calm. “You’re quite a butch faggot and something of a sick mind controller who likes whipping little boy rumps and sticking them with all kinds of needles and things. You give the gay community a worse name than Cruisin’ does, and yet you can only kill the cat and can’t do that right.”

 

            “Listen you.” He growled. “When Knock gets back we’ll cut you into little pieces together. I’ll kill you myself though.”

 

            “Is that what you were waiting for?” I laughed. “Unless Knock can bounce back from having the top of his head ripped off in an hour and a half I don’t think he’s coming back in time.”

 

            “Dead?” He asked. “You killed him?”

 

            “Jack the Giant Killer.” I told him. “Seven with one blow and all of that. Chief badass for the Tri-County Detroit Metro area.”

 

            “Did he tell you I was here before then?”

 

            “No.” I shook my head

 

            “How did you figure all this out then?” He asked looking very confused.

 

            “You know, everyone has this idea I’m dumb or something, like I’m just not the sharpest pencil in the box.” I complained. “But you know, even if I were as stupid as you take me for I can at least master pattern recognition. I mean Christmas pulled the exact same trick in December. Who was in the car, another innocent by stander?”

 

            “No.” He shook his head. “My brother died last month, and after we yanked his teeth out we used his body to make a close enough match to my DNA. Knock put his body in there, wired up with a hundred pounds of explosions or so.”

 

            “I see.” I nodded. “So why Becky then?”

 

            “My daughter would tell anyone anything, particularly over some sweated sheets.” He growled at me. “I couldn’t have her blabbing about what had happened and she’d already gone and gotten her old boyfriend involved.”

 

            “I told you.” I said. “I was never her boyfriend.”

 

            “Fuck bunny then.” He snapped. “Her daily source of protein!”

 

            I got up and walked around to the desk. He looked at me defiantly and I thought I saw his hand jump. I smacked him hard across the head and then grabbed his shirt and smacked his head against the desk. I then threw him across the desk and listened as a lot of objects fell both on him and the floor. Objects of glass shattered and brass ones made clanging noises. I heard a groan and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror.

 

            “Are you overcharged with awe?” I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet.

 

            I couldn’t hear his reply because my ears were filled with a thudding sound, like that of a watch when placed under a cloth. My left hand grabbed the bowie knife and it plunged straight into his heart. My right hand clutched at the kukri handle, and it swept across his neck. There was a spray of blood, but not nearly as much as I would have imagined. His body convulsed a few times, but after a second or two his eyes rolled up and breath rattled out of him.

 

            I heard then, quite suddenly the sound of a train. The rattle of wheels on rails, the cry of the whistle and the rumble through the floor. There were tracks half a mile from here, and I wondered for a moment if it was just a ghost train that had come for Sam’s soul. A look of peace came over his face, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there. The train kept rolling though, and I decided that it was probably just a supply train taking transmissions to a Ford plant.

 

            I have no way of calculating how long I stood there, watching as the blood seeped out of him and onto the floor. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen, but nothing at all happened for a long time.

 

            The cat had managed to stand on its own and was rubbing against my leg and making some meowing noises. I reached down and patted it on the head, and then I went to the kitchen to see if there was anything to feed this animal. As it turned out there were several cans of Fancy Feast, which I guessed meant that this had been a spur of the moment killing. I gave the cat a can on a plate and let him or her go at it. I hadn’t decided to go to the effort of discovering its sex, so I would have to say him or her for a while.

 

            The front door opened and five men in white jumpsuits came in. One of them looked at me and then at a device in his hand. He wore a holster on his hip, the top of which hadn’t been snapped down. He could have drawn and shot in about half a second if he wanted to.

 

            “Collier?” He asked.

 

            “That’s right.” I nodded as I took a step into the dining room, which was on the left as you came into the house.

 

            “We’re supposed to remove something for you.”

 

            “In that room.” I pointed over his shoulder to his right at the door to the study. “One body, I want the knives back please.”

 

            “We supposed to do anything to make it look like an accident or anything?” The one who was talking asked as the other four moved efficiently behind him.

 

            “He doesn’t ever need to be found.” I told him at the black cat leapt up on the table between us. “He’s already supposed to be dead.”

 

            “You want us to kill the cat too?” He asked nodding at the animal.

 

            “Do you want to?” I was a little taken aback by the suggestion.

 

            “No.” He said shaking his head. “But you’d be amazed what people ask me to do in this job.”

 

            “No, I wouldn’t.” I said picking the cat up. “The cat goes with me though.”

 

            “Okay.” He nodded and a thought struck me.

 

            “Hang on a second.” I said and walked towards them. “Can you make it look like he’s been dead longer than he has?”

 

            “We could cover up how long he’s been dead.” The guy said. “Is there a freezer in this place?”

 

            “I think so.” I thought, trying to remember. “In the basement.”

 

            “Let’s go look.” He walked past me and towards the basement door.

 

            There was a large chest freezer that was mercifully empty besides a few frozen pizzas and a price club sized box of flavor ice, but those are in every chest freezer in the Midwest. They dragged him downstairs and then went through the house wiping things they thought they might have touched. I mentioned the kitchen and they started in there as well. It might have been instructive to watch them go at it, but I had other things to do tonight still. I picked up the cat and left with him curled under my arm.

 

This is part eleven of thirteen, come back next week for part twelve and every Thursday until we’re done to see what happens next. If you get lost, one of the tags here should help you. The Cabinet tag will take you to the story while the Jack Tag will take you to Part One of every story we post here.

Thanksgiving Shows: Part Two

Today we have The Jack Benny Show from th 23rd of November 1947. Actually it’s the Lucky Strike Program, but why give a cigarette company any more advertising?

This is the pre-holiday show, leading into Thanksgiving. Only about half the show is dedicated to the obtainment of a Thanksgiving Turkey. This is pretty basic for a Jack Benny episode, it’s amusing enough though.

Discover Simple, Private Sharing at Drop.io

Five things for November 10th

1. Reading In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash is going slower that I would like, but the stories are good.

2. Been watching Doki Doki School Hours, which I like, but falls apart a bit in the OVA. The cartoon is silly and seriously light on plot, but I like it. In a shocking breach of protocol, the voice acting on the dub actually isn’t bad. In a proper anime, one that follows all the rules, the dub’s voice acting should be so horrifically annoying that you want to jam a steak knife in your ear. This one isn’t too bad though. Normally I wouldn’t bother with dubs, but I sort of wanted to do something while watching the cartoon and it was easier this way.

3. Syd is trying very hard not to get sick right now. She’s being a brave little soldier, but I’m worried it’s going to catch up with her anyway. It’s creeping up on me too, I’m afraid. We need to buy some orange juice or something. Problematic since we’re low on funds until payday.

4. Right now, I would be willing to burn down the house and fake my own death to avoid having to do anything even remotely connected to any holiday.

5. These last few months have sucked. Seriously sucked in so many ways. Personal shit that I’m not going into here have caused problems and tension. A lot of “I’m disagreeing with her but I’m going to argue with you” coming from both sides. Got it mostly worked out, sort of. It seems to be okay, but everyone is still tense. That is enough to make most people depressed, but let’s combine that with my family’s inability to stay alive because of FUCKING INSURANCE COMPANIES! Oooh, I do hope that socialist white-folk hating Kenyan destroys your fucking industry and you suffer just one tenth of what you’ve done to others. Put that up with the physical symptoms of the arthritis in my poor mitts is really, really bad. My left thumb can hardly have any pressure on it today, for example. It keeps moving around, today the thumb, tomorrow the elbow, yesterday it was one of my knees. Never boring. Then you’ve got the muscle thing. If you can imagine microscopic rats gnawing at the fibers of your muscles, you can get to the feelings I’m having in my legs and arms. Enough right? No! One thing after another has gone wrong, broken, misfired, or just plain failed in a way that just writing FAIL in big block letters can’t convey. As a result of these things, many of which would be small and manageable on their own but not all coming at once, I have not been feeling at my best. I can’t even get angry at the whole thing, I’m just too tired. I am completely worn out and only have an inch or two of rope left.

If I do manage to get energetic for long enough to sustain an unhealthy anger, I think I’ll go to the headquarters of every pantheon I can find and inform them that I am not pleased by the current distribution of bullshit.

Top 40 Movies by odd connections (Part Two)

Here is Part One

So where were we? Oh yes, I remember now. Luke Skywalker just had his hand sliced off at the wrist. Now, I could pretty much mention any other Star Wars movie at this point, because Lucas has a hand amputation fetish, but that’s not how I roll. Let’s see where I go from a cut off hand.

That man is serious about getting rid of hangnails.

Evil Dead 2

I think it leads quite naturally into Evil Dead II, in which Ash looses his hand. Well, looses isn’t quite the right word, he takes a chainsaw and cuts it off himself. Granted, his hand had turned totally evil, but still. You’ve got to be pretty badass to take your own hand off at the wrist with a power tool. Right hand too, you might notice. Both the Evil Dead movies have a lot of talking to the dead, which is convenient for my next choice.

Don’t take it so hard, later we can be in a nice Spider-Man movie.

The dead talk in a lot of movies.

I shouldn’t have had that last one.

Rashōmon

In Rashōmon, the murdered man gives testimony through a medium leading to someone else talking to the dead. Yeah, didn’t see that one coming did you? Well, maybe if you’ve seen the movie recently. That part never fit with me, because of the supernatural angle, so I remember it really well. Of course Rashōmon is famous for being different versions of a single story told from multiple view points, and the tale itself is being told to someone so may have yet another view.

Um… pass! I know it seems lazy, but sometimes I honestly can’t come up with anything.

What other movies can we think of with multiple versions of the same story?

And when you really need it the most, that’s when Rock N’ Roll dreams coem true… for you!

Hero
The highly colorful Hero also contains different versions of the same story, but in a slightly different way. In this it’s just two guys telling each other how the events happened instead of several people giving evidence. Instead of never really saying how it all went down, we get closer to the truth as the movie unfolds. Of course, Hero is also contains a great deal of people fighting while flying. I wasn’t too into flying people before this movie, it always seemed a bit silly, but I liked it in this. It really was this and not Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon that did it for me.

I be done seen about everything, when I see a kung-fu artist fly.

Continuing on the “thing that has no business flying” theme…

And you thought seagulls were bad.

Dumbo
We’ve got Dumbo. Hey, Dumbo! You remember Dumbo? Of course what else is the chief point of Dumbo? Right, getting drunk. It’s when Dumbo and the mouse get drunk that they have the Pink Elephants. Boozing it up in a Disney movie! Don’t get that these days do we? Oh no! Health and safety would have kittens over that. However, this isn’t the only Disney movie with a main character boozing it up.

So… is it okay to get kids drunk now? Mixed signals guys!

Let’s see how we get there.

Again with the hooch!

Who Framed Roger Rabbit
Drinking could have taken us anywhere, but I choose to take us to Eddie Valiant’s drinking problem. I did this, because Who Framed Roger Rabbit contains an important link to our next movie. Also, I like the idea of Disney movies that have lots of drinking. If I could find a Disney movie with felching, you can bet that I’d use it. Probably not going to find that though. Even if I did, how would I draw back to mainstream films? About the only thing you could really do after that is claim that the Muppet Movie is all about fisting really. ANYWAY! You might remember that the opening of the movie has a story within the story.

Look, I’m trying to symbolize the inherent nature of man here.

It’s all a story with in a story, wrapped in an enigma, covered in dark velvety chocolate…

The Grand Ole Opry just ain’t what it used to be.

The Adventures of Baron Munchausen
Much like Baron Munchausen’s story is told on the stage, set within the confines of the movie. The Baron begins telling his story on stage, but then the tale seems to end, but it doesn’t really. The lines of where the story ends and the adventure begins is really blurred in a wonderful way. In that film, young Sally has a problem with her Father not being there for her, going so far as to say “And Son” instead of “And Daughter.”

See dads? A little bit of paste can make up for years of neglect.

Fathers and daughters have lots of problems though, as we’ll see…

It says here that pink high tops are still in fashion.

SPL: Sha Po Lang
While it was sold as Killzone in America, the movie SPL also has father’s having problems with their daughters. The end of the movie actually takes place around Father’s Day, which is a big part of the movie. Dads, sons, daughters, it all comes together here in a way that might confound some, delight others, and make fight junkies wonder where the next fight is. Don’t get too impatient, I’m getting to that. There is a great fight, an awesome fight, a fight so cool it ends with the bad guy being disemboweled with his own knife. That’s pretty hard-core right there, cutting a guy’s guts out.

GUTS! I know the screen cap isn’t perfect, so I decided to tell you.

Yeah, I’ve got another guts movie.

MORE GUTS! Same joke, different cap.

Rambo
Another film in which the bad guy gets his guts cut out by the end is Rambo, which I’ve reviewed before. That would be the fourth Rambo movie by the way. I’m not going to go into the various complaints about sequel names, just understand which one I’m talking about. In that movie, some religious missionaries basically caused all of Rambo’s problems for him. They don’t listen, they go places they’re not wanted.

The girl is cute though.

Religious people just cause problems for everyone.

Here we come a wassailing along the leaf so green.

Kingdom of Heaven
Case in point. In Kingdom of Heaven, it’s religious fanatics cause all the problems for everyone. Really, religion is just a big headache as far as movies go. Pretty much, unless you’re watching something on one of those religious channels that only grandmothers ever watch, religion is going to be problematic. Best to stay away from it. However, you should get this movie, but only in the Director’s Cut format. This is one of the few times that a director’s cut is worth your time. Mostly it’s just a lot of self-indulgence, but here it actually works. There is also a scene in which Saladin give the captured Guy a chalice of ice, which is a lovely frozen treat.

Should I make an “Ice, Ice Baby” joke? Y/N?

Frozen Treats?

You ever notice how there is no way to eat ice cream and look dignified?

Hot Fuzz
Speaking of Frozen Treats, cornetto in this case, let’s talk about Hot Fuzz. That movie is a veritable roller coaster of references. Among all the comedy and mystery and murders there is a fairly constant stream of winking references, which are how I like them. I won’t even scratch that surface, since it would take too long and would bore you quickly if you weren’t watching. Just trust me, reference city, this movie is.

Pic unrelated

OKAY! Next week we’ll pick up from where we left off today with the references.

Thought

If I got one of these and one of these, I could strap them to my back and be a Yuletide Ninja! Or I could get this and this and be the same, but on a budget and a little more personal.

The point is, red and green weapons that I could use to stab bitches who play fucking Sleigh Ride on November the 7th.

The big black hatchet I used was effective, but far from making that festive point.

The point being,
Save it for after Thanksgiving or I’ll split your head open.

Actually, don’t play Sleigh Ride at all because I hate that song.

Thanksgiving Shows: Part One

Re-reading Mel Blanc’s autobiography reminded me about his radio show. all of which you can download here if you like. There was only one year of the show because it’s very cookie cutter and the characters could be ordered by number. You’ve got girlfriend #7 (exasperated, but loving), sidekick #3 (screwy and stuttering), villain #4 (the gf’s disapproving father) and so on. Still it’s good enough to listen to once in a while.

What I’ve got here (obviously) is the Thanksgiving episode and like most the golden age episodes I’ve got it involves the main character failing at turkey. Listening to these shows, you’d get the idea that the baby Jesus would be sacrificed in the manger and his blood sprayed in the faces of pagan homosexuals if every person in the nation didn’t have a turkey for Thanksgiving. Seriously, it’s like the writers were from Mars and wanted to pretend like they knew things about America and were faking it as hard as they could and they only thing they’d been told about Thanksgiving was turkey.

This episode is a lot like the others in the show. Mel screws something up, wackiness ensues, it all comes out alright in the last three minutes, then there’s a commercial for Colgate Tooth Powder where they tell you that your breath is just plain nasty unless you brush.

Still, all that being said, the show isn’t bad. It’s pretty entertaining, just sort of… well… just set your expectations low is all I’m saying. Mel behaves quite nobly in this episode, giving away his turkey and serving his guests a large salami loaf instead. People get annoyed with him, but he doesn’t want to tell anyone that he gave the turkey away to an orphans’ home. When the guests are within ten seconds of killing Mel and stuffing him with sage and onions, an orphan shows up to tell him how much they appreciate the turkey. Trust me, I didn’t spoil anything, you can see the end coming a mile off. It’s that sort of show.

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In the Cabinet (Part Ten)

 

In The Cabinet

A Jack Collier Short

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

 

Day Ten: Knock, The Mountain Troll

 

            I’m not exactly sure how long we were at it, but the sun had started go down before we gave up. When he wasn’t smacking my left hand into a pulp, he started going at my back or legs. It felt like he’d smashed my left hand into jelly, but I was able to hold things with it later so it must not have been that bad.

 

            “Please.” Knock said holding his hand up in a gesture of pleading. “If you don’t want to think about yourself, think about me.”

 

            “What?” I looked at my bloody and possibly mangled fingers.

 

            “Think about how this is affecting me.” He said holding his hand to his chest in a manner that looked almost effeminate. “Do you think I like breaking your fingers like this?”

 

            I looked into his face a moment and under the mask of concern and worry, saw only malice.

 

            “Yes!” I nodded vigorously.

 

            “Well, you’re right, but I might have hated it.” He said as he brought the sap down on what had once been my hand again.

 

            “Fuck!” I shouted.

 

            “You’re not going to confess for me?” He asked.

 

            I had to take a second to breathe and over come the pain. I was about to try and hit him again, but I found I only had enough strength to talk at the moment.

 

            “Nope.” I shook my head.

 

            “I guess we’ll have to do this the other way then.” He sighed. “I can do it the other way, but it’ll cause more trouble.”

 

            He grabbed me by the collar and yanked me up to my feet. I stood up and grabbed at my left hand. The fingers moved, even though the fingers and palm were blackened from the leather and the bruises. He threw me into the doors and yanked them open while I stood there. He slipped the sap into his pocket and picked my Webley up from the top of the car. He tossed it into his left hand and aimed it at me.

 

            “Get in to the front seat.” He told me. “I don’t want you behind me having any bright ideas.”

 

            “Sure.” I said getting into the car and buckling the seat belt.

 

            He got into the car, keeping the gun in his left hand aimed at me. He started the car and we drove out into the country. Eventually we got out to thirty-eight mile road, then started to turn down one road then another until we stopped under a lone street light that had been erected. He turned off the car and opened the glove compartment. He nodded to himself and took my ipod out of the glove compartment and slipped it into his pocket.

 

            “I’ll take care of this myself I think.” He said smiling at me. “Let’s go.”

 

            He opened the door and I opened mine to get out.  We walked out of the car and stood together under the light. He kept the gun in his left hand, never changing it to his right or failing to point it directly at me.

 

            “Over there, into the field.” He said waving with his right hand.

 

            I started to walk in the direction indicated, looking to my left to see the sun drifting below the horizon. The clouds would probably cover the sky completely soon, but for the moment there was a strip of sky where I could see the last remains of the setting sun’s light. I sort of wanted some rain, but all I got was clouds and wind.

 

            “Across the field and into the forest there.” Knock said from behind me.

 

            As I walked through the field, I saw plants and remembered their names. The names for different kinds of thistles and autumn flowers came to the front of my mind as my eyes happened upon them. It wasn’t anything I could control, or anything that would get in the way of my thoughts as I went. It was just something that went on as a background process.

 

            We walked to the forest and I could see where he was leading me. There was a shallow ditch about eighteen inches deep, two feet wide and nearly six feet long. A shovel was stuck in the mound of earth that had already been dug up for what was undoubtedly supposed to be my makeshift grave. I looked at the shovel and the hole and then looked over to Knock.

 

            “Nice hole.” I said.

 

            “Get in and dig.” Knock said.

 

            “No.” I said.

 

            He didn’t argue, just pointed the gun at my feet and fired. The bullet tore up the ground and turf between my shoes and threw dirt onto my pants. I looked at the ground and then at him as he cocked back the hammer again. I looked at the hole and turned towards the shovel. I got into the hole and stuck the shovel into the dirt. I then leaned on it.

 

            “Why?” I asked softly.

 

            “Hmm?” He asked taking a few steps closer.

 

            “I said why.” I told him. “Why all this?”

 

            “You wouldn’t even begin to understand.” He said as I tossed some dirt onto the pile.

 

            “Oh, come on.” I said, trying to egg him on. “Try me.”

 

            “Dig.” He commanded, talking a few more steps towards me. “Come on.”

 

            “What’s the skinny?” I asked sticking the shovel into the ground and leaning on the handle.

 

            “Hop to Hop Sing.” He said standing on the dirt mound. “Just be glad that I’m going to take good care of your car and this gun. I like them, good car and a good gun.”

 

            When I was a kid, about ten or so, I got a cap gun for my birthday. Something went wrong with the gun though, a spring I think, and I asked my father to fix it. He opened the gun and put the spring back, or whatever it was, and announced it fixed. When he closed the gun and checked it, he had to fire it a couple of times to make sure it worked. The gun was a child sized revolver, and it was small in his hand. Looking at my gun in this mountain troll’s hand, it reminded me of that time. It was different, but it looked enough like that to cause me to have a moment of recall.

 

            I picked up the shovel, grabbing the end in my left hand and holding my right hand near the head. He stuck his hand out and shot the ground behind me. I turned my head to look and heard the hammer draw back again. I looked at his hand, extended out as it was, and swung the shovel as hard as I could. The point of the shovel smashed against his left hand, and another round fired from the gun. He screamed as the gun flew from his hand. He held his hand up displaying the fact that the dropping of the gun was less than voluntary. Three of his fingers were missing and a chunk of hand under the knuckles was missing as well.

 

            I stabbed the shovel forward and caught his leg right under the knee. His screaming restarted and he reached for his leg. I then swung the shovel up and smacked his face with the pan. He fell back and I leapt up onto the pile and put my foot on his chest. I lifted the shovel over my head, ready to bring it down on his neck and take his head off. It would be one single stroke, and then it would be over. With a yell I brought down the point of the shovel and missed my target.

 

            The shovel hit about five inches too high and went through his mouth instead of his neck. The shovel smacked something hard and stopped in place, actually bouncing a little off the part of his skull that I hit. I tried to push, but it wouldn’t go any further. His eye opened wide and he reached for my leg. His voice cried something unintelligible, while his jaw flapped down on his chest, his teeth shimmering in the dark.

 

            His fingers closed on my calf, squeezing so hard I had small fingertip sized bruises there later. He kept making that gurgling crying sound, which sounded like the death cry of a bull hippopotamus. It was a sound that had all his lung power behind it, but the throat it was yelling from was blocked by the part of his tongue that I’d sliced through. I yanked the shovel away from his face and lifted it up again. I decided to bring it down on the exact spot, but I missed again.

 

            The point of the shovel went through his forehead this time, but again refused to go the whole way through. His hand tightened around my leg and I shook him off as I leaned forward. His fingers still held my cuff though, because he never did know when to give up. I grabbed the end of the shovel’s long handle, shifted my weight and stepped on the pan of the shovel. I turned the handle and I gave one corner of the pan a good solid kick. The top of the head split open as I stomped the shovel as hard as I could. The brain splattered on the ground and his hand let go of my leg. I lifted the shovel once more and this time I hit my target and split the brain in half. I then lifted the shovel over head and brought the flat pan down and splattered it. I slipped back, tripped over Knock’s arm and fell down into the hole, which was at least sort of soft from the freshly turned earth.

 

            “Didn’t they tell you?” I asked him as I panted. “I’m Jack the Giant killer. Seven with one blow, bitch.”

 

            I got up and looked to my left, where my gun had fallen. I pick it up and looked at the handle. The scale on the left side of the gun had been broken and the top half had fallen off. I would never find it in the dark like this. It didn’t look like it would be able to be fired without cutting my thumb from the shock. I put the gun into its holster and then walked towards what was left of Knock. I went through his pockets and started to reclaim my belongings. I pulled the keys from his pocket and stuck them in my coat.

 

            “Got my gold, well brass plate anyway.” I then patted my side where the gun was. “Got the hen that lays the eggs. Well, gun that shoots the bullets anyway. Now to get my harp.”

 

            I pulled the ipod from his pocket and walked back towards the car. I got into the car and started the engine. I got my cellphone out of my pocket and scrolled through until I found Crammer’s number as I drove to the corner so I could read the street signs.

 

            “Yeah?” Crammer’s voice came.

 

            “Knock’s your man.” I said. “He smacked my hand into a pulp trying to get me to sign a confession admitting to everything. When I wouldn’t he took me deep into Armada to kill me.” I told him the two street corners and explained where they could find Knock’s body.

 

            “You wait there for us to get there.” He said.

 

            “I can’t do that.” I said. “I know who the killer is, and you’ll never be able to touch this person because they’re supposed to be dead already. Can you claim that an anonymous source gave you this information? Just say that one of your snitches saw him?”

 

            “What are you going to do?” He asked.

 

            “Go work it out.” I said. “If you can’t hold them responsible, I’ll make sure they get to someone who can.”

 

            “I’m going to trust you on this one.” He said. “But it could get you in more trouble than it may relieve.”

            “Shit happens.”

 

            “Usually to me.” He said. “Talk to you later.”

 

            “Yup.” I said and finished the conversation like I always do. “Bye, bye.”

 

            When he hung up I hit the engine and started away. Years of driving those back roads from a desire to be alone gave me a perfect map in my head. I stayed off the main roads and just went down the old dirt drives to stay out of the way. I made it back to the office without being seen, and I thought it was a little suspicious that Crammer didn’t call to bawl me out for leaving the scene of a crime.

 

            I got to the office where Debbie was still on the phone to someone. She looked up at me as I entered the office, told who ever it was goodbye and hung up. She looked at me with a bit of horror on her face. I touched my forehead and looked at the blood.

 

            “Been a bad day.” I said holding my left hand and working the fingers

 

            “I guess.” She said. “Crammer says whatever it is, he’d better not find out about it.”

 

            “Okay.” I nodded and took the gun from its holster. “Here, you can have this as a going away gift.”

 

            “Your gun’s broken?” She said, concerned.

 

            “Yeah.” I said. “It’s no big deal, just like the Marley. I mean my grandfather only gave me this gun the day I got my license because he said a detective would need the best hand gun ever made.”

 

            “Jack.” She said.

 

            “I don’t think I’ll ever want to shoot it again anyway.” I took a step towards my office and stopped to tell her, “You can call Crammer again and tell him that I’m just going to leave town. They should be able to figure everything out without me.”

 

            I went to the office and looked around it for a moment. The light from across the street shown in through the window. I walked to the bathroom to have a look at myself. I was the very mask of the red death. My face was dabbled and sprinkled with Knock’s blood. My shirt had been sprayed with the red horror, and for a moment I wondered if anyone was going to let me just go or was I going to be hung from the battlements in the morning.

 

            That didn’t really seem to matter right at that moment though. Now was a time for some old school vengeance. It was a time when a man like myself would have to do something thoroughly unpleasant to cleanse the land of darkness or some crap like that. I kept a change of clothes in the office for just such an occasion and I used it, leaving the blood splattered gear in the bathroom.

 

            I walked to the cabinet and opened the drawer where I kept the knives from Mina and John. I took my coat off and tossed it to one side, letting it land on the floor. I grabbed the bowie knife and used the straps on it to tie it to my shoulder holster under my right arm. I tied it up in such a way that the handle was down by my waist so that I could just reach in and grab it. I then picked up the kukri and stuck it into the holster for the gun, tying it down as well as I could. I walked out to the outer office and looked at Debbie, who stopped typing and looked up at me.

 

            “You’re going to have to tuck that one on your left a little better.” She said.

 

            “I’m going to come back in a little while.” I said. “Will you be here?”

 

            “No.” She shook her head. “I’m going to Metro right now, I’m going to fly to O’Hare and my sister is picking me up. I’ll get a place there and come back to tidy up in a while when I get a place and everything.”

 

            “Okay.” I nodded. “I’ll mail you the keys or send them here or something.”

 

            “Just hold on to them.” She said. “I’ll tell them to change the lock if I decide to close this office. I might keep it open. You know, just in case.”

 

            “Thanks Deb.” I said and walked through the door. “You are quite possibly the only person left in Michigan that I actually like. I just thought you should know that.”

 

            I adjusted the kukri as I went down the stairs, and got into the Hudson. I drove carefully, making sure not to break the speed limit as I went. I did my best not attract any extra attention than normal. My only hope was that no one had a call out for me and my car. I couldn’t be sure if Crammer was calling those shots, or if his word was going to be good to me. If anyone was on the look out for a dark blue classic, specifically a Hudson Super Six, I was going to get nailed.

 

            I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and scrolled through for a number. Finding the one I wanted took me a moment while I drove, because I had to keep my eyes on the road as well. When I found the number I hesitated before pressing the button that would send my call. I always hesitated before calling her, and three times out of four I put the phone back down before calling. This time I couldn’t just put it down though, I needed her this time, so I pressed.

 

            “This is Alice.” She said answering a call that clearly was coming later than a call would normally.

 

            “Hi Alice, its Jack.” I announced.

 

            “Oh, hi Jack!” She said, and I was almost happy to hear the smile in her voice. “What’s going on?”

 

            “You remember how back in the old days you guys would get something on a guy or get a beautiful agent to seduce him to get him to join up?” I asked.

 

            “I remember some of the older agents talking about how they’d seduce men and get them to join.” Her voice got playful. “Are you saying you’d like me to come seduce you? I’m in Washington right now, but maybe we could get together later this week?”

 

            “That’d be too long.” I said. “And it’ll be easier than that for you. What I need is a bag team to come take care of a body for me.”

 

            “What do you mean Jack?” She asked. “We don’t do that sort of thing.”

 

            “Don’t play dumb.” I told her. “We both know you can get a bunch of guys to come clean up a place. This is important.”

 

            “How important?” She asked.

 

            “Well, as I started saying, you could probably need a guy who has a legitimate excuse to go around with a key fob reading seven with one blow.” I told her. “I find myself out of a job and probably without a license to detect privately very soon. I think I’m going to need the protection the Agency could provide.”

 

            “So you need a new job and a place to hide?”

 

            “I need a reason not to have to hide.” I told her. “But I could probably use a job.”

 

            There was a long pause, and then she spoke again.

 

            “Do you have an address where I can send them?”

 

            “Yes.” I said and gave her the address.

 

            “Okay.” She said. “It’ll take them an hour or more.”

 

            “That’s okay.” I said. “I’ve got a use for the time. I’ll need to start right away, the longer I’m around here the more I’m likely to get hit up for something.”

 

            “Can you come down to Virginia tomorrow?” she asked.

 

            “Yeah, I think I can do that.” I said. “Unless something changes and I just keep driving.”

 

            “When you get ready to go, give me a call.”

 

            “I’ll call you from the road if all goes well.” I told her. 

 

 

 

This is part ten of thirteen, come back next week for part eleven and every Thursday until we’re done to see what happens next. If you get lost, one of the tags here should help you. The Cabinet tag will take you to the story while the Jack Tag will take you to Part One of every story we post here.