So many coins line my pockets that New York’s fairest maiden quivers in her emerald robe with jealousy for the copper I carry.
Internet’s down again and I sort of don’t have a blog for you, per se. Per se
. I do have something of an experiment that I managed to type up over my lunch break. I’d always been drawn to the idea of Dtoid fanfic and, though I’ll concede the thrown to that Designer of great Fame, I, with the blessing he gave me moons and moons ago, wanted to give it a try. Sorry, it’s a little rushed, but I’m pressed for time, and sorry it’s a little bad, but I’m not really a writer. Also, no pictures, don’t have the time for ‘em, so imagine heaps upon heaps of stills of you and me canoodling, probably with Occams hanging around in the background. If I’m real lucky, see you next week!
Mr. Andy Dixon woke as he did every day, to the setting sun’s last rays. Scratching places unmentionable, wrapped in a fuchsia robe and rank fog, he stared without focus at the horizon through eyes that matched its crimson hue.
“Boners,” he mused to himself, “today is a good day for boners.”
With that, he promptly passed out.
Elsewhere, a story with more characters, if less of what, lacking an appropriate portmanteau of lust and disgust, could only be described as character, was unfolding. Putting to rest once and for all what was black and white and reading all over, two penguins squabbled over a newspaper. The squirming discomfort that might have erupted on noting the heavy calibre weapons with which they did so was in no way dispersed by the lack of index fingers either party might have used to bullet-point their argument.
As tensions soared in ways the two birds could have only dreamed, a bespectacled man of a black so black collapsed stars might concede themselves darkish-grey holes by comparison strode into the room with the air of authority normally resolved for kings, presidents, cafeteria cashiers, and internet radio show hosts. In a voice possessing the majesty of Arthur’s sword and the strength of the stone in which it was stuck, he sent a single word rolling like blade and boulder down a mountain towards a peasant village.
Antarctic squab ceased to squabble so abruptly the space between their heated argument and frozen silence gave rise to a petit hurricane which scooted out the door before it could draw anyone’s notice. The black-clad man grinned and, in a rapid exchange of yeahs of varying intonation on the one side and flapping of vacillating intention on the other, the reason for his excitement quickly became clear.
They had a job.
Law and Crime were two cops who had turned in their badges so many times they’d taken to stockpiling extras Scrooge McDuck-glittering-pool-style in the spare bedroom. At some point, long after they’d lost track of whether or not they were still on the force, they decided to start up a freelance detective business on the side. Despite the handful of unavoidable incidents of incarceration that accompany any business venture, things were going better than anyone could have hoped, with the exception of one small hitch. They now had a job.
As the penguins came to terms with this development, Crime ushered in their client. On the kind of gams that don’t quit until a sultry tomorrow, floating in the sort of perfumed sea a man happily drowns in, adorned with the pouty lips Persephone herself might have blessed with Death’s kiss, a new problem walked into their lives.
“Uh, hi,” muttered HandsomeBeast. “So, am I going to get my bike back or what?”
Man and bird and bird nodded to each other. The case was on. Unburdened by the hesitation that weighs on those with a deficiency of panache, the trio hurled themselves with a thunderous crash through the nearest window to land squarely in the seats of their awaiting 70’s-era hotrod. Tires squealing like the pedestrians littering their sidewalk shortcut, they were off.
Hours later, singed, bleeding, and smelling of lozenges, they were back. They had no bike. They had no car. Somewhere along the way, they’d lost their badges throwing them at their captain. Congratulating each other on their professionalism and the deftness with which they’d uncovered the double-, if not quadruple-crossing endemic of such capers they’d (probably) suffered at the hands of their (allegedly) duplicitous client, they stormed back into their office to confront the patiently waiting HandsomeBeast.
“Oh, Jesus,” he exclaimed with a calm few could claim to posses in his place. “What the hell?”
In no mood to book any sort of argument from his former client, Crime threw the book at him. Here, in this particular story, “the book” is a euphemism for the punch HandsomeBeast easily sidestepped.
“I’ve been in wars. And prison. You don’t want to fight me.”
Before the Minister could retort with his own extensive set of credentials or even cue the theme music he had prepared for such story-telling, HandsomeBeast continued.
“I found my bike under a half-ton of mackerel behind that fake plastic tree back there. Now, normally I would make like my fists had two all-you-can-eat tickets to the pain-buffet of your respective faces, but I’m afraid just getting close to you would sully the handsomeness that raises me above the average beast, besides which, you already seem to be smouldering, so I’m just going to leave. But please, for my sake and yours, please stop being detectives.”
With that, he left the shamed detectives to stew in a silence that was immediately broken by unruly and, truth be told, shameless celebration. They’d done it. They’d solved their first case. And they were heroes for it.
LOOK WHO CAME: