Time for another fresh lousy novel. This time, lets keep if full of plot twists. Take the story to extremes by linking up different people, scenarios and prespectives. Make the story go hard left as often as you can. Long continuing stories can get long and boring, utilize Monty Python's "And now for something completely different" type change as often as possible, keep it fresh.
I never really understood the whole concept of being reborn. If you can't remember your past lives..you are basically dead for all intents and purposes when you morph. How and who decides what you are going to become is another mystery to me, is it random? does' somebody spin a big wheel or something? do they have fun with it? I mean if somebody came back as a slug or anything like that, I would assume they were a real fuck up in whatever they were prior! It is probably best that you dont carry memories into your new life. Especially if you became a slug, and ended up sitting on the windowsill of your old house, watching someone banging your ex...and you're just a slug now.
The whole concept just seems a lot more plausible to me lately, ever since...
...I determined that very slimy garden slug had seemingly morphed into a bullet slug found in the body of Mrs. Peacock a plagiarizing so called writer who's, clueless, so-called novels sounded suspiciously like my own. I am Agatha Mystery, a writer since I retired, but formerly a sought-after detective called in on difficult cases. Being in my eighties with dizzy spells might explain why I tripped over Mrs. Peacock just as I left the conservatory. Propping myself up with my cane, I knew I would need to call in younger minds, trained with newer equipment, following new procedures. No matter how old I am I can see she is dead by her fixed stare & the blood drying on the earth beside her. Her high heel prints had ruined my pansy seedlings & I am not amused...
………So, I went to the circus in town to try to find some amusement there. There’s just something hilarious about watching elephants and horses shit as they walk. Furthermore, they walk-dump right in front of family crowds and seeing that really makes me wet my panties.
I also knew that the circus folk would know the whereabouts of an old friend of mine who could help me solve this case before I was named primary suspect number one. After all Lady Peacock WAS found slugged to death in MY conservatory, in MY home, having trampled over MY pansy garden, during MY dinner party). But I didn’t kill her, though I wanted her dead for all her years of plagiarizing my brilliant and superior work. But I digest. If I was going to clear my own name and apprehend the real killer of the Lady Peacock, I was going to need the help a woman named, Dawn Keyballs. She was my ex-lover, turned headliner circus clown at the new national Barnum and Bailey Circus.
The last I heard, she went by the stage name “Horny the Clown,” because of the huge horn she would honk after each joke from her Catskills Joke Book. I wasn’t sure if she was traveling with this troupe or off performing in some other city. Maybe she had given up the circus entirely. We had lost touch with each other after the sex got boring, despite incorporating that damn horn into our lovemaking.
It would not be hard to spot her myself, since she was a rather tall character, with naturally red, wiry hair, and she preferred black-face make-up to traditional white face clown make-up. If I had to guess, I’d say she was a modest and lithe 8 feet in height and an easy 240 in weight, but most of that was pure muscle from her days as a cheating bodybuilder.
Aside from all those things and more, she was a brilliant detective, having detected my G-spot in less than 6 sexonds. You see, she had the gift. The gift of detection intuition. But for her, detective work was her hobby, not her profession. She chose to keep those separate.
“Any of you clowns seen Horny?” I asked.
“Horny don’t work here no more,” said the tiny one, only 4 feet tall.
“Any idea where she might be working these days?” I inquired.
“Who’s asking?” muttered the bearded lady, named Butch.
“Name is Agatha Mystery. And I need Horny’s help. Real bad,” I answered.
The bearded Lady said, “What’s it worth to you?”
I knew how to play this game, after 80 years on earth, the players may change but the game remains. “I got 2 uncashed social security checks, each for 10 dollars. That's it,” I says to her.
“Done!” said the bearded lady, apparently hard up for money. “You’ll find Horny in Las Vegas, training the new clowns at the Circus, Circus Hotel and Casino. She gets free room and board there.”
I says to her, I says “Thanks. And here’s an extra 5 bucks. Trim your beard and bush on me.”
So, I flew to Las Vegas to bring home Horny the Clown, to help me solve the murder of Old Lady Peacock. I had a ton of suspects from the dinner party I was throwing, but no idea who, how, when, no motive, no gun, and no memory of putting a slug into the old bat. I left the crime scene just the way it was. Mostly because I'm 80 and forgot about it. It wasn't on purpose.
I arrived at midnight in New Jersey. "What the fuck am I doing in New Jersey?" I asked myself. "Oh yeah, I'm 80! I forgot where I was going." I finally got on the right plane and arrived in Las Vegas. I could not wait until dawn to find Horny. I knew she’d be up anyway, since I knew her intimately. I drove to the place the other circus folk said she would be, knocked on the door and to my surprise……
And, if she would have trampled my Zucchini plants, I would have killed her myself. I hate to admit it, but I am quite fond of Zucchini.
As Mrs. Peacock lay there lifeless, I couldn't help but notice the huge slug hanging out of her mouth. After a quick inspection, I took the camera out my purse to snap some hasty crime scene photos before the Philly PD contaminated the scene. I always carry the essentials for a hasty crime scene. So, I got out my tweezers, and proceeded to pry the slug from her mouth.
My first glimpse of the slug revealed that it had blue eyes. What the fuck? If I could see what color it's eyes were, that could only mean one thing. This slug was alive! AS I reached for a padded evidence pouch, it started to wriggle uncontrollably. It was as if the slug knew that it was being captured.
I then inspected Mrs. Peacock's mouth, and made a strange observation. Her mouth was shaped as if she were sucking on a big dill pickle, ya know, the kind that used to be in the barrels at grocery stores. What the hell was she doing sucking on the slug?
I took a quick swab of a suspect secretion that I noticed around her tonsils. I'll put this sample in a test tube to analyze later in the lab back home. Could it be that our victim was poisoned by the slug?
I needed to get backup for this case, so I pulled out my cell phone to call my partner....
....Max. Actually he was Mr. Mustard's grandson who needed employment of any sort at the time. "
"Max, I must be seeing a Vegas Mirage here but I've returned after a senior moment. I don't think I ever left the crime scene here in Philly, (founded by the Earl of Sandwich in case you're interested). I never worked the Cirque du Soleil & as far as Horny goes, she usually is self-driven".
"Maybe you got you synapses crossed," Max said."Most of the time you don't know whether you're coming or going. especially in the immediate hour after your medication.
"It's obvious why I need you here toute suite, Max, before I get ahead of myself again. There's a murdered Peacock in my garden & a slug with blue eyes & a pickle involved, all things you are experienced in. (Oh, by the way, bring money, I seem to have misplaced my social security cheques.)"....
Meanwhile, back in Vegas, I found out there was no clown school which momentarily pissed me off until I remembersed the phony social security checks. After questioning all the local carny's and circus people I got wind of an organization called the Clown Underground. They said it was run by a giant named Hornbacher..hmmmm.
I went to the abandoned warehouse they said housed the organizations clubhouse. The first thing I noticed was a yellow VW with polka dots parked near a side entrance, as I got closer I could see extremely lagre shoeprints leading around back.
There was music coming from the basement, pipe organ music. I noticed a sliver of light coming from a window that had been mostly covered with black cloth. Carefully and quietly I peered in and the scene that I witnessed both shocked and amazed me, they were..
"Max," Agatha Mystery said, tripping over Mrs. Peacock's body again. "There is someone in Vegas using my name & identity & plagiarizing my plots like Mrs. Peacock used to do. I think we could let Peacock rot a little longer & it wouldn't ruffle anyone's feathers. I want to find out who it really is."
"Agreed!" responded Max, " especially since the Philly Police aren't fond of her either since she used her iPhone to catch them illegally beating the bushes."
As they boarded a Grey Hound to Vegas, Agatha Mystery felt safe having a handsome man to protect her. She had learned his full name was Max "Factor" Mullins. He'd been tagged with that nickname because he often "factored" into the solution of a crime....(if he wasn't in the bathroom freshening up his make-up). Of course Agatha was too kind to tell him to tone down the red rouge that made him look like a circus clown...
In Colorado, their bus was hijacked by a deranged member of the U.S. Cycling team, training in the Rocky Mountains. This rogue biker held a shotgun to the bus driver’s head, while holding his own bicycle in the other hand. He was also wearing a ballet tutu over his biker’s outfit, but none of had the courage to ask about it. The kidnapper announced we were all his hostages because he needed protection from not one, but two hit men trailing him – one supposedly hired by the disgraced Lance Armstrong, the other hired by the U.S. Govt. Apparently this biking scandal went all the way up to the top! We’re talking major government officials involved here, perhaps even the president! All according to the man in the tutu.
He ordered the bus driver to take us all to that awful, dreadful, puke infested, trashy, unpleasant smelling and appalling country – Canada: land of prescription meds at affordable prices.
This highjacker was one twisted son-of-a-bitch. He made us all do stretches and running in place exercises, as the bus sped toward the Canadian border. It was torture. Max and I were both out of shape and had not exercised in ages. Then the unthinkable happened, he ordered us all to do jumping jacks. Someone was going to have to take this mad cyclist out, and I mean quick before he started making us do crunches.
By nightfall, we arrived in secluded wooded area in some part of Canada. We all got out as hostages, our bodies aching with both fear and pain from coerced workouts. We were all too tortured to fight back or make a run any kind of a run for it. He ordered us all to sit on the ground in a circle while he………
...removed a bucket of hot maple syrup from the maple tree nearby & poured it on the snow where it congealed & made delicious looking snow cones.
"You Yankees are really a bunch of saps like this but since Canadians like me have the reputation of being "nice" I'm giving you a spoon to taste it & maybe later I'll make you some fudge."
"Who are you?" Agatha asked, spooning with Max.
"I'm the disgraced Prime Minister, Justin Thyme" he said as he hitched his tutu to a canoe. "I've hijacked you so you could see Canadians in their own environment and knock into your head that there is a country north of the 49th parallel that doesn't belong to you. Now sing Oh Canada & I'll give you some bannock, a pair of mukluks & some snowshoes. We're heading north to live with the polar bears. You're warmed up so don't blubber and don't call the Inuit an Eskimo if you know what's good for you...
Somewhere on the slopes of Kilimanjaro a tribal elder smelled the air...maple syrup. He worked as a guide for a great white hunter from Key beck many a moons ago that had him try waffles and he never forgot Constable Luc or his waffles.
Constable Luc had also given him a paperback book titled "Murder She Was", it was supposed to be used for toilet paper but, that's not how his tribe rolled, so he kept it. A kind missionary named Sister Poultergristle Hangnail Jones taught him how to read by the campfire . She also enlightened him on the ugly american and how to stay clear of them. Obambo, that was his given name, had received an email recently on his Iphone5 (he slept at the airport for days waiting for his pre-order) the email was from a man that called himself Emmett Kelley, it included a picture of what looked to Obambo like an old black and white horror flick from the 50's, it was a giant woman caving in a house on some little white dude in a suit,
Back in the old days the missionaries would have movie night on Thursdays, using an old sheet for the screen. Everyone in the tribe loved the movies, some thought it was black magic. One night, right in the middle of The Crawling Eye a hyena dragged off an old woman...right at the scariest part..and that was the end of movie night
.......and the tribe prayed to their Gods that the hyena be properly punished for its sins. That same hyena was being tracked by the world renowned hunter, Mr. Mortimer Pennybottom the III. He and his trusted man servant from India, Nishpu, were hot on its trail. All it would take is one bullet from his trusty rifle and the hyena's that had eluded him for so long, would now complete his game collection for his den. It took two shots and the hyena fell. Nispu cleaned the wounds and carried the carcass back to their private plane. Back home to England they flew, as Nishpu spent the entire flight stuffing the animal for the game room.
Back home, Mr. Pennybottom admired the final piece of his collection. Now that his collection was complete, he felt empty inside. So, he decided to hunt his loyal man servant, Nishpu to fill the void.
"I shall give you a five minute head start and then I will come at you," said Mr. Pennybottom.
"But sir," pleaded Nishpu, "who will prepare tonight's dinner? Furthermore, who will take the time to pair your socks after the wash and dry like I do?"
"My dear Nishpu, I am quite sure I could train a Gibbon or a rather small Mandrill to do the things you do for me. Now on your marks, get set..............run."
Nishpu ran through the acres as if he had just finished drinking a gallon of gutter water from an India fountain and felt the shits coming on. Mr. Pennybottom began to hunt the world's most elusive creature - man. He fired a shot. The shot was fired with such accuracy, Nishpu's left hand exploded upon impact and was reduced to a bloody nub. Good thing he masturbates with his right.
"That little Nishpu will go quite nicely, stuffed, and placed in between my black bear and hairy moose" Pennybottom thought to himself.
Pennybottom continued to hunt Nishpu on the grounds of his own land. Nishpu found the perfect place to hide, it was.............
...smack dab in the middle of Pennybottom's novel. (To be specific, the paragraph beginning with "and" & ending with "was".) Nishpu crouched down amidst the reeds & pond scum feeling safe & certain no-one would voluntarily wade through it all & find him....
..until he heard a noise from over his shoulder. The reeds parted and Groucho, Iver-snide, Big Louie and Imelda Marcos walked by without a sound.
Nishpu was shaking, he knew his head would end up next to the Hutu trophy if he didn't keep moving. He was all alone and could really use a hand right now.
He stuck out his good arm and began moving through the reeds like an elephant. He came upon pages from a book floating in the water, he could only make out a few words "Murder she ...." the rest of the page was covered in shit..