Category Archives: Pop Culture Mysteries

Aug 16 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 4)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES..

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

Sergei Yakubovich chomped on a cigar and studied his hand like a sinner looking for a loophole in the bible.

“You are bluffing, Mr. Hatcher.”

“There are two things I never do, Sergei,”  I said.  “Bluffing’s the first.”

The Muffster

The Muffster

“And the second?”

I took a hearty swig of of scotch.

“Drink with a commie.”

I motioned for the waitress to fetch me another.

“But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

Sergei had a permanent dour glare on his face, as if someone was perpetually pooping on his party.

He looked down his nose at me over a pair of circular spectacles.

“You are full of the shit of a bull, American swine.”

Yakubovich held himself out to the world as a legitimate businessman, though it had long been rumored that he had secretly made his scratch by using his politburo contacts to obtain and sell Russian arms on the black market.

One of the many reasons why I despised the pinkos.  The guys who always got on their soapbox about how the villagers should share toilet paper rations were always the first ones to get all capitalist when it came to their own personal wealth.

“Only one way to find out.”

The waitress, a darling auburn haired lovely in a skimpy black dress, set another scotch down in front of me.

I flipped her a chip.

“Keep ’em coming, doll.”

“Oui oui, monsieur.”

Muffy rested her chin on my left shoulder.  One whiff of her perfume was all I needed to feel like a man.

“I thought I was your doll?”

“You know you are, my sweet souffle.”

Sergei pushed a large mound of chips into the already heaving pot in the center of the table.

“Prepare to be crushed, comrade.”

Count Rickard tossed his hand down on the table and backed away.

“Mr. Hatcher,”  my former client said as he stood up and fastened the top button of his coat.  “If there’s one lesson I learned when you bailed me out, it’s how to not be drawn in by greed a second time.”

Signora Isabella Bellavenuti was quite a sight.  She was an Italian fashion designer of world renown, though what passed for trendy finery back then always amazed me.

Coincidentally, it still does today.

She wore a white mink stole, likely produced from the pelts of a hundred deceased varmints and an elaborate hat, festooned with feathers and miscellaneous plumage, curving at various, oddly chosen angles.

PETA would be up her ass with an electron microscope if she were around today.

“This is, how you say, ‘Too rich for my blood?'”

She too backed off and sucked on her filtered cigarette as if it were her last.

Yakubovich and I engaged in a stare off.  Neither one of us was going to budge

“Your will is like that of your countrymen, Hatcher,”  my Soviet adversary said.  “Bloated, lazy, and soft.”

I belted down my newly arrived scotch.

Then, I pushed the remainder of my chips in.

“Au contraire, Yakubovo-whatever,”  I said.  “Your resolve is like the Communist Party’s motto: sacrifice is great, especially when the other guy’s doing it.”

The tension between us grew thick and palpable.  You could cut it with a knife, eat it up and still have enough left over for seconds.

Signora Bellavenuti lightened the mood.

“Marone!  Had I wanted to witness a pee pee measuring contest, I’d of watched my last two lovers duel over my hand!  Show your cards already!”

Yakubovich splayed his cards out on the table.  Eight, seven, six, five, four.  All hearts.  A straight flush.

The looky lous who’d gathered round the table emitted a collective gasp.

“Sacre bleau!”  Muffy cried.

Old Sergei had played better than I gave him credit for.

“What in the name of Barbara Stanwyck’s underpants?!”

The Russki snickered and started raking the pot towards his side of the table with his hands.

“I guess I underestimated you, Yak-a-boo-boo.”

“Is Yakubovich,” my nemesis said.  “And yes, you failed to recognize Russia’s might, just as your leaders will when we fly the hammer and sickle over the White House.”

“Over my dead body,”  I said.

“That is idea.”

I stood up.  I looked around the room.  All eyes were on me.

The French waitress brought me another shot.  I drank it, then slapped the empty glass down on the table.

“That’s good,”  I said.  “That’s really good.”

“Do not embarrass yourself, Hatcher.  Take your lumps like a man.”

“Say Yaka-bo-bo, what did the Queen do after she dropped a big steamer?”

I tossed down my hand.

Ace.  King.  Queen.  Jack.  Ten Spot.  All clubs.

You could have knocked that Bolshevik over with a feather.

“A Royal Flush?”

Cheers.  Applause.  Accolades.  And most of all, money.  Sweet, glorious cheddar.

It was mine.  All mine.

Twenty-five thousand smackers.

I know, 3.5.  That sounds good, but not life changing, right?

Wrong.  Adjusted for inflation, I was staring at the modern day equivalent of a quarter million.

Muffy hugged me like she wanted to push herself through me.  She planted her lips on mine and we sucked face like a pair of flounders who’d just crashed into one another on the ocean floor.

And not for nothing, but as soon as that bread was the property of yours truly, a lot of chickadees in that joint started giving me that look.  You know the one.  Like we were on the plains of the Serengetti, they were jaguars, and I was a nice, ripe, juicy caribou butt that they wanted to sink their teeth into.

But as far as I was concerned, Muffy was the only kitten I was interested in.

Outraged, Yakubovich slammed his fist on the table and stormed off.

Count Rickard shook my hand and it was congratulations all around.

An attendant gathered up my chips.

“I’ll cash you out sir.”

I accepted adulation for awhile until Fabian’s wife, Arianna, the Countess Rickard, found us.  She was an average looking broad.  Wouldn’t knock your socks off but you wouldn’t turn her down in a pinch either.  She had a slight hair lip, though it was nothing that a little hot wax couldn’t have cured.

“Muffelia!  I’ve been looking all over for you!”

The Countess had taken a real shine to my better half, treating her like the daughter she never had.

“Come dear,” the Countess said.  “I simply must introduce you to the Duchess of Shropshire.  I think you will both get along famously.”

“Merci.  Excuse moi, Jacob.”

The missus wasn’t gone for more than a few seconds when I felt a strong hand slap me on the shoulder.

I turned around.

“Frank?”

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Aug 15 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 3)

Monte Carlo

June 1952

I was having a ball.

Muffelia

Muffelia “Muffy” Bordeaux aka the Second Mrs. Hatcher

No really, I was in attendance at an actual, bonafide ball.  I was wearing a fancy white tuxedo and everything.

Toward the front of the room, a conductor whirled his baton about, back and forth, leading strings, winds, and all manner of instruments in a breathtaking waltz.

Meanwhile, the second Mrs. Hatcher and I were cutting a rug on the large, luxurious floor.

“You dance divinely, mon cheri,” my partner whispered in my ear before nibbling ever so suggestively on my lobe.

“You’re not too shabby yourself, my little creme brulee.”

Muffelia “Muffy” Bordeaux.  She was a sultry Cajun coquette, the type of woman who made men’s hearts overflow with passionate lust.  Like the bayou she was born and bred on, she was mysterious, mischievous…and oh so dirty.

Sorry 3.5 readers.  I didn’t mean to scandalize you.

I love it when a broad wears her hair up, mostly because I spend the whole evening in anticipation of when it comes down.  And Muffy was the Queen when it came to finding out what made my blood pump.

Her lips were red, full, and so very kissable.  Her hair was blacker than a coal miner’s boots and that night, she wore a silver gown with dangly earrings to match.  Men aren’t that hard to please, ladies.  We like shiny things.

For the first time in my life, I was on top of the world.

I’d left the LAPD and put up my own shingle.  Hatcher Investigations was in full swing and in the City of Angels, there was no shortage of wealthy folk with problems that required a man with my special skill set.

My secretary, Connie Connors, who I swiped away from my former boss, Capt. Thaddeus Talbot, was back home holding down the fort.  I owed my success to her.  She kept the business running like a well oiled machine, did all the filing, filled out all the paperwork, and most importantly, played nicey nice with the clients

Thus, all I had to do was the sleuthing.

My bank roll was fat, my car was sporty, and best of all, I had the type of wife who, with just one look, could make a man pitch a tent faster than a master outdoorsman.

Today, at ninety-five, I realize that’s not the only quality a man should be looking for in a significant other, but forgive me, because back then I didn’t know any better.

In my defense, the Muffster excelled at switching off a man’s brain.

Her accent made me putty in her hands, and she never missed an opportunity to bend me any which way she wanted.

She insisted on calling me Jacob, but she pronounced it, “Zsa-Cob.”  “Zsa,” like Zsa Zsa Gabor, the actress from Green Acres, and “cob” like what you hold when you’re eating corn.

“I want you to hold me in your arms forever, Jacob.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice, baby.  You make me feel like a million bucks.”

SPOILER ALERT:  I’d later learn that the “forever” Muffy had in store for me was a mere six months and coincidentally, she’d shoot me six times and leave me for dead over the same amount of money, not to mention run off with Roscoe, my lousy excuse for a kid brother, God rest his soul.

But put all of that out of your mind for now, 3.5.  That night, I was convinced we were both happy.

And why wouldn’t we be?

We were on our honeymoon.  A free honeymoon.   A glorious fortnight in Monaco, the tiny European principality where all the beautiful people of the world gathered to hob knob, rub elbows, trade gossip and measure each other’s bank accounts.

We were the guests of Count Fabian Rickard, heir to a lavish Hungarian dynasty, and between you and me, a bit of a gullible old goose.

He’d managed to get nearly his entire fortune tied up in an elaborate real estate swindle and hired me to track down the fraudulent huckster who bilked him.

The nogoodnik was hiding out in LaLa Land and yours truly located him, put him behind bars, and most importantly, reunited the Count with his cabbage.

He was so grateful that when I mentioned I was about to tie the knot, he insisted that the new Mrs. Hatcher and I be his guests at his chateau, a vacation home he visited quite frequently.

The Waltz wrapped up and the band took a powder.

Our benefactor strolled up to us with a bubbly champagne flute in each hand.  He offered them and we accepted them gladly.

“Ahhh, young love,”  Count Rickard said.  “What I wouldn’t give to return to the days when the Countess and I gazed at one another the way you two do.”

The Count had a devilish black beard that came down off of his chin in a point and a heavily waxed mustache that curled up on both ends.

“Come now, Fabes.”

Fabes.  A little nickname I had for him.

“I bet whenever you’re gone, the little woman counts the seconds until you return and stir her goulash.”

Count Rickard looked at me, trying to figure out what I meant.  Then he let the guffaws fly.

“Oh Mr. Hatcher, you are a card.”

“He is an ace!”  Muffy added.

As jokes go, it wasn’t that funny, but Muffy was hotter than the surface of the sun, so we laughed anyway.

“Come my boy,” the Count said as he wrapped an arm around me.  “You must try your luck in the casino.  Are you a betting man, Mr. Hatcher?”

“Oh, I don’t know,”  I replied.  “Pa Hatcher always told me that games of chance are the devil’s work.”

Muffy looked at me with those dark, hypnotic eyes and straightened my bow tie.

“Come Jacob.  It will be fun.”

Yep.  All it took for me to ignore the sage advice of the wisest man I ever knew was a coy pout from a Southern belle.

Oh well.  Men had done worse things for far less.

“Lead the way, Fabes. ”

Copyright (C) 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Aug 15 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 2)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Good evening, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Ms. Tsang.”

“Can I offer you something?”

“Oh, no thank you.  My stomach is positively spinning after this evening.  Is Mr. Hatcher available?”

Hatcher's smelliest case yet.

Hatcher’s smelliest case yet.

My landlandy made a sweeping gesture toward me.

“Couldn’t get rid of him if I tried.  He’s all yours.”

I stood up and put my bowl down.  Sweet Merciful Heavens, Delilah was wearing the crap out of that dress.

All I could do was spit on my thumb and try desperately to rub the stain off my trench coat.

I wasn’t sure how long it’d been there.  I couldn’t remember eating anything that looked like it.

“Au chante, Ms. Donnelly,”  I said as I took my visitor’s hand and kissed it.  “Au chante.  What a vision.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Simply stunning,”  I said.  “A lesser man than I would lose control of himself and be all over you.”

“Please settle down,”  Delilah said as she scooched into the booth.  “I should hate to have to mace you.”

“I’m already blinded by your beauty.”

“Must I always fend off your advances every time I stop by?”

“No,”  I said.  “You can surrender to base desire anytime you like.”

The blonde passed me an envelope.  I’d become all too familiar with this ritual.

A visit from Delilah.  An envelope.  A Pop Culture Mystery begins.

It was all too neat and tidy, as if written for the reading pleasure of 3.5 readers.

“I take no credit for this mystery,”  Delilah said.  “Mr. Battler is putting his eccentricity on full display with this inquiry and I don’t care for the subject matter at all.”

I opened up the envelope and perused the contents.

Hatcher,

Hatfields vs. The McCoys.  Sunni vs. Shia.  East Coast vs. West Coast Rappers.

From the dawn of time, various factions have deemed it necessary to go to war.

But never has there been a conflict that has stood the test of time as long as the feud between the Smellers vs. Deniers.

A group gathers.  They’re sociable.  Enjoying one another’s company.

Suddenly, a noxious odor permeates the nasal passages of everyone in the room.

And then it begins with an accusation.

One person, assumably after having smelled the proverbial “it” lashes out.  Angry, confused, and yes, perhaps just a bit too judgmental, this individual points a finger at the one believed to be the source of the flatulence, demanding justice and satisfaction on behalf of all the offended olfactory glands in the room.

But what is the accuser’s true motivation?  Is the accuser actually offended OR could the accuser be trying to cover up the dirty deed, shifting blame away from himself and onto an unwitting patsy?

Naturally, the accused party goes on the defensive.  Perhaps the accused is innocent, the victim of an unruly lynch mob.  Or, perhaps the accused is indeed guilty, but yearns for forgiveness and wishes to avoid blame.

After all, haven’t the best of us lost control of our bowels at inopportune moments?  Let he who hath never experienced an unintended cheek squeak cast the first fecal stone.

The accused thrusts back with a most assured, “HE WHO SMELT IT, DELT IT!” thus turning the tables and shifting the accuser’s status from accuser to accused.

Now the newly accused, the former accuser, parries with a comeback of, “HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And around, around it goes.

Where does it stop?

I hope you will know.

The smeller?  The denier?  Who’s responsible?

Beware, Hatcher.  This case stinks.

“Really?”  I asked.

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “I have half a mind to tender my resignation.”

“I hope you don’t,”  I said.  “I doubt Battler’s next ambulance chaser would be as easy on the eyes.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?  A pretty face.”

“No,” I said.  “I seek a mythical, often spoken of but rarely observed woman.  One with looks AND brains.  That’s why you enchant me so, Ms. Donnelly.  You’re the unicorn I’ve been searching for.”

The lady lawyer stood up.

“I think you’ll find that I’m not very horny, Mr. Hatcher.”

Wow.  What scandalous double entendre.  Whenever I think Delilah’s a square, she never ceases to knock it out of the park.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must be off now,”  Delilah said.

I walked my guest to the door.

“You must have really put on the ritz tonight,” I said.

“Oh, this?”  Delilah said, noting her fabulous dress.  “Yes, the Bolshoi is in town.”

“I see.  And how is your gentleman caller?”

“As none of your business as ever.”

“Ouch,”  I said.  “Retract the claws. A man can make conversation, can’t he?”

“If that’s all he’s doing.”

I opened the front door.  A limo was waiting for her.

“Is he in there?”  I asked.  “Can I meet your fella?”

“I’m not sure that would be a wise idea.”

“I understand.”

“Finally,”  Delilah replied.

“He’s uglier than a donkey’s butt and you’re too embarrassed to introduce me.  Say no more.”

Delilah sighed.

“Oh Mr. Hatcher.  You’re simply incorrigible.”

The chauffeur walked around and opened the door.

“Say, Ms. Donnelly?”  I asked as my colleague took a seat in her fancy ride.

“Yes?”

“Bolshoi,”  I said.  “That’s ballet, isn’t it?”

“The finest in the world.”

“Think you could score a private dick a couple of tickets?  I know someone who’d like to go.”

“But of course, Mr. Hatcher.  But of course.”

The chauffeur shut the door.  I went back inside and returned to my rice.

It was cold.

Smelt it.  Delt it.  Flatulential accusations.

I knew what Bookshelf Q. Battler was talking about all too well.

I’d once been trapped in a similar situation myself.

An impromptu toot.  A pointed finger.  Anger on both sides.

I doubt the world will ever understand how close it came to a third world war and how I prevented it from taking place.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier

Pop Culture Mystery Question – When gas is passed, who is the culprit?  Is it, “he who smelt it, dealt it?” or “he who denied it, supplied it?”

Another dinner shift over.  Ms. Tsang’s employees cleared dishes and wiped down tables as my landlady took a seat in a corner booth and made with the typey type on her laptop beep boop machine.

I sauntered over with a bowl full of pork fried rice I pilfered from the kitchen.

“Pardon me ma’am, is this seat taken?”  I asked.

Ms. Tsang looked up at me through a pair of glasses.  She only used them for reading.

“Yes.”

I shrugged my shoulders and sat down anyway.  My host noticed my eats.

“I should start running a tab,” she said as she returned her focus to the computer.

Susan Tsang, Hatcher's Niece/Unpaid Landlady

Susan Tsang, Hatcher’s Niece/Unpaid Landlady

On the wall, there was an extensive, elaborate painting of a Chinese dragon.  He was green with a red belly, long like a snake and had a set of dagger like teeth.  His face was angry and menacing, as if he was just itching to leap off the wall and attack the patrons.

“Your mother,” I said as I pointed at the dragon with my chopstick, “Hated that dragon.  Absolutely hated it.  She wanted to run a paint roller over the entire thing.  Said the customers couldn’t enjoy themselves when there was a beast on the wall that looked like it wanted to eat them.”

“Uh huh,”  Ms. Tsang said.  Whatever was on her screen, she was more interested in it than me.

“Your father wouldn’t budge though,”  I said.  “Your Great Uncle, the man who gave him his club in Hong Kong, had a dragon on the wall of his joint just like that one and Joe hired an artist to recreate it from a photo.  He said it brought him luck.”

“Yeah,” Ms. Tsang said.  “Well, if that ugly thing is lucky then I’m still waiting.”

I knew that was a reference to me but I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t blame her.  I wouldn’t want to take care of someone for decades the way she did for me.

“Can you explain this?”

Ms. Tsang turned around her laptop to show me what her peepers had been perusing.  It was none other than the Bookshelf Battle Blog, the official stomping grounds for my client, Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler.

“Don’t stay on there too long,”  I said.  “If Battler gets another reader it’ll go to his head.”

That comment didn’t go over well.  Ms. Tsang was miffed.

“I love you, Jake.”

“Back at ya’ kiddo.”

“But I don’t think you have any idea what it was like to have a grown man sleeping upstairs for fifty-nine years.”

“I have a hunch.”

“Do you?”  Ms. Tsang asked.

I kicked back and enjoyed my free dinner as my niece/landlady enlightened me.

“While I was a kid it was kind of funny,” Ms. Tsang said.  “I’d go up to your office and poke you with a stick, sing songs to you, try to wake you up.”

“Surprised I didn’t wake up,” I said.  “You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket as I recall.”

“Mom and Dad took care of you.  I remember they used to shave you.  Clip your fingernails.  They’d lay you out on your couch, strip you, give you a sponge bath, then dress you back up and put you in your desk chair.”

“Wowza,”  I said.  “Did they really?  Yikes, poor Joe and Evelyn staring at my man parts all those years.”

“Until they passed on,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “Then it all fell on me.”

My heart sunk.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“Are you really?  Do you really think running this place is what I wanted to do with my life?”

“Why not?”  I asked.  “You do it so well.”

“I do a lot of things well,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “But running this place wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

“I know what you wanted to do,”  I said.  “I remember the little girl in the ballerina tutu.  You had moves, Susie, I’ll give you that.”

“I kept the restaurant going because I had no place else to put you.”

“You could have left me on the curb with the trash for all I care, sweetheart.  Sorry I was asleep.  I’d of told you that.”

“And it wasn’t like I could ever tell anyone,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “How do you explain to a boyfriend that there’s a stereotypical 1950’s hardboiled film noir style private detective complete with a trench coat and fedora sleeping permanently in your place of business, never aging at all?”

“Very awkwardly, I assume.”

“Or not at all,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “Dad told me about that man you made an enemy of in World War II.  He told me things could get very bad for you if anyone were to find out that you were in a defenseless state.”

“An accurate assessment,”  I said between bites of rice.

“So, I have a question.”

“I might have an answer.”

Ms. Tsang pointed to the screen, where BQB had posted his latest nonsense.  Something about being the best friend of a little green space man.  The guy was nuttier than a bag of cashews.

“Why are you flushing everything I did for you all those years down the drain?”

“Come again?”

“This blog,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “These stories you write for this Bookshelf Q. Battler idiot.  I hide you for decades and you turn around and announce to the entire world that you’re back?”

“‘The entire world’ is a bit of a stretch,”  I said.  “That site will get more than 3.5 readers when hell freezes over and the devil sponsors a snow man making contest.  I’m pretty sure I’m safe.”

“But you wrote about…”

Ms. Tsang looked around.  The floor was empty.  She leaned in over the table and whispered, “Operation Fuhrerpunschen.”

“So what?”

“Dad said you were sworn to secrecy!  I spent my entire life taking care of a sleepy gumshoe and now you’re daring the government to come haul you away!”

“Please,’  I said.  “Anyone involved in that mission is long gone.  Pushing up daisies and serving as an all you can eat buffet for earth worms.”

“What about the drinking?”

“What about it?”  I asked.

“You’d think six decades would have flushed that demon out of your system,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “But you’re half in the bag now more than ever.”

“What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to me?”  Ms. Tsang asked.

She stood up and waved a finger in my face.

“Now you listen to me, Jacob R. Hatcher.  You will TAKE this second chance at life that NO ONE EVER gets and you will do something worthwhile with it so I don’t end up wishing I’d of just fed your carcass to a pack of wolves, or I will NEVER speak to you again.”

I thought about it.

“Can I still drink?”

“Ugh!’

Ms. Tsang closed her laptop and stormed off.  She got halfway across the restaurant’s spacious dining room when Alan, her goofy looking busboy met her.

Allan died his hair dark black and wore eyeshadow.  Nose with more metal than a scrapyard.  I think he was one of those, what do you people call them?  Goths?

All I know is he was the most depressing kid I ever saw.

“Ms. Tsang” he said in a drab monotone, “This lady asked to come in but I told her we’re closed.”

The lady?

My colleague in the Pop Culture Mystery game, Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly, of course.

And she was dressed as snappily as I’d ever seen her.  A full length evening gown.  Blood red and lipstick to match.

“It’s ok Allan,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “Go punch out.”

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

And now…

Pop Culture Mysteries:  Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier.

Or – He Who Smelt It, Dealt It vs. He Who Denied It, Supplied It.

This case stinks

                         This case stinks.

Pulitzer Prize, here I come.

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 7)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

 

QUESTION 1

DELILAH:  Informant Zero, I shall proceed with Mr. Battler’s first question.  In the song,  My Humps, the artist Fergie was asked multiple times by her bandmates, the Black Eyed Peas, what would she do, and I quote, “with all that junk inside that trunk?”

What exactly did she do with that junk in her trunk?

“What, was she moving?”  I asked.

“Innuendo for her extensive backside, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Ahh,”  I said.

Informant Zero took a drag on his cigarette.  He was quiet, clearly deep in thought.  Then it came to him.

“As I recall, according to that 2005 hit, Fergie specifically stated, and I quote, ‘I’ma get, get, get, get you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump’ and from there on she uses the words ‘humps’ and ‘lumps’ interchangeably.”

“I don’t get it,”  I said.

“In reference to her voluptuous figure, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah explained.

“Oh.  In that case I’ve been love drunk off your humps for quite some time, Ms. Donnelly.”

“The only thing you’re drunk off of is cheap bourbon.”

“Touche.”

“This is my favorite part of the blog,”  Informant Zero said to me.  “When Ms. Donnelly shuts down your incessant advances.”

“I’ll shut you down, Jack.”

QUESTION 2

DELILAH:  Mr. Battler also asks, “If Iron Man has so many back up suits, why does he not simply give each member of the Avengers their own suit?”

“Ms. Donnelly,”  I said.  “It pains me to hear talk of comic books coming from your angelic voice.  Someday we need to talk about why you waste your time helping Battler at all.”

“But that sometime is not today, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Wow,”  Informant Zero said.  “What a stumper.  But I’ve got it.  The Hulk is a rage monster.  He’s barely controllable as it is.  Put an enormous psychopath inside a suit that will make him even stronger?  That spells disaster.  Thor?  He’s the Son of Odin. He’s royalty in Yodenheim.  Do we trust Thor’s people?  I mean, do we really trust them?  Would he take that suit back to his own world, have his Norse scientists reverse engineer it and make a bunch of them?  Before you know it, you’ve got a race of white self-proclaimed supermen waging a war of global conquest on Earth.”

“Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt,”  I said.  “Called it WWII.”

“Stark won’t give Capt. America an iron suit on account of how they’ll go their separate ways in next year’s Marvel Civil War movie.  I’m going to be there with bells on.”

“This guy,”  I said as I pointed to him but looked at Delilah.  “Is just like Battler.  A nerd who just sits around and wastes all his time on comic books and movies.”

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “But I think he might just be the nerd that Mr. Battler needs.”

“Thank you,”  Informant Zero said.  “Hawkeye wouldn’t want the suit because he couldn’t contribute his archery prowess with metal hands.  And Black Widow?  You could give her an iron suit but it’d lead to global destruction once a month.”

Delilah was aghast.

“Maybe you’re right, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “Perhaps I should start to question why I waste my time on this drivel.”

QUESTION 3

Finally, Mr. Battler wants to know whether or not Tony Soprano died in the series finale of HBO’s The Sopranos.

“Isn’t that the question we all want an answer to?”  Informant Zero asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Producer David Chase gave us a do-it-yourself ending.  That’s sure to always generate controversy with fans who’ve invested hours of their lives in a series.  People want closure.  It doesn’t matter what happens, as long as whatever it is, is directly spelled out.”

“So spell it out,”  I said.

“We see the Soprano family enjoying a night out at a restaurant.  Tony, Carmella, and son Anthony Jr. all gather around a table eating onion rings.  Daughter Meadow is late, and a great deal of emphasis is placed on her inability to properly parallel park her car.  The viewer’s mind races.  ‘Is the family about to be killed?  Is Meadow going to luck out through her tardiness?’  A man in a Member’s Only jacket goes to the bathroom.  Is he just a random fellow who needs to wizz or, in true Godfather tradition, is he going to come out of the shitter guns blazing?”

“Who cares?”  I asked.

“You would had you watched it,”  Informant Zero said.  “Chase was creative, I’ll give him that.  In the past, the answer would have been, ‘it’s up to you.’  However, Chase has since stated publicly that Tony Soprano lived.  What did Tony do next?  Your guess is as good as mine.”

“TV never got better than I Love Lucy if you ask me.  Redhead wants to sing at the club.  Husband says no.  Hilarity ensues.”

“You should catch up on the shows you missed while you were Rip Van Winkling, Hatcher,” Informant Zero said.  “Things have gotten more interesting than a duo of housewives stomping on grapes.”

“Mr. Zero,” Delilah said.  “Do you seek compensation?”

“Now wait a minute,”  I said.  “If he gets offered more than five bucks a case, I’m walking.”

“I’m going to write a number down on this piece of paper, Ms. Donnelly.  I think Mr. Battler will find it more than satisfactory.”

Informant Zero scribbled away then handed the note over.

Delilah looked surprised, then showed me the paper.

“A zero?”  I asked.

“Just like my name,”  Informant Zero said.  “Zero symbolizes nothing and yet, as a concept, it still exists.  That is what I strive to be.  No one knows who I am.  I work to make the world a better place and yet I strive to remain unidentified and unidentifiable.  I am nothing and I also exist.”

“How poetic,”  Delilah said.

“Battler will be happy, the cheap bastard.”

Delilah stood up.  I followed.

“I believe we’ve reached an accord, Mr. Zero.  I shall relay the details of our rendezvous with Mr. Battler and draw up a memorandum of understanding immediately.”

“Very well, Ms. Donnelly.  Mr. Hatcher.”

The door buzzed.  Informant Zero’s goon was waiting for us.

“But Hatcher?”

I turned around.  The shadowy information broker had one more thing to say.

“While I don’t seek monetary compensation, know that one day I might call on you to assist me with a favor.  I won’t disturb you unless it’s a task that only a man of your mettle is qualified for, but when that day comes, I hope my assistance will have obtained me the benefit of your skills.”

“You don’t want me to rub the cowboy down with cottage cheese do you?”

“No,”  Informant Zero said.  “Nothing so undignified.  It will no doubt be a task that a man with your sense of right and wrong won’t be able to ignore.”

“Try me,”  I said as I led Delilah out.

“I will.”

The goon called the elevator.  Moments later it dinged and we were inside.

“I don’t like this, Ms. Donnelly.  Not one bit.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “We shall have to do our very best to keep Informant Zero at arm’s length.”

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Aug 13 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Behind the Scenes – What is the Role of the Bookshelf Battle Blog in the Story?

Hey 3.5 readers.

“It’s a blog that writes about itself. Exceptionally confusing.”

Welcome to another “Pop Culture Mysteries: Behind the Scenes,” the only column where I, Bookshelf Q. Battler, ask random Internet folk for writing advice because my friends and family are such that they’ll laugh their asses off if I tell them that I’m helping a 95 year old private dick write his memoirs.

There’s been an issue in the back of the mind and it starts to come to the forefront in the Informant Zero story.

OK.  Stay with me here.

  • Jake is a writer for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.
  • The Bookshelf Battle Blog exists in the Pop Culture Mysteries world.  It has to, because Bookshelf Q. Battler bosses Jake around through his attorney, Delilah K. Donnelly.
  • Ergo, won’t people, when they meet Jake, look up the Bookshelf Battle Blog and learn about Jake’s past and his special abilities (non aging, invincibility, etc)

Originally, I thought I’d go with that old cliche where the special hero doesn’t reveal his special-ness to people he meets.  The vampire hides his fangs and blends in with the norms.  Superman puts on a pair of glasses.  Bruce Wayne pretends to be an do-nothing playboy.

Wait, let’s back up a minute.

THUS FAR, WHO KNOWS THAT JAKE IS A 95 YEAR OLD PRIVATE DICK?

  • Ms. Tsang, obviously, because she took care of him while he was asleep for decades.  Eventually, I’ll work it into the story how that burden really sucked for her and kept her from doing a lot of things she wanted to do in life, including starting a family, because, you know, how do you explain to people that there’s a gumshoe upstairs that just sleeps forever, never grows old and stays young?
  • Delilah K. Donnelly and Bookshelf Q. Battler – Battler’s claim to be able to answer Jake’s question of why did he sleep for 60 years is the center point of the series.  Battler knows, his trusted attorney Delilah knows, but they aren’t telling until 100 Pop Culture Mysteries are solved.  (Or does Battler know – is he just yanking Jake’s chain for the unscrupulous purpose of bringing a writer with an interesting story to his blog?)
  • Others from Jake’s Past, Who May or May Not Start Appearing in the Future, and If They Do, Only BQB and Delilah Will Know Why Past People are Showing Up in the Future – We’ll get to that.  Mickey Finn (Jake’s old partner), first girlfriend Peaches, his three ex-wives and anyone else from the past is fair game to return to the future.

THUS FAR, WHO DOESN’T KNOW THAT JAKE IS A 95 YEAR OLD PRIVATE DICK? – Agnes Abernathy, aka Agnes the Librarian, is Jake’s unwilling research assistant.  As a public librarian in a busy city library, she’s used to all types wandering in and bugging her to look stuff up for them.  Hobos and bums often use the library as place to hang out and up until Fan Dime Drops, Agnes thought that Jake was another bum.  She still thinks Jake is odd, but after seeing Delilah meet with Jake, she at least believes that Jake writes for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

BUT – she has yet to realize that Jake is a 95 year old private dick.

BUT – if Agnes keeps helping Jake research “cases” for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, wouldn’t Agnes one day be curious enough to take a peak at the Bookshelf Battle Blog and therefore, read Jake’s tales of stuff that happened to him long, long ago?

THUS – I’m not sure how I’ll handle this.  Right now, I’m leaning toward the possibility that:

  • Agnes checks out the BB Blog.
  • Agnes does read Jake’s stories that happen long ago.
  • Agnes assumes either a) Jake’s a nut (like she already does) or b) Jake’s just a modern day 35 year old and he’s just really into historical fiction and roleplaying and enjoys it so much that he walks around in a fedora and trenchcoat.

BUT – Will Jake openly share his “secret” with people?

OPTION 1 – Yes.  After all, Ma Hatcher taught him never to tell a lie.  He’ll wander LA, openly telling people he’s 95 years old and slept for 60 years without reservation. Most people won’t believe him, but at least he didn’t lie.

OPTION 2 – No.  Best to keep it hush hush.  Yes, I, Jake, do claim to be 95 years old on the blog, but that’s just for fun, don’t believe it.

Either way, most people Jake meets in modern times will not believe it.

WHAT ABOUT FUTURE MODERN WORLD CHARACTERS JAKE WILL MEET?

Remember that story, The Wrong Guy, I half finished?

I decided it was too early for all the revelations in that, and to hold off.

SPOILER ALERT:

BUT  – I hope that story will end with Jake meeting a female present day LA police detective.

Female dick...er, detective.

Female dick…er, detective.

Remember how Jake took out a few drug dealers?

The female detective will look at Jake as an off-kilter vigilante and start watching him, looking for a way to bring Jake in.  More and more, Jake will start using his private dick powers to help modern day people.

So, yeah.  Jake’s kinda like Batman.  And the female detective will kinda be like the cops that think Batman’s a menace.

Or maybe Jake’s not like Batman.  Maybe Jake’s honest to everyone about his powers and no one believes him.

It’d be like if Bruce Wayne were to walk around shouting, “I’m Batman!” and everyone’s like, “That’s impossible!  Stop lying, Bruce.”

(Will Jake and the female detective ever come to an understanding and work together? Your guess is as good as mine).

BUT – I guess, like AGNES, the question will be, will the female cop, after reading the BB Blog to find out more about Jake, believe Jake is 95 or just assume he’s crazy or writing fiction?

OTHER ISSUES:

  • INVINCIBILITY – In the Wrong Guy, (there’s already some posts that show it) we learn that in modern times, Jake doesn’t just not age.  He’s invincible.  Shoot him.  Stab him.  Toss him off a building.  Whatever.  Jake still keeps ticking.  Note in the past, from 1920 (his birth) to 1955 ( his nap) he was mortal and could have been killed, but now he can’t.  It’s all part of the mystery that we HOPE Bookshelf Q. Battler will reveal once the 100 mysteries are solved.
  • HOW TO HANDLE THAT – It’s the blog issue all over again.  If Jake writes about his invincibility on the blog, won’t characters read about it?  Will Jake just be honest and tell them, “Yup, I’m invincible” will he hide it or will characters just assume he’s lying until they somehow see it happen ( They witness Jake get shot and get back up and are like, oh ok, Jake’s not lying.)
  • BB Blog vs. PCM Blog – Once I write the rough draft of the first season here on the BB blog, I’ll rewrite it, revise it, and then start posting it on the PCM Blog.  So should I not refer to BB Blog and just have Delilah recruit Jake to work for the PCM blog?  I actually think I should just start the season with a note that this all started on the bookshelf battle blog, this is how Jake solved a bunch of mysteries for the bb blog at first, and then work it into the story (I start to in Informant Zero) that Jake will be shifting to the PCM blog.  So the first season will be about how Jake moved from BB to PCM.
  • AGNES – Do you guys like the Agnes character?  I’m toying with the idea that she eventually leaves the library and becomes Jake’s secretary.  On the PCM blog, she might get a regular column where she promotes indie authors by listing five-ten indie books she’d like to see in her library.  (Of course, then she can’t become Jake’s secretary, she’ll have to stay at the library.

SO HOW THE HELL WILL JAKE FUNCTION IN THE MODERN WORLD?  

Eventually, Jake’s going to need:

  • Money – And more than BQB’s cheap-o $5 bucks a case.  Per Delilah’s suggestion, Jake will have to start looking for actual, REAL mystery having clients who pay a lot more than $5.  Ms. Tsang can’t carry Jake’s ass forever.
  • Papers – Jake’s 95 years old.  His driver’s license, documents, etc., they’re all 60 years old.  Maybe Ms. Donnelly can work some of her legal magic to get Jake recognized as an actual citizen…which will require them to show he was born in 1981!  (Hell, maybe that’s a job for an Informant Zero).

AND FINALLY, WRAP YOUR HEAD AROUND THIS ONE….

  • If Jake was an infamous lawman in the 1940s and 50’s
  • Then surely, like Elliot Ness and other famous crimefighters, news articles were written about him.
  • Those articles probably printed his picture at the time.
  • And that picture will look like Jake now.
  • So if a) Jake tries to not let people in on the secret that he’s 95 OR if people refuse to believe it even though he’s up front about it:
  • Then how do we reconcile this?

I’M LEANING TOWARDS – People have a habit of explaining away the supernatural.  That bump in the night isn’t a ghost.  It’s your house settling.

(Calm down!  It’s not really a ghost!  Sheesh!)

OPTIONS:

  1.  If Jake hides his secret, he tells people who ask about the resemblance to past Jake that he’s the grandson of infamous 40s 50s lawman Jake Hatcher and was named after him.
  2. But I think I’m leaning towards Jake just is open and honest to everyone that he’s 95 and if they don’t believe it, that’s their problem.  Because people are quick to rationalize the supernatural, these people, like Agnes or the female detective, might just write the resemblance off as a coincidence.
  3. Maybe Delilah goes behind Jake’s back and tells them “Hey, yeah, Jake’s really the grandson of Jake Hatcher from long ago and he just likes to play pretend.”

I dunno.  Many possibilities there.

What I’m realizing is when you move from an idea to actual publication, so, so many loose ends pile up then you have to tie up.

Maybe that’s why so many aspiring novelists quit.  Every new plot point raises more questions to be answered.

But I don’t want to quit.

BUT WAIT A MINUTE, DOESN’T THE BOOKSHELF BATTLE BLOG ONLY HAVE 3.5 READERS?

Yes.  I’m also thinking maybe it’s possible to completely, totally, and utterly WIPE OUT all my above worries by plugging in the following joke somewhere into the season:

JAKE:  Ms. Donnelly, I don’t get it.  I’ve publicly written on the Bookshelf Battle Blog that I’m 95 years old, that I was once a famous lawman, and that I took a 60 year nap.  Why doesn’t anyone I meet ever ask me about that?

DELILAH:  Because no one ever reads the Bookshelf Q. Battle Blog, Mr. Hatcher.  It only has 3.5 readers.

JAKE:  Well, what do you know?  I’m hiding in plain sight!

If I go that route – NO ONE bothers to read the BB Blog because it’s so obscure.  Agnes never reads it.  The female detective never reads it.  They wonder why Jake looks like Jake Hatcher from the 40s and 50s, and Jake tells them he’s his grandson, and because the blog only has 3.5 readers, Jake’s secrets are safe.

Of course, that’ll only work for the first season, and then the joke will have to transfer to the PCM Blog and become that Pop Culture Mysteries only has 3.5 readers, or that anything BQB is involved in is cursed to only have 3.5 readers.

OK then.  Thanks 3.5.  Your feedback is appreciated.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Copyright BQB all rights reserved 2015

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Aug 13 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 6)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Ms. Donnelly,”  Informant Zero said.  “I have been so very intrigued by Mr. Battler’s blog since its inception that I decided I must get involved.  And Mr. Hatcher, your reports have especially inspired me.”

“So you’re the one who read them.”

“What a life you have lived, Mr. Hatcher.  From 1920 until present day, you have seen this world grow, shutterstock_13743706change, go to war on a massive scale, taken on the criminal underworld of LA’s yesteryear and survived.  Regrettably, you missed quite a bit during your extended nap, but that you’re in good enough condition to share your stories with the world now is amazing.”

“Thanks,”  I said.  “But if I wanted wind blown up my chassis I’d of skipped the trip and stood on an air vent.”

“This is not an enterprise I want to engage in for the rest of my life, Mr. Hatcher.  One day, I’d like to see a Los Angeles where the rich and powerful do what is right because it is the right thing to do, and not because they’re afraid I’ll expose them if they don’t.  Thus, this city needs a hero like you to clean it up and I’d like to do what I can to help.”

“I don’t do much cleaning these days, bub.”

“Then you are truly wasting your talents.  Surely that will change as you get adjusted.  But more importantly, Mr. Hatcher, I can’t help but wonder what this world would be like today had a man of your integrity not fallen asleep in 1955, but rather, had been allowed to continue performing feats of daring do.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the world would be a better place today had you been allowed to keep kicking criminal ass until you became an elderly man during the 1980’s, perhaps even the 90’s.”

“I think about that all the time,”  I said.

“But as an tech expert, I know the mind of a blogger and I know it well,”  Informant Zero said.  “If Battler doesn’t eventually see an increase in readership, he will decide that his time would be better spent playing video games and allowing his ass to expand.  He’ll abandon his blog, you, and your stories will never be shared, because good luck getting through the traditional publishing door.”

“Now just one  moment,”  Delilah said.  “I doubt very much that Mr. Battler will abandon Mr. Hatcher and leave him without the answers he is searching for.”

“He probably won’t, at least not intentionally,”  Informant Zero explained.  “But what if I could help provide a new feature for the upcoming Pop Culture Mysteries spin-off blog, one that would drive up the World Renowned’ Poindexter’s readership?”

I shot Delilah an incredulous look.

“Spin-off blog?  Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Mr. Battler’s mentioned it on his blog a number of times.  Do try to keep up.”

“Do I get any more money for this?”

“No,”  Delilah said.  “At least not according to your contract.”

“Mother of God,”  I said.  “It’s like the damn pinko commies won.”

“Mr. Hatcher,”  Informant Zero said.  “You write very long, detailed reports.  Those are great for individuals who read as a pleasurable past time.  But what about people on the go?  Mr. Battler’s 3.5 readers who only have 3.5 seconds to spare?”

“I don’t know,”  I said.  “Tell them to screw?”

“No.  That’s where I will come in.  You continue to write your long reports.  I’ll write short bursts, quick mini-mysteries, a pop culture question of the week with a short answer.  Together, we’ll inspire Hollywood to plug up their plot holes and put out a better product.  It’ll bring more hits, Battler’s writing career takes off and who knows, maybe if he gets to the point where he actually starts making money off of his Internet ventures, he’ll release you early from your 100 mystery commitment.”

“Now you’re starting to make sense,”  I said.

Delilah was back to reading her note paper again.

“Mr. Zero,”  she said.  “To that end, Mr. Battler has expressed concern that your Pop Culture Mystery expertise may be lacking and has requested that I kick your tires, as it were, with three questions.”

More of that maniacal, ear crushing electric laughter.

“Proceed.”

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Aug 12 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Behind the Scenes – To Swear or Not to Swear?

Hello 3.5 Readers.

Here’s an advance chapter of a story that will eventually find its way into this season of Pop Culture Mysteries.

Basically, it’s the 40’s.  Hatcher’s an LAPD Detective.  A gang of bank robbers with a hilarious name is headed for LA.

Stereotypically gruff and angry Capt. Thaddeus Talbot is their boss, and he swears like a sailor on steroids.

Only problem is, I’ve tried my best to keep this PG.  I’m doing this selfishly, because I feel it will appeal to more readers (and hopefully, one day make me more money, ka ching!)

I feel like so far I’ve been kind of creative at making these stories interesting, salacious, and at times naughty without resorting to bad language.

I’m not against swearing.  I’ve done it on this blog before.  I just think once you drop some of the more serious swears, the story starts to become something very different.  Thus, I try to limit to “shit” or lesser swears and keep the F-bombs and so on at bay.

So, here’s what I came up with for the Cap’n.  I basically replace his naughty words with expletive deleted.  Tell me what you think.

And while you’re at it, just give me your opinion:

Should there be serious swearing in Pop Culture Mysteries?

“Uh huh…Uh huh…yes…yes sir…uh huh.”

Even through a shut door, the voice of my old boss, Capt. Thaddeus Talbot, traveled. 

Like a couple of kids waiting to get reamed out by the school principal, my partner, Mickey Finn, and I sat on a bench not far from the desk of the good captain’s secretary, Ms. Connie Connors.

Connie had a certain understated beauty about her.  She was a looker, to be sure, but she wasn’t trying to be noticed. 

Capt. Talbot

Capt. Talbot

She was a brunette and wore a simple green dress with a floral print, always carrying herself all nice and professional like.

Meanwhile, Mickey always wore a white suit, trying to pass himself off like he was some kind of hot shot ladies man.  He pulled a handle out of his pocket, clicked the switch, but instead of a blade, a comb popped out.  He ran it through a pompadour that rose several inches off the surface of his cranium.

“Think he’s mad?”  I asked.

I heard our fearless leader slam his phone down.

“CONNIE!!!”

“Does that answer your question?”  Connie asked me, and then in a sweeter tone, “Yes, Captain?!”

“Are those lazy expletive deleted sons of expletive deleted out there?”

“Yes, they are, sir!”

“Send them in!”

“Right away sir!”

“And get me some coffee, will ya’?!”

Yes, readers.  Back in those days, you could just bellow out demands for subordinates to fetch you coffee and human resources was powerless to stop you.  Come to think of it, I don’t think we even had an HR person.  Just an old lady who handled the payroll.

“Of course, sir!”

Mickey and I stood up.

“Good luck boys.”

“Thanks Con,”  I said.

Mickey and I headed into the boss’ office.  It was always messy.  Papers and clutter strewn everywhere.  Oh, and I can’t forget the massive bass mounted on the wall, the captain’s pride and joy.

“Shut the door.”

I did and we each took a seat in front of the captain’s desk.

“Hatcher and Finn.  Two disgusting, oversized boils on my ass that I can’t squeeze the puss out of for the life of me.”

“Good to see you too, Cap,”  I said.

“I just got off the phone with the mayor…”

Here it comes.  Under Capt. Talbot’s leadership, Mickey and I plus four other guys were part of the LAPD’s special operations unit.  Compared to modern assault tactics, there wasn’t  anything all that special about it.  We kicked down the doors that everyone else was afraid too, that’s about it.

There was a chain of command and really, the Mayor should have been lodging his complaints with the Chief of Police, but His Honor was a particularly corrupt degenerate and just called Captain Talbot whenever he had a bee in his bonnet, as though we were somehow his personal goon squad.

It was a source of great gastrointestinal discomfort for the boss.

Talbot was a tall drink of water and lanky too.  Built like Frankenstein and his face was just as pretty.  He was a tough old bastard and we’d often bond over how many Germans we sent into the afterlife during the wars we served in, him WWI and me WWII, respectively.

He grabbed his stomach.

“Goddamnit, my labonza.”

“Ulcer again, sir?”  I asked.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Connie came in with a coffee mug and set it on the captain’s desk.

“Thank you sweetheart.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Connie gave me a peak to make sure I was still alive before heading to her desk.

“Jesus Christ,”  Talbot said.  “His Honor just shoved his head so far up my ass that I can actually taste his Brylcreem.”

Mickey, who’d done little more than stare at his shiny shoes the entire time, laughed.

“You think that’s funny, Finn, you no good, two-bit Irish expletive deleted sucker?”

By now, I should inform you that the good captain had quite a mouth on him.  So bad that it could make a longshoreman cover his ears.  It was the type of mouth that Ma Hatcher would have washed out with soap.

Also, and I hate to admit it, but he was a racist.  And a sexist.  Most people were back then.  You have no idea how progressive I was for my time.

“No sir.”

“The Dapper Dandies,”  Capt. Talbot said.  “Those happy go lucky sons of motherless expletive deleted…”

It’s not easy complying with Bookshelf Q. Battler’s request to keep these tales PG, especially when Thaddeus Talbot is involved.

“…they just hit San Diego.  Do you know what that means?”

“Chula Vista’s screwed,”  Mickey said.

“Finn, I swear to Christ I’m going to leap over this desk and strangle the shit out of you if you don’t shut the expletive deleted up.”

“Sorry boss.”

“LA is next!”  Capt. Talbot said.  “The Mayor’s sure of it.  Washington, D.C’s already sent out some G-Men to take everything over.”

The captain took a swig of his coffee and winced, grabbing his side again.

“St. Christopher’s tits, expletive deleted on your Aunt Edna’s ass!”

My old boss was a virtual Rembrandt of obscenity.

“Cap,”  I said.  “I hear coffee’s not good for an ulcer…

“Are you a goddamn doctor, Hatcher?”

“No.”

“Did I ask for your expletive deleted opinion?”

“No sir.”

“Then you know where to stick it.”

“Up my ass, sir.”

Talbot slammed his fist down on the desk.

“Expletive deleted! Those FBI expletive deleted suckers are going to waltz right in here like they own the joint, take everything over, and we’re just going to be left sitting around in a circle jerk with our dicks in our hands.”

“Typical Tuesday,”  Finn said.

The captain pointed a finger at Mickey, reminding him to clam up.

“We need every man we can get,”  Capt. Talbot said.  “We need to grab every uniform, every detective, hell, every goddamn meter maid we can get our hands on, divy them up, and post a unit outside every bank in the city limits!”

“Boss,”  I said.  “No offense, but all that’ll do is scare these scumbags off.  If you really want to do them in, we need to set a trap.”

The captain shook his head.

“Hatcher.

“Sir?”

“That is, by far, the dumbest expletive deleted idea I have ever heard in my entire expletive deleted life.  I always thought you were the brains of this unit but now you’ve convinced me you’re expletive deleted dumber than Finn.  Shoot yourself in the head so I don’t have to look at your stupid face anymore.”

The door opened a crack and Connie poked her nose in.

“Captain?”

“Connie, do you mind?  Men are talking here.”

Yeah.  People used to say stuff like that too.

“There’s some men here to see you, sir.”

“Tell them to go expletive deleted themselves.”

Connie opened the door all the way.  Behind her, there were at least a dozen FBI agents, suits all starched and neatly pressed, not a hair out of place.

And leading the pack?

Noneother than FBI Director and notorious lawman J. Edgar Hoover and Assistant Director Clyde Tolson.

“If it’s all the same, I think I’ll let you tell them that, boss.”

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Aug 12 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 5)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“A question for you, my guests,”  Informant Zero said.  “What is the greediest animal in the world?”

I wasn’t amused.

“I’m not one for riddles, Jack.”

“Are you, Ms. Donnelly?”shutterstock_243113842

“I’d wager it’s man.”

More smoke blew out of the shadowy orifice.

“And you’d be correct.  As the Native Americans have said, man has a hole in his heart, a deep hunger that can never be filled.”

I checked my pocket watch.  This guy was going to go on and on.

“Los Angeles has the single largest collection of celebrities in the world,”  Informant Zero said.  “We have men and women who are magnificent to look at, in peak physical condition, and they get paid obscene amounts of money to play make believe.  I’ll admit that acting takes skill and training.  However, let’s be honest.  They’re not digging ditches, or breaking a sweat, or worried about bills like the average citizen is.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,”  I said.

“One would think that an individual who is blessed enough to sniff the rarified air of fame and fortune would be content, but as you witnessed on your way to me, that is not the case.  No matter how much man obtains, he always, without fail, wants more.  Though the general assumption is that celebrities must be happy because they live lifestyles that are far above the norm, the truth is that most famous people are woefully unhappy.”

“I’ve seen more than a few folks get to the top of the world only to fall off it,”  I said.  “I’m one of them.”

“Yes, Jersey Jabber,” Informant Zero said, a mocking note to my failed boxing career, which came to an end when I took a dive.

This guy knew everything about me.  Makes sense, since as he mentioned, he was one of Bookshelf Q. Battler’s 3.5 readers.

“Sometimes the hunger that drives man can be good, such as when Mozart composes a symphony or Picasso paints a canvas.  Both men made their art in search of society’s approval, but they also gave the world the gift of their talent as well.”

I sat back in my chair, locked my fingers behind my head and yawned.

“More often, the hunger causes man to implode, such as when you turn on the news to learn about the latest actor or musician to become wrapped up in a scandal.  That hunger is why being a famous actress wasn’t enough for Lindsey Lohan.  It’s why she experienced her infamous battles with drugs and alcohol.  Even Bill Clinton, the former president, engaged in transgressions with an intern.  Even the highest office in the free world couldn’t satiate him.”

“Get outta’ town,”  I said.  “There was a president who got some action on the side?  Why don’t you tell me these things, Ms. Donnelly?”

“It was two presidents ago, Mr. Hatcher.  I’ll tell you about it later.”

Informant Zero switched gears.

“What is the most valuable form of currency?”

Delilah and I looked at each other.  We had nothing.

“Information,”  Informant Zero said.  “In today’s world, information is traded, bought and sold like commodities on the open market at a breakneck pace.  Our celebrities unsatisfiable hunger to fill their bottomless hearts causes them to engage in all manner of transgressions.”

“Like that fella in the cowboy hat who has short people cover him in cottage cheese?”

“Like him.  And that is where I come in.  My vast network of spies feed me a never ending flow of information of what’s happening in this town at all times.  More often than not, I know something is going to happen even before it happens.”

“Gotta say then, Jack, its odd that the group of famous perverts upstairs would allow you to set up shop here.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Hatcher.  It is I who allow them to set up shop here.  This is my establishment.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“The actions you saw upstairs are tame compared to what truly goes on behind closed doors in the City of Angels.  Mere foolishness and nothing at all I’m concerned about,”  Informant Zero said.  “There are actions that certain famous individuals who shall remain nameless are engaged in that, if you were to hear about them, you’d never watch a movie or listen to a song ever again.”

“Worse than the cottage cheese thing?”  I asked.

“A million times worse,”  Informant Zero said.  “And that’s where I come in.  For a price, I can bury a brewing scandal and keep it away from the public.  I can bury a celebrity’s bad information by trading on information I’ve stockpiled about the misdeeds of various politicians, government officials, journalists, and business executives.”

“Blackmail for a clean sweep?”  I asked.

“Indeed.”

I started to get up.

“Ms. Donnelly I don’t think we want to be involved with this sort of character.”

“Before you make up your mind,” Informant Zero said.  “Know that I have accomplished more good than anyone else could have with such an endeavor.  “I have never used my powers to cover up illegal activity, only actions that would provide great embarrassment and humiliation for the perpetrator.”

“I repeat, ‘worse than the cottage cheese thing?'”

“Name redacted’s fondness of cottage cheese thing has been widely reported in the trades and gossip rags, Mr. Hatcher.  The public doesn’t care one iota.  His quote per film is higher than ever.  The world has a higher level of tolerance for depravity than it did in your day.  The actions engaged in upstairs, though questionable, would barely register a blip on the public’s radar compared with the inappropriateness I’ve helped the powerful hide.”

“So you run a one stop shop for entitled assbags,”  I said.  “They come here, they lather themselves up in dairy products, get their jollies off, and if they need to, come ask you to take the heat off of them for something they did that’s even WORSE than the freakshow going on upstairs?”

“That’s it in a nutshell,”  Informant Zero said.  “However, I also use the information I obtain for good.  I have provided law enforcement agencies with information that has cracked troublesome cases and put bad people away.  I have worked with the press to expose charlatans, frauds, and others who prey on the weakest among us.  But alas, I cannot obtain and trade information that will help the world without the profits from helping celebrity transgressions disappear.”

“Mr. Zero,”  Delilah said.  “The question yet to be addressed is how can you be of service to Mr. Battler?”

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