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Aug 25 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

If Bookshelf Q. Battler Isn’t Available…

Spoiler Alert.

There is a distinct possibility that Season 1 of Pop Culture Mysteries might end with Bookshelf Q. Battler being shipped off to a government black site as punishment for allowing Jake to reveal details of his WWII mission.

Thus for authenticity purposes, the blog would have to be run by another character for awhile.

Alien Jones could be the site’s acting blogger-in-chief for awhile, but I’m thinking that dubious honor might fall onto Video Game Rack Fighter.

Some of the sillier BQB stuff (Alien Jones, the Yeti) doesn’t really crossover into the Pop Culture Mysteries world well, so it would just seem as the PCM stories continue into season 2, a mention that the blog was taken over by BQB’s woman until he’s free seems more plausible in the PCM world, than that it was taken over by an alien.

(A man sleeping for 60 years is fine but aliens? No way.)

Then again, Alien Jones automatically knows what everyone is thinking, so in theory, he could just type the articles BQB is thinking in his mind, thus the site continues as is.

Or we could just hand it over to Dr. Hugo Von Science.

shutterstock_141238783

Or Bookshelf Q. Battledog:

Don't get too close. He's devoured ten men, bones and all.

Don’t get too close. He’s devoured ten men, bones and all.

I don’t know.  If BQB is ever unavailable, who’d be an acceptable replacement?

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Take the Smeller vs. Denier Challenge!

Hey 3.5 readers,shutterstock_207933922

Are you enjoying Jake’s latest adventure?  I have to say I am.

For those just tuning in:

Monte Carlo.  1952.  Jake is on his honeymoon with Cajun cutie Muffelia “Muffy” Bordeaux, the second Mrs. Hatcher.

Jake’s never had a better string of luck before.  At home, his private investigation business is booming.  He’s married to a bodacious babe and he’s just won $25,000 at the poker table (which would be great today, but think of that in 1952 money!)

Alas, life throws him a curveball.

While attending a dinner party thrown by his host, Count Rickard, a most unfortunate stench ruins Jake’s otherwise lovely evening.

Sir Rupert Roundtree, the British Secretary of State and Patrice Charbonneau, the French Ambassador to the United Kingdom, each blame the other, claiming the impromptu excretion was intended by the other as an insult.  Each demands war and Hatcher, a veteran of World War II, must uncover the culprit if he wants to fend off World War III.

To complicate matters, Hatcher notices the check for his gambling proceeds is missing.

Who did it?  Was it done to force a third global conflict?  To cover up a check theft?  Or some other unseemly reason?

TAKE THE SMELLER VS. DENIER CHALLENGE!

RULES

  1.  Be over 18.  Young people, I wish you best of luck with your writing, but I don’t want to deal with anyone who doesn’t know what a mortgage is.
  2. Read the story.
  3. Guess who did it and why.
  4. DO NOT put your guess in the comments.  Dudes, spoilers.
  5. ON TWITTER, Direct Message your guesses to @bookshelfbattle
  6. TWEET @bookshelfbattle to let me know you DM’d a guess, otherwise I never pay attention to my DM’s due to the high volume of weirdoes who are trying to sell me time shares and miracle rash cure ointments.
  7. I still have a long way to go before the story is finished, maybe a week or more, so feel free to change your guesses as the story unfolds.
  8. When this all wraps up, Jake will write a column to acknowledge those who guessed right.
  9. If said accurate guessers have books or blogs to plug, he’ll plug away.
  10. Though as always, Attorney Donnelly notes the management reserves the right not to do so if he deems your book to be weird.  So you know, no thanks if your book is “Hooray for Hitler!”
  11. Heck, Jake might even have a heart and plug the losers’ books and blogs too.  Note that you won’t be considered a loser in life, just for purposes of this particular contest.

WHERE TO READ THE STORY

The full story is available on this blog.  I’ve put parts 1-9 together here, 10-12 are up and more will be coming for awhile.

I’ve also been updating it regularly on wattpad.  You may find that format easier to read, especially on a cell phone or tablet.  You don’t have to click around, it’s all right there.

I don’t have an exact date when Jake will finish the story.  This is quite a caper.  Conceivably, it could go into September.

If you send me a guess, I’ll just thank you for your participation.  I’m not able to tell you if you’re right or wrong.  Only Jake knows who did it and my only contact with him is through the exceptionally classy and refined Delilah K. Donnelly, who absolutely refuses to discuss bodily functions with anyone, even if its on my behalf.

So, you know, don’t publicly reveal your guesses until Jake makes his public reveal in the story itself.

If you’re one of the random few who don’t have something to plug but want to guess anyway, feel free to do so.

This is your chance to become an assistant detective.  Scour the story.  Search for clues.  Review the evidence.  Make your determination.

Finally folks, just remember this is all just for fun and a blatant attempt by me to try to get more people to read my stuff so, please don’t get mad or sue me or something.  Attorney Donnelly has enough work to do already.

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier – (Part 12)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Signor Hatcher,”  Bellavenuti said.  “I must protest the way you are treating us like criminals.  Your concern over your check is unfounded, no?”

“How do you figure, Signora?”

“Because all you need do is call the casino first thing in the morning and request they cancel the missing check and issue you a new one!”

“I could do that,”  I said.  “But suppose the crook beats me to the punch, cashes it, and runs away never shutterstock_239019796to be found again?  What then?  I fight some cockamamie international legal battle from my home in the states for the rest of my life?  Not a chance…especially…”

“Especially, what?”  Signora Bellavenuti said through her luscious lips.

“…when YOU DID IT!”

“BASTARDO!”  Signora Bellavenuti shouted as she stood up and slapped me across the face.

“Admit it!”  I said.  “Long before you started your own designer label, ‘Haus of Bellavenuti,’ you were a gorgeous fashion model who walked the runway with poise, precision, and grace.  Why, I bet you could put a book on your head and walk from here to Romania without it falling off once!”

“What are your implying?”

“Implying?  I’m saying!  You’re no klutz, Signora, and when you spilled that wine all over the best jacket I own, you did it so you could slip your nimble fingers into my pocket and grab my loot!”

“Best jacket?!  Patooie!  I spit on your best jacket!  If that is your best jacket then you are no better than the beggar who pleads for the scraps that I throw away!”

With that, the Signora removed her stole, unzipped the back of her dress, and allowed it to fall to the ground.

There she stood in a black bra and panties.

“Oggle all you wish, pervert!  I do not need your money, you fool! I can buy and sell a horde of you!”

I gave her voluptuous form the old once over with my peepers.  I didn’t want to but I had no choice.  I was a detective.  I had to do what I had to do.

“My apologies, Signora,”  I said.  “I can now rule you out as well.”

“I should rule out your face!”

Professor Fremont’s head was pointed at me, but his lazy eye was aimed at the Signora’s form.  The ex-model wacked him upside the head.

“Stop gawking at me you deviant!”

“I can’t help it!”

“Can’t you, Professor?”  I asked.

“I really can’t,”  Professor said.  “My eye is permanently stuck toward the right.”

“And yet, you made sure you positioned yourself in a seat that allowed that eye to point at the Signora all evening.  You’re attracted to her aren’t you?”

“She’s quite fetching.”

“You’re madly in love with her!  You’ve been following her around all night, trying to impress her with superficial philosophical observations completely devoid of any real meaning.”

“He has!”  the Signora said.

“What we do and why we do it are two separate agendas,”  the Professor said.  “When it comes to a man’s motivations, the Id, Ego, and Superego all come into play.”

“Did you stink her out?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Signora!”  I said.  “She spurned your advances one too many times so you got your revenge by letting one rip in her general vicinity, didn’t you?  DIDN’T YOU?”

“I most certainly did not,”  the Professor said.  “Detective Hatcher, while tales of your investigatory prowess precede you, you have embarrassed yourself with this line of questioning.”

“How so?”

“Did you forget the part where I passed out?”

He got me.

“I’m afraid I did.”

“It’s an incontrovertible scientific fact that a man cannot be offended by his own expungements,”  the Professor said as if I were one of his students.

“That’s true,”  Yakubovich said.  “Some men even sit around and sniff their own stink as a reminder of their personal machismo.”

Everyone glared at Yakubovich.  He sunk down in his chair.

“So I have heard.”

“My body found the air to be so foul that it shut my entire system down to prevent me from breathing it in any further, thus saving my life,”  Fremont argued.

“Maybe you were faking,”  I said.

The Countess intervened on the Professor’s behalf.

“He wasn’t,”  my host said.  “I held the smelling salts under the Professor’s nose for quite some time.  I checked his pulse and it grew so slight I feared I would have to call for the undertaker.”

“You see?”  the Professor said.  “You can no sooner accuse me of being the olfactory offender than you could purport that Sir Isaac Newton caused his infamous apple to fall on his own head.”

I extended my hand.  The Professor shook it.

“You’re off the hook, nerd.”

“Of course I am,”  Fremont said.  “And while I have the floor, I must object to your investigatory methods.   You’ve engaged in plenty of speculation and conjecture, but only a scientific approach can draw the delinquent out into the open.”

“You’re right,”  I said.  “I’ve been in remiss.”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “Perhaps you should analyze the diplomats’ motivations?”

“He who sniffed it, biffed it!”  Sir Rupert said.

“He who thwarted it, borted it!”

“Borted it?”  Rupert said.  “Bort isn’t even a word!”

“Oh, and biff is?”

“I could do that, Fabes,”  I said.  “But each man would simply accuse the other of cutting one as a precursor to global annihilation.  I’d get nowhere.  No, Professor Fremont is absolutely right.  If this case is to be put to bed, I must conduct a more thorough, rational inquiry.”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.

All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 11)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Two heinous misdeeds have occurred this evening,”  I said.  “The theft of my poker moolah and an expulsion so ghastly that it not only drove my wife mad…”

“Grandpappy Guilliaum, is that you?”  Muffy asked.  “Come back to me, Grandpappy!”

“…but it also rocked the stability of the Allied powers.”

“He who expounded it, pounded it,”  Rupert said.

“He who deceived it, retrieved it,” Charbonneau replied.shutterstock_71510056

“SILENCE!”  I shouted.

The room grew quiet.

“Two offenses,” I said, “And not one of you will come forward to claim either or both of them.”

“Are they even connected?”  Fremont asked.

“An astute question, Professor,”  I said.  “If either action was not a reaction to the opposing action then that is quite a coincidence and my detective’s intuition always mandates that I must never assume a coincidence has occurred until two events are proven to be unconnected to one another.”

“I am surrounded by idiotas,”  Signora Bellavenuti said.

“Motivation,”  I said.  “Though a circumstantial lens through which to view a case, motivation, more often than not, provides the first glimpse of the true culprit.  Though a person had a reason to do something does not mean he or she did it, determining who had the most reason to do it is a necessary exercise in any investigation.”

“Then exercise away,”  the Count said.

“I will,”  I replied.  “And Count Rickard, I will start with you and the Countess.”

The Countess’ monocle popped off yet again.

“How dare you?!”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “Why would one of us ruin our own dinner party?”

I thought about it.

“You wouldn’t,”  I said.  “You are a couple of leisure and you enjoy consorting with the various celebrities and beautiful people who make their way to Monaco in the summer.  Pardon the pun, but one whiff of what happened here this evening will lead to your social calendar being very empty.  Neither of you would have done this.”

The Count was furious.

“Then stop wasting time and tell us who did it!”

I spun around and pointed at the would be big game hunter.

“LORD BLACKBURN!”

Collective gasp.

“Me?”

“Yes you!”  I said.

I walked over to the corpulent self-proclaimed Safari master and got right in his face.

“Stereotypically speaking, you’re the prime candidate to pin the evil excretion on!”

The Lord’s eyes shifted back and forth.  He looked exceptionally nervous.

“I am?”

“You are,”  I said.  “Pardon my impropriety, but these are desperate times, so I must point out that you are the fattest person in the room, and thus if we are to remain true to our default mindset, then you are the one to blame, for one of the oldest stereotypes in the book is that the obese have no ability to control their bowels!”

“Yes!”  Signora Bellavenuti shouted.  “It was the fat man!  Take him away!”

“I didn’t do it I swear!”

“Didn’t you?”  I asked as I studied the man’s eyes.  “You consume more food than the average man…”

“I do not!”  Lord Blackburn interrupted.  “It’s glandular!”

“That’s what they all say!”  I screamed in the Lord’s fast as I grabbed him by the shoulders and continued my interrogation.  “You eat more food than the average man and therefore, you have a greater propensity to produce an emission!”

“LIES!”  Lord Blackburn cried.  “ALL LIES!”

“Hatcher,”  Yakubovich said.  “Of course the overweight Westerner did it.  All you capitalist pigs do all day long is stuff your faces and pass gas with nary a thought of the rest of the world.”

“Did you do it?”  I asked.

“NO!”

“DID YOU DO IT?”

“NO!”

Lord Blackburn broke out into tears and made an impassioned plea.

“All my life, I have struggled with my weight.  And all my life, whenever the source of an odor is in question, the finger is immediately pointed at me.  I bathe early and often, multiple times a day just to avoid suspicion for I know the world is full of cruel, callous people and false accusations of odor production will always be my lot in life.”

My heart sunk.  Sometimes being a jerk is part of a private dick’s job.  It’s necessary, but it’s also the one aspect I despise the most.

“I assure you sir, it was not me.  I can control myself just as well as any man.  I was once chased by rabid cougar and not once did I expectorate through my sphincter.”

“Hmm,”  I said.

I patted the big galoot on the shoulder.

“I believe him.”

I was derided throughout the room.  “Oh come on!”  and “He did it!” and so forth.

“No,”  I said.  “People, please.  The only thing that separates us from the animals that Lord Blackburn claims to murder so often is the ability to make deductions based on reasoning and not preconceived notions about a man just because he’s part of a certain group or class.”

“Your heart is bleeding, comrade,”  Yakubovich said.

“Yes,” I said.

I crossed over to the other side of the table.

Now it was my turn.

“Stand up!”  I ordered Yakubovich.

“You’re insane!”

“Please do as his says, Mr. Yakubovich,”  the Count said.  “We must get to the bottom of this.”

Yakubovich rose up.

“And it was out of your bottom from which this entire evening came, isn’t it Yaku-bopper?”

“Watch your tongue before I cut it out.”

“Earlier, you came to me and asked me to stand up,”  I said.  “I expected that you were going to throttle me but instead you gave me a hug.  It was most out of character for a man suspected of being one of the  world’s most notorious black market arms dealers!”

“I am legitimate businessman!”  Yakubovich said.  “And I wished to apologize for being a poor sport but now I wish I hadn’t it.”

“Or perhaps you never did?”  I asked.  “Perhaps when you hugged me and squeezed me with the muscles you formed while toiling your youth away in a Siberian gulag…”

I reached into the man’s jacket pockets.

“…you were merely distracting me just long enough to stick a hand inside my coat and swipe the check for the winnings you were not man enough to admit that you lost fair and square!”

I turned his pockets out.

“Ha!”

They were empty.

“Oh,”  I said.

“What a moron,”  Yakubovich said.  “Hatcher, you are making a spectacle of yourself.  Your check probably fell out somewhere around the house.  You should retrace your steps for it.”

“Should I?”  I asked.  “Or should I…check your pants pockets?!”

I turned those inside out too.  Nothing.

“Damn it!”

“Fine!”  Yakubovich said as he angrily unfastened his belt.  “You want to inspect everything?  Here we go!”

The Russian dropped his drawers to reveal a pair of red polka dot boxers.  He ripped off his coat and shirt for good measure, but left his undershirt on.

He stood there in his skivvies staring at me.

“Are you happy now?!”

“Good news, Sergei,”  I said.  “You’re in the clear!”

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier – Part 10

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

I positioned my body in front of the door, preventing Yakubovich’s and Bellavenuti’s attempts at a swift exit.  My intervention gave the Countess enough time to produce a key from her pocket and lock the door.

Tempers were flaring.  I knew I had to restore order lest the group turn shutterstock_187399232into an angry mob and maul the Countess for the key.

“Remain calm and return to your seats,”  I said as a I raised my hands.  “As the only detective here, it is my duty to preserve the crime scene until this matter is resolved.”

“A crime?”  Yakubovich asked.  “You’re being ridiculous, aren’t you?  Surely, someone in this room has committed a breach of social etiquette but I highly doubt it would constitute a jailable offense.”

“I’m not talking about the antagonizing aroma,”  I said.  “I’m referring to the underlying offense that the stench was intended to quench, or cover up, as it were.”

The countess held a vial of smelling salts underneath Professor Fremont’s nose.  He began to stir.

Meanwhile, across the table, Muffy was in her chair, curled up in the fetal position, babbling on and on about her grandpappy Guillaume.

Lord Blackburn, who’d spaced out for a bit, managed to regain control of his senses.

“That was the most vile smell to have ever transgressed the depths of my nasal passages,” the Lord said.  “And in that assessment, I include the time I slit open the belly of a bull elephant and hid inside its guts for three days whilst trying to evade a predatory pride of lions who were hot on my trail.”

“Wow,”  I said.  “Three whole days?  No, no matter.  People, I had a check from the Hotel Rondileau in my jacket pocket for the sum of twenty-five grand and now it is nowhere to be found.”

Professor Fremont, now awake, sipped a glass of water.

“Are you sure you looked everywhere for it?”  the uptight intellectual asked.

“Of course.”

“Because it’s always in the last place you look, which seems like an ironic statement because of course, if you find it, then obviously that would be, by default, the last place you look.  Why would you continue the search for a found item?  But you know, Descartes once said…”

“Ugh.”

Looking back on it now, Bellavenuti’s “ughs” were the highlight of the evening.  She always went out of her way to make it known whenever someone was displeasing her.

“Signor Hatcher,”  the fashion designer said.  “You embarrass yourself with this petty accusation.  Look around you.  You are surrounded by people of high class and stature.  No one would lower themselves to abscond with your winnings.”

“Wouldn’t they?”  I asked.  “My dear, Signora Bellavenuti, one would ALSO presume that a gas attack so obscene in its approach and violent in its execution could NEVER occur in a room occupied by such a resplendent cadre of characters and yet here we are, are we not?”

For once in the evening, the good Signora was speechless.

“He’s got you there,” Fremont said.

“Oh, stifle yourself you pathetic creature.  You have been leering at me with that evil eye of yours all evening!”

“I was kicked in the face by a goat on my uncle’s farm when I was five years old,”  the scholar said.  “I can’t help it!”

The Count was back in his chair, watching helplessly as the duo of diplomats continued to eviscerate one another.

“We shall burn London to the ground!”  Charbonneau declared.

“We’ll knock over the Eiffel Tower and pick our teeth with it we will!”  Rupert replied.

“Hatcher,”  the Count said as he rested his head in his hands.  “Perhaps there are more pressing matters to attend to than your precious payday?  Such as, the preservation of peace, perhaps?!”

“You know you did it!”  Charbonneau said.

“Oh yeah?”  Rupert said.

The Brit stood up, leaned over the table, and prominently announced, “WELL, HE WHO SMELT IT, DEALT IT!”

A hushed panic embraced the group.  Gasps.  Whispers.  We were all descending into madness.

Charbonneau got on his feet.  He scratched his head, causing that dead animal he was trying to pass off as a wig to flop about, until finally he arrived at the perfect comeback.

“Sir.  I shall have you know that, HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And thus, the verbal joust began.  The scene became like a tennis match. One diplomat would levy an accusation, the other would knock a denial straight over the net.

“He who detected it, projected it!” Rupert proudly declared.

“He who refuted it, tooted it!” was the French ambassador’s entreaty.

Back and forth.  Back and forth.

“He who sayed it, sprayed it!”

“He who refused it, abused it!”

“He who bemoaned it, foamed it!”

“He who withdrew it, pooed it!”

“He who squealed it, congealed it!”

“He who said “no,” made it go!”

“He who announced it, pounced it!”

“He who doubted it, touted it!”

“He who flaunted it, taunted it!”

Two men.  Both masters at diplomacy, skilled in the art of debate.  They continued to attack and deflect for an hour.

They grew sweaty and weak.  They removed their jackets, loosened their ties and each man’s voice grew hoarse with exhaustion.

“Sir Rupert,” Charbonneau said.  “I have made accurate points.  You have returned with commendable counter-propositions, but even you surely must agree that….”

We waited for it.  It was on the tip of Charbonneau’s tongue.  He tapped a finger to his chin as he selected his words carefully.”

“…he who shunned it, BUMMED IT!”

“No!”  Rupert said, slapping his knee.  “That is off-rhyme, Ambassador!  ‘Shunned’ and ‘bummed’ are close together in sound, but close is not the name of the game here.  Relent sir, for you have been matched!”

“Preposterous!”  Charbonneau said.

That rug was barely hanging onto the Frenchman’s head now and he didn’t even notice.

“At no time was that made a rule of this contest.”

“It is an unwritten rule,”  Sir Rupert said.  “Concede your loss!”

“Never!”

“Gentlemen,”  I said.  “This is getting us nowhere.”

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 22 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 9)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Hold me, Jacob!  I’m scared!”

“Don’t worry, baby,”  I said as Muffy threw herself at me.  “I’ve got you.”

“Oh the humanity!”  cried Lord Blackburn.

Our hosts, the Count and Countess, were utterly confused, trading glances across the table at one another, trying to figure out how their fancy party devolved into a down and out stink fest.

Charbonneau stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Sir Rupert.shutterstock_179164640

“You!!!  HOW DARE YOU, SIR?!”

Rupert was on his feet now.

“How dare I what?”

“You know what you did!”  Charbonneau said.  “I came to you, in the name of peace, and delivered a fine proposal that would benefit our nations and you dared to reply with such an insulting smell!”

Rupert choked.

“Oh God!  I can taste it in my mouth!”

The Brit fell backward into his chair, guzzled his wine, then gargled with it.

“It burns!”

“Serves you right!  I shall report your chicanery to my government at once, sir!”

Muffy buried her face in my chest, trying in vain to escape the odiferous air.

Lord Blackburn weezed and gasped for breathe.

Across the table, some of the guests began standing up.

“Patrice, you silly git,”  Rupert said.  “You really think I’d break wind as a means of turning down a diplomatic proposal?”

“Indeed I do,”  Charbonneau replied.  “The UK has thumbed its nose at my people for the last time!  This means war!”

“War?  Oh Patrice, the gas is attacking your brain now.

I was stroking Muffy’s hair and whispering some reassuring, “there theres” into her ear when I realized the Count was suddenly whispering into mine.

“Is Mrs. Hatcher all right?”

“She’s a tad upset,”  I said.  “The smell reminds her of youth on the bayou, especially the swamp where a ferocious alligator devoured her beloved grandpappy right before her eyes.”

Muffy burst into tears.

“Oh, grand papa!  How I miss you so!”

“I’m so terribly sorry,”  the Count said.  “But Hatcher, you must do something!”

“I cannot take this any longer!”  said Yakubovich.  “I’m leaving!”

The Countess made an attempt at calming everyone down.

“Everyone, please, I’m sure…”

She made the mistake of sniffing the air in too deeply and her face turned white.

“Oh dear…”

The monocle she’d been wearing popped right off and landed in her full tea cup.

“I’m sure…oh, my Heavens…I’m sure if we wait a bit longer the fumes will dissipate…”

“If we wait any longer we’ll all surely die!”  Signora Bellavenuti responded.

Meanwhile, diplomatic efforts were crumbling.

“I demand you apologize immediately and accept my proposal.”

“Patrice, you drama queen,”  Rupert said as he poured himself another.  “You can stick your proposal up your ass.  For all I know, you’re the culprit and this is a pathetic effort on your part to bully me into a one sided solution.”

“One sided?  My plan was very reasonable!”

“You absurd wanker,”  Rupert said.

He really was more level headed off the sauce.

“Do you realize that the United Kingdom is recovering from a war fought on a massive scale?  That for quite some time, our nation stood ALONE against the atrocities of the Third Reich?  And after all the help we provided your countrymen you’d balk at a few measly extra sense on your blasted croissant shipments?”

“WAR!”  Charbonneau said.  “France will demand satisfaction for this and I guarantee our navy will land on your shores by Saturday!”

“And I guarantee they’ll toss their hands up and surrender by Sunday!”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “You must fix this.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re a detective.  Detect…

“What?”  I asked.

“Who did it,”  the Count replied.

“Oh come on,”  I said.  “I don’t think it’s even possible to narrow down who…”

Rupert’s face was as red as bowl full of cherries.

“If you want a war, Frenchy, you’ve got it!”

Yakubovich and Bellavenuti were still bickering with the Countess, demanding passage out of the room.

Professor Fremont had passed out, his head smushed into a half-eaten souffle.

Lord Blackburn sat motionless, his eyes wide open.  He was trapped in a catatonic state.

“Oh mon cheri,”  Muffy said.  “I feel so lightheaded.”

“Come on, baby,”  I said.  “Let’s get you some fresh air.”

I stood up and offered Muffy my hand.

“Hatcher,” the Count said.  “Please.  Europe has been embroiled with war for the first half of this century.  I cannot allow the history books to say that the seeds of a third global conflict were sewn in MY dining room.”

“Tough luck, Fabes,”  I said.  “I don’t think there’s anything that I…”

I patted my inner jacket pocket to make sure the check was still there.

“…that I…”

It was gone.  Twenty-five grand.  Missing.

I checked my pants pockets.  Pulled them both inside out.

I looked around on the table.  On the floor.  Nowhere.

“Enough of your insolence, woman!”  Yakubovich shouted.  “Get out of the way at once!”

“WAIT!”  I shouted.

All eyes looked at me.

“NOBODY MOVE!!!”

I’d been so forceful and commanding that everyone was now hanging what I had to say next.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a terrible crime has occurred.”

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Aug 21 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Smeller vs. Denier – (Part 8)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

I was stuffed.  Mouthwatering filet mignon.  Lobster.  Shrimp.  Caviar.  And the chocolate soufflé?  In the name of John Wayne’s horse, you’ve never live until you’ve scarfed down an actual French soufflé whipped up by real life French people.

The Count’s servants cleared the dishes and the attendees made small talk.

Hatcher's smelliest case yet.

We were all gathered around a long, rectangular table.  The Countess sat at the end closest to the door while her hubby sat on the far side near the wall.

If you can imagine that you were the Count, then from where you were sitting, you’d of been able to see me sitting next to your wife, then my wife, the Muffster, to my right, Lord Blackburn next to her, and after him, Sir Rupert, who was really working overtime on that alibi.

“Fill me up, my good man!”

Reynaldo, the Count’s sommelier, poured the revered public servant another one.  I lost count of how many he had.  Poor Rupert.  It couldn’t have been easy for a gent who barely touched the stuff to get that smackered.  He no doubt felt it in the morning.  Another reason why I owed him.

Can you conceive of how loaded a man must be to have an employee who just takes care of the wine he keeps in his damn summer home?

I bet the Count couldn’t have even counted it all.

Muffy rested her head on my shoulder.  She unfastened a button in the middle of my shirt, reached up and rubbed my chest through my undershirt.

“Let’s tour the countryside tomorrow, mon cheri.  France is so beautiful.”

I’d heard it was too.  The last time I visited this part of the world, I was too busy getting shot at by Hitler’s stooges to notice the ambience.

Alas, I had to disappoint her.

“Baby,”  I said.  “Something’s come up at work.  I’m so sorry, but we have to fly back home tomorrow.”

Muffy’s eyes.  Whoa.  If she could have burned a hole through me with them, she would have.

“Jacob, no!  We are celebrating our love!”

“Duty calls, cupcake.  Sorry, but that’s life when you’re the wife of a private dick.”

Muffy frowned and returned her head to my shoulder again.

“I trust it’s something very important?”

“You know it, baby.”

I miss the 1950’s.  You could just tell your wife what was what and she’d just be ok with it.

But then again, Mrs. Hatcher Number Two did eventually pump six shots worth of hot lead into me, so I could be mistaken about that.

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had, Count Rickard,”  Lord Blackburn said to our host.  “Even better than the time I decapitated a wild boar with a pen knife and roasted its flesh on a spit.”

“I’m glad it was to your satisfaction,”  the Count replied.

I’d never seen a man with more breadth and baring than Rupert, and that’s why it was a sight to behold when he lost control.

“Tell us another one about some defenseless damn animal you claim you slaughtered but you know you didn’t you pompous ponce!”

“Sir Rupert!”  Lord Blackburn shouted.  “Why, I never!”

“You never, what?  Exercised a minute in your life?  I believe you, fatty.”

RR would go on to win a nobel peace prize, so you can forgive him.

“Perhaps you’ve had enough?”  Count Rickard asked as he reached for Rupert’s glass.

With swift reflexes, Rupert grabbed Fabes’ hand before it got anywhere near his hooch.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough!”

Across the table, Signora Bellavenuti gabbed it up with the Countess.

“Ugh, I simply abhor boring people, darling.  Have you heard that little man who keeps going on and on about Sartre this and Nietzche that?  Patooie!”

“I’m right here!”  Professor Fremont protested.

He really was.  Right next to her.

“Yes, I know you are darling but please, it’s not polite to listen to other people’s conversations.”

Next to Fremont was Yakubovich.  The rotten bastard sipped on a martini.

“Another display of Western excess,”  the Russki said.  “You all eat like pigs while the masses starve.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the way you gobbled it up, Yaku-bobber.  One would think a good Commie would have only had one bite then distributed the rest of it throughout Siberia.”

To my surprise, Yakubovich stood up, walked around the table, and stopped at my chair.

“Stand up.”

“Oh Yaku-booby, sit down.  Don’t ruin the Count’s fine shindig.”

“I said, ‘stand up.'”

I did as he asked and expecting a bout of fisticuffs, I was taken aback when the old commie grabbed me up in a big bear hug instead.

“Is this some kind of Stalinist trick?”  I asked.

“No,” Yakubovich said as he let me go.  “No comrade, is my apology.  I have been rude to you all evening.  You won.  I lost.  I have been a poor sport.”

“Admitting you’re wrong is the first step on the road to recovery, Yakky.  Now just get Kruschev to admit the same.”

To my surprise, Yakubovich laughed and returned to his seat.

“Run a bath as soon as we get back to the room, baby,”  I whispered to Muffy as I sat back down.  “I need to wash off the pinko.”

Between Yakubovich and the Count was Ambassador Charbonneau, his mind still on the English-French trade dispute from before.”

“Sir Rupert,”  Charbonneau said.  ” I’ve devised a plan that will make everyone very content.”

“Balderdash!”  Rupert cried.  “I’m too cocked to pretend to give a moldy shit, Patrice!”

Reynaldo was on the opposite side now, filling Signora Bellavenuti’s glass.  He was a handsome lad and the Signora looked like she wanted to eat him.

“Such strong muscles, darling,”  the Italian dame said as she stroked the sommelier’s arm.  “You must model for me.”

Fifi, the Count’s maid, set a porcelain cup in front of me, poured some tea, and then proceeded to do the same for Muffy.

Charbonneau pressed on.

“It’s all very simple,”  the Frenchman said.  “You continue to levy tariffs as planned on French goods, thus keeping the tax happy members of the British parliament happy, but then you lobby the Prime Minister to order a reduction on port entry fees for all French vessels to make up the difference.  What do you say?”

Keep in mind, Sir Rupert, as the British Secretary of State, was his country’s Chief Ambassador and the face of the United Kingdom to the world.

“Do you know what I say to that, you lousy frog?!  I’ll tell you what I say to that…I…I…oh, what’s wrong with all of you?”

Every face on the other side of the table recoiled in horror.

“What is that?!”  Signora Bellavenutti cried.  “Fanculo!  What is that smell?!”

Fremont sniffed the air, then covered his nose with a handkerchief.

“I’ve heard of existentialist expressionism but this is ridiculous.”

Yakubovich’s eyes were watering.

“Western excess!”

“What?”  I asked.  “What’s going on?”

Then I heard it.  It wasn’t loud or even obnoxious.

It was the teeniest, tiniest squeak.

And then the smell followed.

“Jimmy Stewart’s stutter!  What the hell is that?”

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 15 2015
3 Comments
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
3 Comments
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
4 Comments
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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