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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: 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 20 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 7)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Certainly, Sir Rupert.”

Lord Blackburn, barely distracted by my exit, continued to bore my wife with his chest puffery.

“Now my dear, have you ever wrestled a boa constrictor?”

“God,”  I thought to myself.  “I hope he’s still talking about the jungle.”

As my old friend and I made a swift exit, I was bumped into by Signora Bellavenuti, who was just returning from the bar where shutterstock_239019775one of Count Rickard’s numerous servants had just poured her a robust red wine.

It was now all over the left breast side of my white tux.

“Merda!”  the Signora shouted.  “Scusi!  Oh, Signor Hatcher, mea culpa.”

She brushed her red nailed hands over my chest, trying to remove the stain, but it just made it worse.

It’d been the fanciest set of threads I’d ever treated myself to, but Ma Hatcher raised a deferential gentleman.

“Think nothing of it, Signora.”

Not one for personal space, Bellavenuti opened up my jacket, took one peak at the label, and emitted a disgusted, “Ugh!”

“I have done you a favor!  This is so last year!”

Rupert and I excused ourselves and headed down a hallway.

“I believe this is the third time I’ve saved your life, Hatcher,”  Rupert said.

“What?”  I asked.  “Bellavenuti’s a clutz but I don’t think she was trying to kill me.”

“Not her, you daft blighter.  Lord Blackburn.  Had he chewed your ear off any longer you’d of blown your bloody brains out.”

Rupert pushed a door open and led me into one of Rickard’s many bathrooms.  It was the most spacious crapper I’d ever seen.  A man could really stretch out whilst doing his business in there.

“Has he really explored Africa?”  I asked.

“That lecherous liar hasn’t even explored Liverpool,”  Rupert answered.  “He just wears that foolish safari costume so he can pretend to be interesting.”

Rupert locked the door.

“Rupert,”  I said.  “I’m flattered but I don’t swing that way.”

“This is not the time for jokes, Hatcher.  Are you aware that MI6 has issued a standing order that you’re to be arrested as soon as you step off American soil?”

“Uh…no.  Would have been nice if someone had warned me about that.  Too bad I don’t have an old war buddy who’s a high ranking member of the British government.”

“Oh.  Right.”

Rupert put a hand on my shoulder and made the face that people usually reserve when they’re about to deliver bad news.

“Hatcher, I’m afraid that MI6 has issued a standing order that you’re to be arrested as soon as you step off American soil.”

“Damn it,”  I said.  “And I just spent the whole night making a spectacle of myself at the poker table.  What do I do now?”

I removed my jacket and ran the faucet.  I sprinkled some water on the stain and rubbed away with my hand.

“I don’t know,”  Rupert said.  “Legally, I should arrest you myself right now.”

“You can try.”

“I did a spot of boxing myself, Jersey Jabber.”

“I don’t follow Queensbury rules, limey.”

“Be reasonable, man.” Rupert said.  “You must tell me where the phage is  God knows what you’ve done with it.”

“Nothin’ doin.”

I rubbed harder and harder.  The stain.  Not Rupert.  Just making sure you 3.5 readers understand that, since this scene took place with two men in a bathroom after all.

“You doubt my integrity?”

“I doubt your country’s.  Any country’s when it comes to this.  If some big shot finds out you know, they’ll torture you until you talk.”

The Brit closed the toilet lid and took a seat.

“At least tell me it’s safe then.”

“It’s safe.”

“The case AND the key?”  Rupert asked.

“Both of them,”  I replied.

“Surely you’ve had the good sense to store them far apart from one another?”

I stopped scrubbing and turned to face Rupert.

“You think I’m that stupid?”

Rupert shot back a “you don’t want me to answer that” look.

I poured some more water on the stain and gave it my all.  Rupert, consummate neat freak that he was, got up, grabbed my jacket and a towel off the rack, and took the entire cleaning operation over.

“Oh, sod off!  You’re just making it bigger!  Give it to me!”

Again.  The stain.  Clarity is everything here, 3.5

It dawned on me that all that washing could be destroying my check, but then I breathed a sigh of relief when I remembered Bellavenuti had bumped into the side without the pocket where I kept my prescription for moolah.

“You should destroy it.”

“You know who will destroy me as soon as I do.”

Gently, the Brit dabbed away at the mess with the towel, carefully lifting up a bit more red with each motion.

“This is bigger than you, you twat.  It’s bigger than all of us.”

My impromptu helper grabbed a second towel off the rack, dried the water up, and handed the jacket back.  There was still a slight trace, but I had to hand it to Rupert.

“You’ll make someone a fine wife one day, RR,”  I said as I put my evening wear back on.

“Shut up,” Rupert said.  “Is this some kind of game to you?”

“No.”

“Because it’s the fate of the world to me.”

“And for me.”

A lock of black hair had fallen down over Rupert’s forehead.  He pushed it up.

“Any other man I’d have in cuffs beating the snot out of him right now.”

“I know.”

My pal stared at his face in the mirror for awhile, waiting as if the reflection was going to advise him what to do.

“Cut your holiday short and head home on the first flight you can board tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll feed them a tip you were spotted in the casino of the Hotel Rondileau and were overheard telling various barflies that you had immediate plans to jet set off to Istanbul.  Our men monitoring the area won’t bother to keep an eye on the airport as they’ll believe you’re already gone.”

“You could get in a lot of trouble.”

“I’m aware.”

“Especially since we’ve been hanging out at the same dinner party all evening.”

“I never saw you, Hatcher,”  Rupert said.  “And if anyone ever says otherwise, I was too blind, stinking drunk to recognize anyone tonight.”

“But you’re sober.”

“And it’s time to change that immediately.”

We left the bathroom and walked back to the sitting room.

“Congratulations on the election, by the way,”  I said.

“Worst decision I ever made.  Never get into politics Hatcher.”

“Why’s that?”

“It makes me yearn for the war, back when at least it was easy to spot the enemy.”

“You’re a good man, Double-R.  England’s lucky to have you.”

“Yes, now go sit somewhere far away from me, will you, Yankee imbecile I’ve never met before?”

“Oh.  Right.”

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All rights reserved.

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Aug 17 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier – (Part 6)

Salacot-explorer

“There I was, naked as the day I was born, strung up by my toes, flapping in the breeze over a pot of boiling
water.  The local primitives were restless, dancing about in a circle and preparing to boil me alive for their supper!”

Lord Alistair Blackburn was a corpulent fellow.  A charter member of Her Majesty’s Society of Royal Adventurers, he wore a khaki colored shirt and shorts and a pit helmet to top it all off.  He was a bit of a bombastic blowhard, offering up tall tales and exaggerated yarns to anyone who would listen.

I hate it when people do that.

Muffy and I smiled politely.

“How’d you escape, Al?”  I asked.

“Luckily I’d studied that particular tribe’s dialect and told them I taste terrible.  They set me free but I had to walk for an entire day in my all together until I found an outpost.”

I felt sorry for every animal who had to witness that.  Blackburn was definitely not skipping any meals.  In fact, if his story was true, then those bushmen must have had some extra strength rope.

The great game hunter was just one of the people who’d received an invitation to the Count’s dinner party that evening.

Count and Countess Rickard were famous all over Monaco for their dinner parties.  They collected people like a hobbyist might gather up rare coins.  They loved entertaining and they threw a top notch soiree.

We were all gathered in the Rickards’ sitting room, an expanse that was greater than the average person’s home.  It was fancy cigars, premium brandy, and good conversation until dinner was ready.

“Now then,”  Blackburn continued.  “Halfway through this most treacherous trek, I had the misfortune of coming face to face with a pack of unruly hyenas…”

Change that to mediocre conversation.  The Muffster and I were bored out of our gourds.  I tuned out Lord Blackburn and perked my ears toward the conversation happening on the couch opposite the one I was sitting on.

Signora Bellavenuti was whirling her brandy sifter and doing her best to ignore the ramblings of noted philosophy professor Arthur Fremont.  A fellow American, Fremont was a twitchy little fella with a mop of curly hair and a lazy eye.

“A true nihilist would argue that life has no meaning but if a lack of meaning brings meaning to a nihilist’s existence, then can there really ever be a true nihilist?”

The Signora was not as good as Muffy and I were at nodding politely in the face of less than stellar chitter chatter.

“Ugh, darling, please,”  Signora Bellavenuti said as she flapped her fingers up and down toward her palm, waving goodbye, “I have spoken to burros with more interesting things to say.  Shoo!  Shoo!  Away with you!”

Crestfallen, Fremont marched off to the back corner, where he nursed his drink.  Yakubovich was already there, still licking his wounds from the drubbing I’d given him earlier at the poker table.  The Count decided it would be sporting to invite the loser to break bread and it wasn’t mi casa so who was I to argue?

“The first seven hyenas I was able to take out with a stick I’d managed to chew to a point with my teeth, but the eighth I had to strangle with my bare hands.  And do you know it continued to laugh until its very last breath?”

The Lord’s chubby face grew grim.

“The image of my hands wrapped around that beast’s throat as it giggled like a school girl haunts my nightmares to this very day.”

“Whoa,”  I said.  “What a predicament.”

“Indeed.  Now, let me tell you about the rhino I stabbed in the face in Botswana.  It was charging at me, you see, and…”

Lord Blackburn’s rant was being drawn out by a conversation happening to my left.  Two men sat in oversized comfy chairs, wrapped up in a heated debate.

One of them was Sir Rupert Roundtree.  I considered him a friend.  The first time I met him was in North Africa during World War Two.  He was a tank commander then and saved me from a band of angry, sword swinging locals.  The second time was in Hong Kong not long after the war.  By that time, he’d been appointed as Chief of Police in the then British controlled city state, and he and his men stopped a band of thugs who wanted to slice and dice me.

Since then, Rupert had worked his way up in the world.  He’d gotten himself elected to parliament and was currently serving as the British Secretary of State.

As you can imagine, I had a lot of respect for him.  Roundtree was physically fit, an athletic type.  He had a thick handlebar mustache that took up half his face and long sideburns.

Charbonneau had a poor excuse for a toupee.  It looked like a damn chinchilla taking a nap on his head.  The coloring was off.  The hair on his sides was silver but the toupee a deep black.  You’d think someone at the rug factory could have peppered it up a little.

The man chewing Roundtree’s ear off was Patrice Charbonneau, the French Ambassador to England.

“Patrice, old boy,”  Roundtree said.  “Must we dampen the evening with talk of politics?”

“Yes monsieur.  French merchants simply cannot operate with the outrageous tariffs imposed on goods exported to your country.  Something must be done.  There is no precedent for the current rates and if you consult the treaty that was signed in 1949, you’ll see clearly that…”

Roundtree spaced out of the lecture he was getting and looked around the room only to do a double take when he spied my kisser.

“Pardon me, Patrice, I have to go see a ghost from my past.”

“But the hardliners are calling for action and I cannot hold them back any longer!”

“Yes,”  Rupert said as he stood up and patted Charbonneau on the back.  “Let’s put a pin in this conversation for later, shall we?  I swear I’ll return and listen to all your problems posthaste.”

The MP strolled over to me and I stood up to greet him.

Lord Blackburn didn’t even notice.

“That beast came close to goring me but I managed to dodge its thrust at the last minute and smash it right between the eyes with my machete.”

“Lord Blackburn!”  Rupert said.  “Might I steal Hatcher away from you for a moment?”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015

All Rights Reserved.

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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.

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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
2 Comments
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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