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Follow our private detective in a series of exhilarating videos as he attempts to solve the case of the poison-tipped mosquito. Read the post
31. Don't get me loose
Spaceship clowns is a bit, you know Trevor, a bit degrading.
Well, yes, but it keeps the rent at bay. I'm in episode seven, next.
Oh, darling, I don't feature until the second series, if that ever gets commissioned. I reappear as a bowl of stew.
How come?
I've been put through the mangle of a black hole, my particulars turned into mush. I did ask the director if I could at least keep my teeth.
Sorry about that Stuart, but in this business one needs to take it on the chin.
I don't even have a chin, Trevor, just a mush of fingernails and bone shards. Oh well, back to painting automobiles.
It's a rat! I saw a rat!
Oh man, don't get me loose! I've been fighting the scoundrels in my bedsit already. I found one under a tea cosy.
30. Spaceship clowns
Spaceship clowns.
This is amazing, man, I'm like in space. It's all very like, I don't know how it feels emotionally really, it's just very special, I suppose is the word. You know, it's kind of fits and starts. But you know, I'm not particular. But I won't be sold down the river.
Well, it's fantastic to be in space. Look, must stop the spaceship blowing up. It's every chance if we don't press that button over there. But it could happen. Not really in my thoughts. But maybe in the council. Or other such situations.
29. Pumped
I caught your fever standing still. A hand that shakes for every pill. I have seen too much of you today. On to your altar, and still I pray.
A mother and her son sit around a campfire, spit roasting a pig. The son asks his mother, 'Where is Benji?' A man at a campfire next to the mother and son is spit roasting a dog. The man asks the son, 'Is this Benji? I thought he was feral'. Two dogs at a campfire next to the man are spit roasting a boy. One of the dogs says, 'We're feral'.
You should take a leaf out of my book and get some exercise. An actor needs to be pumped.
28. A short-term job painting cars
Got myself a short-term job painting cars. All apples taste sour, you know.
This is the intersection between order and dismay. Where my abandoned notes lay. Scattered over concrete blocks. Metal pronged intent. I cast a gleeful eye on my descent. Celebrate my notions. And wasted my mistakes. Celebrate my notions.
27. Too fresh for Babylon
Oh, hi y'all looking too fresh for Babylon. There's no stigma attached. What's that on your computer screen? Bricklaying? Is it thespian at heart? Stuart only wraps rolls for the wounded soldiers, you know.
26. My manners are all pots and pans today
What a swell song man, it's like yanking my bones. Oh yeah, it's got a groove, man. It's got me tapping my feet. Kind of hillbillies, you know. Licking my lips.
Who's knocking?
Oh, hi Stuart. It's Trevor.
Oh, hi Trevor. How's it hanging? Have you found another acting job? I've not had any luck since my detective part.
Well, hmm, would you mind letting me in Stuart, so we can speak face to face.
Oh yeah, sorry Trevor. My manners are all pots and pans today.
I do not have the book of weirdness, I screamed. My surgeon borrowed it and has yet to return. He sits alone in a cave flicking through each page and acting the prose. Retreating the glow. Tired of opening doors to the soul. Like cellar steps to broken bones. They cry, straighten me from the toxic brawl. While he sits on his hands, wanting to twist these bones. Into a flock of red birds or an athlete lean.
25. Chasing the snails
Oh, hi guys. I feel better after a good splash. That's right, yeah. You know, I'm resting between jobs, chasing the snails.
24. The dog disgraced herself
I'm telling you man, the dog disgraced herself. I had to be there with the tissues. The chillies take their toll, and there's no amount of preparation that can, you know, prepare for it. A trail of slime will be kids play, but let's get up the hatch and out of the hot pan first.
Oh yes, frying pan.
Legs on fire. Amputee.
A flaming streak.
That's the dog.
That's the, oh no, that's your line.
A man walked up the highway. It was hot. He was thirsty. And the cars that passed by were knocking dust in his face. Finally, he got into town and met her at the cafe. Black coffee. He read the newspaper. She was filing her nails or something. An advertisement for a carburetor caught his eye, and he remembered. A highway. And a concrete office block with stacks of beer bottle windows. And a voting sticker on one of the windows. He understood somewhat why he walked up the highway.
23. You've got me pushing doors
.
I wasn't at the factory, sitting in a crane eating my sandwich spread sandwich.
Well, I have no briefing about the explosion of a wind-up toy.
But still you carve up my apples and stick pencils in my plums.
Such is the tradition of the actors' guild.
Quite, old bean. I'm resting between parts.
Doll parts?
Oh, you are wicked sir.
It's rabid, so take it out. It's feral, so strip it up. Teeth bleeding, wire it up. Inject the coat, bubbling clot. You've got me pushing doors.
22. Pop a tablet on my tongue
Hey man, welcome to my radio show. Introduce your feathers, dear sir.
Hi, yes, I am the mayor. And I take bribes from all and sundry.
Bribes, man. What a filthy plumage.
Well, hmm, oil the wheels of October.
A frank and honest spritzer. But you blew up my doll.
Can't have the pussy cat with the dough.
Well, thanks for ruffling my studio, dear sir.
Pop a tablet on my tongue and tell me I am worn out. Breathe air into my lungs and stitch my stinking belly up. I'll hang on hooks.
21. The words did not excite you
Tell me you transcribed it. And the stone will remain unturned. Tell me the words did not excite you. And we can watch the old house burn. A horse kicks up dust in your throat. And still you stir the ash, the urn, the ash of urn.
Oh, hi guys. My wind-up toy got blown to bits when it was discovered snooping on the mayor. Damn crook. He'll get his comeuppance, mark my words.
20. Love is not an ornament
I cracked the bone and bit the flesh. I kissed you softly and brushed the bed. Don't speak until the morning now. Our takeaway is in the hall. Hush until I disinfect the walls. Love is not an ornament.
19. Wind-up toy with a camera in its eyes
I've had a boozy lunch, the finest liqueur. I'm going to send this wind-up toy with a camera in its eyes into the factory to snoop on the mayor taking bribes from the factory owner.
I knocked over Edmund's ashtray at the stroke of eleven. And the butts rolled away from the ash. But their peppery steps led back to the frozen burnt orange glass. Like the length of string tied to my ankle. As I vaulted the fence of the pen. And scrambled up to the bow of the brae. And saw families picnic under a cold moon. And woman swam in a dark lagoon. With their swimming caps a glassy gloom. Men knelt by a bank crafting bows with old tools. Frightened eyes of deer like shining pins. In a matchstick forest above a glen. But the taut string let me peek no harder. And whipped me tight back to the pen. Rolling my spongy orange body in stone shaping steps. I writhed in the glue of my sunken pepper sky. As Edmund struck two matches onto the hot ashy stack.
18. A film of hosiery
Oh, hi sweetie. I've got myself a job as a crane driver at the factory, so I can snoop on the mayor taking bribes from the factory owner. You know, to turn a blind eye to the factory pumping a glowing goo into the swamp. Crystal meths, man.
I'm writing my memoir about living in a garage. Some parts with the red bulb by the window are redacted. Cobwebs on a filthy mattress, yes. And a film of hosiery wrapping the pillow, sir.
17. Jelly blood
Don't fry the meat but eat. And let the jelly blood drip down your chin. And trickle onto the Adam's apple of your throat. And onto the collar of your old man's shirt. Put away your spear, dear. And take your daughter's car into Asda. Where the chemical birds pull in. On filthy conveyor belts that loop the globe. Feathers and frightened pellets of shit. Sketches of nature's trees and leaves. On the cellophane that wraps the pimpled breast. Oh, festive greetings Grandmother. And the jelly blood nappy stains.
Oh, don't mind my mannequin, it's malfunctioning again. I've got incriminating sketches of the mayor taking a bribe on a big wheel gondola. Bang to rights, sir.
16. A wedge of lime
Take the seed and fry and die and. Take the beads and weep and cry and. Oh no, my faith turns low.
I'm absolutely furious, man. I've just spotted the mayor in one of the big wheel cabins taking a bribe from the factory owner. The factory is pumping a glowing goo into the swamp and granting the mosquitos a poisoned tip. I need a long island iced tea with a wedge of lime to calm me.
15. The wicked bow
In between the wicked bow. A heart of black. A pin. A crow. I saw a shard strike the glass. My temple broken. My century rust. I'm on my own again. I'm on my own.
My mum's got a foot bandage after a fall at the market. But I have a parchment of time, now the mayor is tending to the poison-tipped mosquitos and slapping a lawsuit on the seeping factory.
14. On the beach with a foot bandage
The mayor is furious about the factory pumping a glowing goo into the swamp. He has men out with nets for the poison-tipped mosquitos.
Okay sweetheart, let the night take you. Sorry man, I'm in deep slumber. A pickle of a dream, you know.
Time to chill in the Bahamas. My mum's on the beach with a foot bandage.
13. Shoring up a slipping heap
And each load fell into itself. And each sound reverberated to the end. Discontent in every holding. I held my thoughts in tired times. While others collected words from city bins. Shoring up a slipping heap. Bullish men now tread in tears. Watching concrete melt away. Cycles falling on their weight. Cherished places are moving out. A family that is losing each other. And though my hands still bear the markings. There are new alliances in my head.
The mayor has invited me for dinner, after our game of dinosaur disco. Time to talk turkey about the poison-tipped mosquito and the factory pumping a glowing goo into the swamp.
Mm-hmm, well, terrible it is. Pumping goo, oh my gosh. Throw the book at, yes, factory you say?
12. Dinosaur disco
11. Strike up a cigarette
You, you make my heart pump goo. And my eyes twist too. Oh, when I hold your hand. Hot sun in the yard. And I strike up a cigarette. You let sand between your painted toes.
I am practicing my karate. The case of the poison-tipped mosquito is hotting up. And I might just blow a gasket if not in my prime.
I do a cartwheel in the sand. But you scamper to the grassy dunes to slip on denim shorts.
Best make a move before the mayor knocks off. Once he hears about the factory pumping a glowing goo into the swamp, he'll pop a fuse.
10. Un de vous
I rewired my eyes. To see two dots of blue. Un de moi et un de vous. But c'était black when our blue shells were cracked.
I've just visited the museum to do some research on toxins. I'm off to tip off the mayor about the factory pumping goo into the swamps for the mosquitos to dip their snouts in the poison. But let's play some beach ball with my hip buddies first, kick up my heels. As long as I don't get any sand in my eyes.
9. Everyone knows that we're broken
Took my leather bloodshot wallet out. With moist flesh between my teeth. Everyone knows that we're broken. I dabbed red tears. Wept for the gazelle. James calls from the hall.
8. A bunch of rotting feathers
So be the last time I mention you, though dreams hardly are a fruitless few.
Burn the cloth, burn the oils. I have a pouch of medicine for this putrid land. These foul ponds are where the mosquitoes sup their poison. The factory is pumping a glowing goo into the swamp. Something smells like a thirty-month halibut.
To the deep corner of the ocean, an unknown squid type floats in black. I worry on.
Of all the dreams I should have, could be sweeter if I heard from you.
Better put on my surgical gloves and have a poke about the broth. Soup to skin a rabbit.
A pattern, not familiar or do I see something.
I spotted a carcass and a bunch of rotting feathers on the path in. My wellies are steaming, sir.
A delayed equation, a delayed equation, fibers burning through my mind.
Random notes, yes, I'm still here and.
I'll fix my binoculars on the factory yard and slip through the thicket. My mannequin can record the toxins.
7. Crying on the swamps
The poison-tipped mosquito is crying on the swamps. East fifty-five, wringing out its weeps.
Sunshine on stone, this glorious burgh. If the warmth of illusion can be brought to the foreground.
Ponds of filth, rust-fed on factory pipes. 0.28 stop.
6. Butcher's boy
Don't talk to me about rancid meat, I sold you a firm joint. I'm just a butcher's boy. A butcher's boy.
Don't point the finger at my fat juicy thigh and tell me you want my bones to die.
Don't hiss and spit at my giblets on the chopping board, I wrap up only the choicest cuts.
Don't snip my apron stripes into tiny squares and snub the bill for its repair.
Don't smear my windows with trotter pigment, murder drips a sour smell.
No cod or plaice for your stupid monkfish face, I'm not a monger by trade.
Blood seeps, the blue and white floor tiles, cracks of blue murder, you call me vile.
Filling my wellington boots with offal cuts, I will hose apart to your pious art.
Don't tape a legal notice to my wrought-iron bars, rust has coated my father's eyes.
I've built myself an assistant to help me solve the case of the poison-tipped mosquito.
5. Jam jar
I'm telling you mother, I'm staying in the jam jar until those poison-tipped mosquitoes have vanished. The case has come to me.
Then run, as fearful as the hunted animal. Ill at pace from all you dread and loathe. The eyes glaze over as I appear. Turn away.
4. Breaking the empty
Breaking the empty, walking into my shed. I pick up the drill, hold tears in my head. While I say with some gusto, 'The chatterbox is dead!' Then cry into the holes that I've drilled in my bed.
Oh, hi y'all. I'm just chilling my bones, sir sir.
And today said she, whilst age in my face, do we celebrate birth or mourn a death? For I know my place and of conventional taste, of the forgetting and well we should. Why am I still burning bright? Brighter and brighter it seems. What does not and will not falter. A timely pulse.
3. Don't forget my luggage and hat
So take your boat out to my shore, I shall meet you there and take you home. The grass is greener on this side, and how the birds shall sing our song. And by the scent of the mountain spring.
Isn't the Bahamas a charm. Oh, don't forget my luggage and hat.
2. Plant-based burger
They drink tea and talk about the slopes. You’d be surprised at the level of their hopes. Curtains a velvet purple. Into the candle dark. I felt almost immediately a pleasure from the heart. Sand, I’d let it run. From the tusk held to imperial skies.
Mmm, yummy plant-based burger.
Ah, nice cool lager.
I'm on my way to the Bahamas on a cheap ticket to see my mother. And solve the case of the poison-tipped mosquito.
1. Mosquito
I saw my mother and father out on the street. I asked them how they were passing time. My father answered for my mother. That there were hardships.
Oh hi guys, I'm just posting a letter to my mum. She is out in the Bahamas. I'm going to fly over to visit and solve a case at the same time. Something about a poison-tipped mosquito, you know.
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Follow our private detective in a series of inebriating videos as he attempts to solve the case of the vanishing vase. Get the code
You are standing in your back garden tending to your plants. I am standing at my window watching the world go by. When will your garden be complete, you've been out there every day. I spot weeds in your cabbage patch and on your rockery. So I open my back door and offer my advice. You seem just a little perplexed and go indoors for your wife. She is out within a minute, firing abuse at.
Oh hi guys, I'm at the Japanese restaurant that Ichita Yasumi ate at, sniffing for clues.
I have my notepad and ballpoint pen. Time to rev up my automobile. In the city there is a Japanese restaurant that Ichita Yasumi ate at. I have tip-off about the contents of the precious vase. A photocopy no less. Just need to saw and hammer out of my nerve cells.
Oh stack my rucksack. I hunch East then West but I'm not in. Mosquito inject under my pale fingernails. A carrier North from South. Mucus of poison frog floats in my throat. This is the wrong court. I tried so hard to understand it. But it did not work and I'm not in. I tried so hard to read the dials.
Oh, thanks sweetie. We have to stop the caterpillars crawling through my head. Their furry wrinkles are disturbing each neuron, you know. I had a ballpoint pen, but the notepad was still blank after a half of an hour.
Oh despair is the prelude to an angel's finest conquest. Oh despair.
And if we take a look in the cupboard, well, another insect. A spider that was busy with its web. But the protractor was in a box behind it, so you see all the gluey strands snapped and stuck to my nails. I'll use some of the plastic straws in the kitchen drawer to fix the situation. Oh goodness, I just can't stop salivating. Fatty wriggles. Tap.
I'm telling you mother. Ichita Yasumi did not push himself off that rather tall cliff. Big fat cigar stubs did it. The plump tomato wrestler had stolen the vase from the client and hid it at 12 Melrose Place, in an airing cupboard next to his gym. But why was the vase so precious? Was something stuffed within its bulbous ceramic? A winning betting slip, perhaps? Camel or sumo?
To understand the dog that barks at you. For when it's chained onto the railings, spiteful is the view. Crushing Violet is the cruellest thing, we are well aware.
I'm going to the farmhouse tonight, I've been clambering through the sticks for some time now. I shot some rabbit in the early dawn, but the wood's still damp and the last match has gone. Farmer Brown is a good friend and I've a hired hand to lend. I'll get some turkey if I've got to pin my rifle to his head. What a sight, blue lights, flashing through the blinds.
If luck should have it, a little bird pecked the rope and set me loose of the cooking pot. I'm coming home, mother.
So this be it. A makeshift saw has left my fists ripped to ribbons. I'll be nothing but a stew for this boiling pot. If only the flames could be doused, that my chilled spam can plot a breakout.
So to the river, to its heart. To its pounding rhythmic start. I shall touch.
Take me out to the stairwell. Throw me down around, be there reason or not.
The client has locked me in his wine cellar. I need to make a saw, to cut out the window bars and escape. Help me find a blade, a handle, and something to tie them together.
Great, the smashed wine bottle can be my saw blade.
Oh man, we better dodge the security camera. Or the client and the client's clients will get wind of our snooping. Damn these creaky brogues. They're made from synthetics you know.
For I've been desert cycling for so long now, I know not where the beauty lies. Though I know of it and how I sought it, I always look down. A kingdom for a camel.
Oh man, I've been bushed with a tip-off. The client is meeting the client's clients at his abode. Got a bit of sand skiing to do, and I'll be there in no time to do a bit of snooping. Ah, mind the ducks.
I do not hold the candle and I don't think I ever will. Shivering to this atmosphere, caught by the echoing walls. In the dull lit, harrowing corridors, it's all I've ever known. Glittering, glamorous guests this is my home.
The camel racing is hot to trot, trot. Had to get my lunch off the hoof. There's a betting frenzy at the ticket office, and the stubs match those found on the dead sumo wrestler. Where is the client's big fat cigar stubs?
I'm not sure why I’m shouting out, the slogans make me sad. But I know I don't want to be alone, spite the hate in my brother's eye.
Oh, hi there. I've just got myself off the two fifteen train to the East. Nothing but sand for as far as the mutton balls can squint. The train guard was giving me beef about my ticket, said the stamp was only valid to Pumpkin Press Hills. Get out of here, man, I snapped, and started to roll up my cotton sleeves. A burly gentleman with a dicky bow tie had to pin me to the floor of the carriage, for the rolled-up clump of meat bones that I posted on the surly officer's chin. Quite the stir. Be just my plums to appear on the front page of the Eastern Times, my mug shot rousing the moustaches of the client's clients. Best just get to the camel races, with the beer in my suitcases.
My mouth is dry, and I no longer see the world that I built around me. And the pretty stones that I placed before, now beat a path to your door.
I've got the client's papers and I'm heading out East. Lips are smacking with the iffy tea leaves from the office pot, sip, sip.
I was conscious of tears rolling down my cheeks. No anger, no more terror, just the strangest form of relief. I had exhausted every emotion, every care I'd ever held. Under the planes, I've never known a moment so.
Need to get into the client's office. Some papers in his desk for my trip out East.
You should not let me down. I shall stay chilled to the dark until I see your light. You should not let me down. I have prayed for your soul, now pray for mine.
I was waiting, taking water from the dragon's mouth. Walking gently from the rocks, oh ornate paths.
The iffy tea leaves are wearing off, and my head feels like a boxer's punch bag. The client has chucked me out his city office and into this wheelie bin. He is mixed up with the dead sumo wrestler and bets on camel racing. And my fingers have been burnt poking the embers of his blockchain transactions. Perhaps a trip out East is on the cards for me.
Delay, delay, delay, delay, delay, delay, what's the delay? It's in my eyes, in my eyes, it's everywhere. As if the road I tread has found its end at the flower bed. It's in my eyes, in my eyes, it's everywhere. As if the leaf I hold has been cast as one of my own.
I've been on this ledge for too long, I only sent you out for veg. The traffic whizzes by and it caught my eye, now I'm dizzy in.
I feel like I've been kicked out of the circus and into a bullring. The fruit is mushing me, man.
Yes, I put some iffy tea leaves in the pot. Sniffing around my blockchain transactions, well, perhaps some magic atoms in the skull will keep those fingers mushy. The gas price is 254117806814 wei. Time the city bet on sumo.
Beside I lay, to think a garden gate could hold me quite this way.
Has the client slipped something in my tea?
Looking upon my clothes at the jigsaw shapes.
Ain't no Mediterranean fruit market, rather cinder stoves and meat on hooks. I'm on the two fifteen train back to my office, just a few more shovels of sooty coal to burn through this carcass.
Someone has been looking at my transactions on the blockchain. Time to fix that icy rail track with a pound of explosives.
Oh man, your precious vase was found at 12 Melrose Place. Ichita Yasumi did his workout at that abode. Is there a rope tying the extinct sumo wrestler to the porcelain piece?
I tell you. And still the musical waves go in one lobe and out the other. This is foreign news to me. Not as much as a single thread is knotting my ceramic to the plump tomato athlete.
My client has a fruity balance of Saltwash coins on the blockchain.
The ironmonger’s party was a tepid affair. Sent us to the garden as so he could prepare. I was feeling nonchalant though Geoffrey did.
I am back in the city to ask my client about the stolen vase. I found it at 12 Melrose Place, where Ichita Yasumi did his workout. Something smells fishy.
Gosh, the city is putting lots of coins on the blockchain
A rabbit whips the wheels on the highway. A fox wits an ambush by the byway. When darkness falls and sunray stalls on broken bones and torn flesh.
The athlete found on jagged rocks at the bottom of a rather tall cliff was the famous Japanese sumo wrestler Ichita Yasumi.
The box contains clues. Newspaper cut-outs of camel racing, stuffed in a sports holdall next to Ichita's body. And betting slips tucked in his sumo belt. Curious.
I'm going to make myself a nice fruit salad and get healthy. Last night was a bit too much fizz and bubble. Ratty is pushing the trolley for me, it might get gritty for my furry friend when loaded with bananas and apples.
I'll get my bones tingling with vitamins, and then pick up the next case. An athlete has been found on jagged rocks at the bottom of a rather tall cliff, with a sports holdall stuffed full of newspaper cut-outs. Odd.
And all the while I still sense eyeballs upon my factory garments. Probably just my sponge painting a foreign seascape, nothing to worry about. Back to the office on the two fifteen train.
I’ve got my holiday socks on, and I'm flush with cash. The stress has vapoured from my shoulders now the precious vase is in the hands of its rightful owner. But still I feel eyes upon my stitches of cloth. Oh, pretty pink cotton, don't let the demon sew its black thread into your thatching. A pint of bitter will ease me.
I’ve been waiting here alone, I’ve been thinking of the house, blossom and stone. Though I need to hear you say we shall return, my world is relentless while yours is in throne.
I'm sweltering on the savanna, got a bit lost trying to get the precious vase back to my client. Oh, don't look at the animals, you will make them nervous and turn them to statues. Something about playing dead, I read in my biology book. Yet that rhino has blood shot eyes, with a horn that could slice a watermelon clean through and make a picnic out of my bones. Maybe if the animals could be turned to stone, egging me to diesel on to the city tonight to collect my cash reward. Hippo, ugly hippo.
Doctor Shaw come to my penthouse suite and don the white coat if you please. Can you hear the ballad beat through your stethoscope, oh Doctor Shaw it forever hits a melancholic note. Of a mind that callously backfires as it does.
I've been travelling for an aeon to get the vase back to my client. Will burn some logs tonight.
I found the precious vase in an airing cupboard at 12 Melrose Place and made good my escape. It's a pretty pink flamingo. Once the dust settles, I will leave my hiding spot and collect the reward. Bahamas, get your dancing soles on.
12 Melrose Place has a really smart gymnasium. I'm powdering my palms.
Pumping iron must yield to finding that vase, before those criminals spot me. Wonder why my client yearns for it so bad? But I don't ask questions, just sniffing the clues.
12 Melrose Place is still a facade, but perhaps somewhere in this half-baked architecture is the precious vase. Clues fall from to the lips of ugly and pretty criminals, but hush my love, or they will unleash killer worms on me. My bones rattle in horror.
Oh, hi guys. I'm just in a dream. Vibing those killer worms.
I want to hold the hand of fortune in desperate measures, I want to collude with my own demise. Yet such methods only falter, I disturbed the birds that flock on religious tides.
Oh, man. I'm cornered on the arm of this crane, and the killer worm is licking its incisors. Someone let it out of its cage with a rag of my odour dabbed under its nostrils. The case of the vanishing vase has taken an ugly turn. And my brogues ain't so steady.
Follow our private detective in a series of intoxicating videos as he attempts to solve the case of the bronze elephant.
20. Circuit soldier
Robot, get this wild pink bird off my hat. It's pecking as if my dome is a tray of seeds. I've programmed you to protect me.
Quaternions are a luxury, man. Just fizz its plumage with your eyeballs. On the hoof, zero one, singe its feathery flying piece. Burn, smoulder. Earn your stripes if you want to be my circuit soldier.
19. A flagon of ale
Harsh winds in the cornfield.
Oh mother, I have found my toy robot in the garage. Maybe it can help me keep Toby and Dava at bay. Because their sailboat is pulling up anchor and catching me off the coast scuttling on choppy waters without my armbands.
You're right, robot. I should relax a little with a flagon of ale.
For I have seen an earth digger ripping up the land. Is there nowhere from this town?
18. Put on the chip fat
A blackbird perched on a telephone cable is worth two stone dead in the gutter.
Oh mother, the bricks won't build my promise. Still, I have the incriminating photos to construct an iron case.
I shall find a yard with rusted bars and kick stones till dusk.
I'll be staying over, mother. Put on the chip fat.
17. Whip me with the liquorice
I'm a tank top tourist moving in and out of all the kind of squats that dogs could do without. I'm breathing in the fumes of my adhesive friends.
Those weird nightmares are supping with the medication. But I sleep better now.
A crate of Spanish wine has drained me of my will, soaks stale bread stolen from the rats. I'm bending wire and laying down the traps.
I'm at my mum's address to pick up the incriminating photos of the dame. I do hope she does not whip me with the liquorice. Or put oil in my brogues.
16. Farewell to the rats
We could live in a wooden hut, grow vegetables in the mud.
Broil over hot coals. Boil our new potatoes. Or instant mash.
Of course, the mud would be dry beneath our relentless sun.
Fever on the spam. Pills. Pocket pills.
So I’d attach a hose to the house next door and electrocute the fence, to keep the neighbour's offspring out.
I guess we’d still pay tax, so I’d get a Sunday market van and soon we shall go from this council flat. Farewell to the rats.
15. Very long fingernails
You bundled me into a car, your mother said that you have gone too far. You’re not me, you’re not the one for me.
The medication is kicking in, man.
You whispered on the radio that we are billed together in a one-man show. You’re not me.
I'm seeing all sorts of weird beans. Doctor, add some fruit juice to my drip.
You left liquorice in my shoes just so I would slip slide on back to you. You’re not me, you’re not the one for.
I can hear footsteps outside the window. Toby and Dava are running circles in my eyeballs with their very long fingernails. Doctor, bring me the clippers.
14. Luck on my lips
I've broken my hip. I've got beans in my pockets. And luck on my lips.
Luck? Lucky for me a rocky ledge broke my fall from the cliff. And that bluish birds attacked the thugs when they scrambled down to finish me off. Oh Doctor, what are my chances?
13. Parlour
Old bean is attached to the death wheel. Velcro will stop him wriggling free. I drink alone in the parlour. And watch sunlight patterns on my plaster wall.
I brush the backyard leaves and coins. And watch Toby's shadow on the kitchen sink. Until it grows larger than the house itself. Old bean falls off the edge of a cliff.
In our parlour we drink alone.
12. Shoogly peg
Oh man, I'm on a shoogly peg. The thugs have set wild animals on me.
Come down, old bean.
We only want to stir the pot.
I'm doomed, to a paint brush lacquered in crimson. The cartwheel has lost its spokes. But a sweet bird still calls for sugar. And my pocket is full of candy.
11. Spout of my teapot pours
I have no herbs for my tea, please help me. The spout of my teapot pours sandy, please help. Thugs are several grainy steps on my track, with a sword in their meaty mitts. Oh man, better pack my suitcase and check out of the Hotel Belmont.
You'll not get on the bus without a ticket.
10. A chunk of cheese
I'm hiding in the pulpit. The heavies intent on cracking my bones are the same two hippies at the beach bar. Now I have incriminating photos of the dame clutching the antique bronze elephant, a page is to be ripped out of their tracking notebook. To be a crumpled ball in a wastepaper basket. Not a peep, dear lips.
There is a rat in this town somewhere.
A chunk of cheese will tease it out.
9. Hot water
I'm being pursued by a couple of heavies. Turns out the dame worked for a crime syndicate, and my snooping has landed me in hot water. I mailed the incriminating photos to my mum's address. Oh man, better bolt or I will perish like a five-day-old plum in the midday sun.
8. Darkroom
There is no place I'd rather be than my darkroom, developing photos of misdemeanours. The red bulb plays havoc with my pupils, by I don't mind the dilation. I have snaps of the dame red-handed, clutching the antique bronze elephant with a jewel-encrusted trunk. Several vertical bars await her.
7. Snagged my jerkin
Oh man, I've snagged my jerkin on a bush, and my slacks are all covered in mud. But I've got a prime spot to take photos of the dame as she rubs those stolen rubies. My detective notes also incriminate her in the theft of an antique bronze elephant. Just need a snap of that jewel-encrusted trunk.
6. Shammy leather
I'm tracking the pilfering dame in my very own smart sports car. It's blazing sunshine out here in the dunes, better mop myself down with some shammy leather. Oh well, only another one hundred yards and a sharp right, and I will be at her apartment block. My pocket camera will catch her red-handed.
5. Quick to temper
I'm spying on the dame as she scoots along the seafront in her smart sports car. It is a perilous endeavour, trying to catch her red-handed with the poached jewels. I've heard that the lady is quick to temper, so I will slip on my soft-heeled brogues for tonight's snooping. A misplaced creak could be curtains for me.
4. Shirt won't wash it out
Not just dandy, this is no champagne breakfast. My shirt won't wash it out. Better hot hobble back to the Hotel Belmont an get my binoculars out. That dame is oft scooting up and down the seafront in her smart sports car. If I can follow her diesel fumes to a luxury apartment and snap her rubbing those stolen rubies, she be behind bars by supper.
3. Spittoon
I don't know about you guys, but I yearn for a washroom spittoon. I'm excreting saliva at the urinal, you know, it's a primal thing. But the drips are catching my belly on their drop to the pan. Maybe I've put on weight, or my shirt is too flappy. Hey, thanks folks, you've been a swell lot.
Actually, whilst I have your mutton lugs, has anyone spotted a dame in a tweed skirt and a pretty pink scarf? I'm staying at the Hotel Belmont on the seafront, if you have any jottings of her whereabouts.
Hey, did someone say bomb?
2. Button mushrooms
Hey, waiter, have your mutton lugs heard of trouble at an antique department store. It's not far off the sandy dunes, a coastal town where a lady walks in tweed and thick stockings, a pretty pink scarf to wrap the sparkles. I've pencilled a crooked line on my map of her misdemeanours. Best sip up before another ancient gem vanishes.
Sorry, sweet lips, I know nothing about the stolen diamonds. Sip up, the weather is soon to take a turn for the worst, and I'll throw a canopy over the lagoon and jot orders at the Sea Salt Cafe. Button mushrooms are on specials.
1. Jangled
You know, relaxing on the beach is a citrus fruit to me. My bones are brimming with zest. Once the lime juice fizzles, I'll be ready to bust another oily crime. There's trouble at an antique department store.
Dear Sir, with the pocket watch. Your jangled head will be in no doubt.
Built with OpenGL
Follow our private detective in a series of heady videos as he attempts to solve the case of the three dead corpses and a stolen flute. Read the post
47. Saliva on the rug
We jumped into a burned-out bed. My impulse, however, has long been dead. I want it back.
Oh man, I had to get out of that apartment, the monster's jaws smashed through the window and was dripping saliva on the rug.
I can breathe life into this frame. And fill above our memories.
I'm trapped on this roof, but the thorn bird let me tickle his wings. Maybe it can carry my bulk over those orange hills?
A clammed shell to prise apart. A craftsman, I am a work of art. A waking rainbow on your dawn. I etch the boundaries before I draw.
46. Squid in the fridge
There is a monster outside the blinds, trying to peek in.
This is not dandy. I've had to take shelter in an apartment on the sixth floor. But I can hear the monster snorting outside, its jaws are salivating for my flesh. Maybe there's squid in the fridge?
45. The sooty universe
Wow, the fizzy pop cans, bottles and junk food cartons are the refuse of a city on the orange planet. Oh my, we are not alone in the sooty universe, there are other sophisticated species capable of fashioning concrete and scattering trash. How can I scramble down from this plateau and shake their glutinous hands?
Oh my, I'm no sooner out of the quicksand but into quite another pickle. Buckle my breeches, mother.
44. Junk food
What are all these fizzy pop cans, bottles and junk food cartons doing on the orange planet?
The chemicals coming off the aliens has had a detrimental effect on my physical particulars. I'm walking and talking funny. I must get the medical kit from the knackered rocket and return to the dame post-haste.
Oh, man. I've got myself into a pickle with some quicksand.
43. Waiting for the cows to come home
Waiting for the cows to come home, you know. An indescribable fear. It was a birthday cake with pink and white sprinkles, a lemon tart would have been okay.
If you can reach in for the stopcock, that would be grand, just twist it a bit to the left until you hear it gush. I'm talking in cypher, don't want to upset the aliens. Lest they clobber me whilst my spaceship is knackered.
42. Candy orange lolly
Oh, my dame. You twist roses on my iron gates and feather my shirt collars. The smokey beaks had me battered from stone paths and fireflies to an ashy volcanic outpost. My lids were sealing up. But a sweet oil fluttered on the breeze and knocked those chattering parrots from their twigs. I have taken out a library book, my sick twisted dame, with charts and scripts of a planet not so far. The rocket nails may shake and pop, but soon we will taste that candy orange lolly. Blast us to the fizz.
Oh, David listen, please come on home. Can still you hear the night bird sing above the monotone? Simple words that should ring true, now ring so far out of tune, that I'm not sure if I still know myself.
At Fergus Rock, I was lost. By Fergus Rock I looked for you. At Fergus Rock, the sound was warped. By Fergus Rock I looked for you. An electric miracle. I’m lost in the electric blue.
41. Oil and canvas
All the angels in darkened eves, calling out your name. Knowing of what you and I became.
Marble, stone, gave presence, gave home, to our unending scripts. Oil and canvas bore disapproving eyes in our quest for truth. All the angels in darkened eves, calling out your name. Dare not whisper.
The light floods every choice, our written words cost dear. With your hesitation they weave more restraints, while my knowing self slips away.
40. Before fruity stirs
Fruity has wild hallucinations. Muttering about if the flowers were sweet. Let's put his rump in the motor.
Quick, before fruity stirs from slumber. Cart him to the dock master.
Of all the ways to wait, I shall entertain them all. To play a role or to refuse, there is a character for us all. Though play we must, and accept we shall. To pave your path with a mirage of reasons.
Bitterness is knocking, shall I let it in? Glee scarcely mends the heart, stuffed in between the pain. Am I wiser with the books, at peace and understand? Or has my voice gone stale, thoughts too dense to dance?
39. Rust on my skin
I’m not about to say anything really, still, there’s rust on my skin. And as I lie in this flower bed, is it unreasonable to ask why? Time is missing from my wrist, can I ask you why a truck has hit? Furthermore could you assist, not a stitch of cloth on my soul and my leg is limp.
You asked me if the flowers were sweet, I hadn’t tasted, I hadn’t thought to. Though I have to say as I look around, the wonder of your garden must have knocked me to the ground. And then it came to me. Could I say it happened here today? It’s those simple things, they leave you unaware.
The soil feels good under my nails, I want to stand now, shall I try? So you walk me through, round the paths, and I smell the wood and it took me back. To when I was young, I knew of nothing more. And as I fell, and as I fell, who’d have thought that I’d be caught.
38. Prairie dogs
I don’t want to find you there tonight. Staggering stupid when the saloon clock chimes for midnight. I want for you to be, beyond the red valley, galloping over the western clover.
The sheriff handed back my gun. He said at best I would die young. But I’ll stay home tonight, to fuel the firelight.
You know, I've found myself in a perilous situation, my buckets breached. The smokey beaks are ready to shred me to the prairie dogs.
All the cattle have been branded with a cross. The Harrisons expect some loss. Though I am not afraid.
Though I am a tad nervous, I'll confess. I stuck my office brogue in a paint pot and rattled a couple of spanners off a shelf, and started the parrots off squawking for the seeds. Oh my, an old sewer pipe has breached my buckets.
37. Falafel night
That's right guys, yeah, it's a battered old rock. But I just keep on pressing my gold-tipped pin into its mushy hoop, who cares if it's a donkey or a mule that hee-haws.
I breathe and feed. Give vent to my alcoholic needs. This does not mean I’m alive.
My socks have holes in them, but my breast pocket has a little silver case of needle and thread. And my nostrils scent a syndicate in an old shoe shed down at the docks. Old brogues, bleached money. The type of credit notes that shift off the decks in wooden crates.
Or have the surprises just begun?
Thursday, it's falafel night. Just a couple of snaps from my camera, and I'll scoff those spicy chickpea balls whilst the film develops. You know when your hackles are up, right? This will make the front page, and my office be an armadillo with a tail of dames curling round and beyond the red brick station. And paper stand.
There's an old water tank a hundred yards up that fills on monsoon and gushes the rails. You'd think they'd dismantle it, but the weepy-eyed porter took out an ad, "Heritage grows in rust", odd. And the folks drilled a sewage pipe, to cart the reddish wash to mush. The road sags now.
I'm picking up on the wireless radio fixed to my scooter. The syndicate are stubbing out their fat cigars and chattering like parrots. Film and voices, sugar, it will be an open-and-shut case. Smokey beaks will be slammed behind long rusted bars. And folks can pull their itchy blankets around in a wrap and weep. Sob over the worn constructs that dot the steel tracks. Silly, battered old rock.
There're wasps everywhere. Ice lollies. Pink and yellow swirl stripes.
36. Mouldy sandwich
I've got wild hallucinations. I shouldn't have eaten that mouldy sandwich.
Farewell to these city walls, protect the flesh while the soul should fall. If the guards should not believe me, perhaps they will if I do not return. Pass the market by the morning light, the trader calls of his delights. The jewels you hold so high shall not quench my journey’s thirst.
Crushing crime is no picnic. I'm waving bye-bye to the dunes.
The city beggar calls out to me, if you leave you shall be destitute. Though I stand cloaked in gold, the rags are all he sees. The city planner runs towards me, don’t you know, there's so much work to be done. All the stones we laid the day before need to be built upon.
There's a new case down at the docks. Time to crack open a few crates.
Unlock the iron gate and run into the sun.
35. Lock the cuffs
And I see a city. The love that rests in every moving eye. The true line that runs through every jarring smile. And though my arms will reach only so far.
The clown transported the stolen bank funds in balloons to his illicit establishments. And I was too smitten with love to lock the cuffs.
And I see a city. A heart that needs to beat free from tailored bonds. A tenderness which casts shadows forlorn. And though my arms will reach only so far.
34. Slice us some watermelon
A foot or so from the pit, the lion turns to beckon on. Okay, first question please, my answers are silent, still anyway. A Roman said to me, is progress all it’s cracked up to be? I say, I do not know, I’m not sure direction even has a place to go. Oh, come now, we have seen you walk our roads. Yes, I step outside and there they are. The sun has a peculiar effect on me, you see, I’m not trying to get from A to B.
Oh, ratty, can you feel the air brushing through your fur? And the sweet scent of the pines?
Answer now or face the jaw, the rhythmic swish of the claw. Where to, now the stone is laid? Why is it in these moments a simple bluff evades?
I thank the turbulent heavens that a lightning bolt struck the branch that fell on the executioner's head. And that my head is still firmly attached to its shoulders. If I never see another case file again it will be too soon, my oily friend. Take a left to an apartment at the dunes, and I will slice us some watermelon.
33. Cardboard on your windows
I'm skirting round the floorboards, my breath is dragging down the walls. I'm messed up in your bed clothes but I'm gone. We applied a transient religion, the strangest stories are never told. Has left cardboard on your windows and a heart full of holes.
The blunt metal edge, it glints for the demon. His trumpet and glass balls will soon be chopped clean off. A hoot for the boss, no?
Yes, the demon's hoofed footprints will no longer decorate the shores of this dusty sphere. A royal handkerchief has been stuffed in the pocket of our Queen, we await her command. Old treasure will fill this bucket, a sloppy mess to feed the hungry birds.
Oh, ratty. My memory tree is winding to an end. And there's pungent oil in my brogues. Alas, my dear rodent, farewell.
32. My goose is cooked
The blunt metal edge, no?
I stole sweets today, because I could, I take. It's ok, it's ok. No one knows the proper price to pay, and I stole them anyway. Think not of consequence, we're a nation in defence. The poor are poor, they know of life that way. I do what I can and prey empty. I just don’t feel it.
We keep the demon in its shell, until the axe brushes this thief from our cherished shores. Boss will stir from slumber soon enough to wave the royal handkerchief, a cotton blade.
Oh, man. My goose is cooked. I've only got a morsel of hours until my head it chopped clean off.
I'll polish the blunt metal edge. Make it shine for the demon.
31. Stunning flora
This field has some stunning flora, species I've never laid my eyes on before. Oh, man.
Boss, a rat, it crawls before us, gnawing at your bladders of cash.
But best we crush this poor rodent, it be intent on feasting your paper lots.
Oh, man. The clown has spoken on his flute, and I'm done for. I've no sooner laid my eyes on Sheila, and now the pretty little flower will watch me wither.
30. Parachute
That didn't work out very well then. Thankfully I managed to parachute down into this field using one of the clown's bladders of cash, before the plane crashed into the side of a mountain.
Oh, man. That bull looks peeved. I may have just deposited manure into the flannels that wrap my mechanical parts and internal piping.
29. Primary mode of transport
I'm going up in the air in my balloon-popping plane, cos my primary mode of transport has been structurally condemned.
That's right guys, my hot air balloon is out of action. So I'm taking this military plane into the skies, to pop the clown's bladders of cash.
I'm up in the air, Sheila my dear, flowers blossom but once a year. And my breast pocket pens rattle, Sheila my dear.
28. Woodwind deciphering
Where are my goons, to stuff cash into my balloons? The stocks are rising while a poor banker falls. Sheila stalls.
Oh, man, the clown only talks through his flute. Lucky for me I took the woodwind deciphering course at private dick school. I twig his foul means. Time to board my own balloon and do some popping.
27. Banana skin in my sandwiches
I got myself lost on the way to the clown's factory and ended up in this graveyard. Someone must have tampered with the public highway signage. It's really spooky. I've seen a bat and heard the crunch of a footstep. I fear one of these tombstones has my name on it. I don't want to perish, mother.
Mother, you never did really love me, you said I would amount to nothing. Mother, you put oil in my brogues, and a banana skin in my sandwiches. Oh, look at me now.
26. I stole a chip
Slinkies is a plush nightclub that the city banker hung out at, before flipping his heels in the city banking corporation. I asked around the joint for Sheila, the name scribbled on the card. Turns out the dame was up close and cosy with a clown. A bulbous-nosed bone breaker that had his golden name badge on a head table scattered with flasks of champagne and plates of prime Scottish steak. I stole a chip. And the address of a factory downtown where the clown puts his goons to foul games.
I eat. I, like, breathe man. But I won't sleep until I get that clown in the sandpit for a little game of twist twist.
25. Unicycling
The city banker was still clutching his briefcase as he lay splatted on the marble floor. It was chained to his bony wrist, but full of old newspapers. In the breast pocket of his suit was a card for a plush nightclub, with the handwritten note "5:30 Sheila bring flask". I smelt a red rose, soaked in foul oils. And I'll tell you that for nothing.
Every egg I've cracked, shell and yolk, has rotted foul. Am I worth a thousand rubles? I took to the play, but my lines tripped inside me. Am I worth a thousand rubles? If the dame has the cow, I have a plough, yes. I am worth a thousand rubles.
The square in front of the City Banking Corporation is great for unicycling. I feel like a trifle on a paper plate.
24. What a mess
I've thumbed through the heady case notes for the cold-blooded murder on the spiral stairs of a city banking corporation. A bigwig tripped over his shoelaces and flapped on down to crimson-splatted artwork on the marble-floored atrium. The teller had to clear his throat of sick before winding a call to the police. What a mess. But I'm a badger just wanting to be itched. Time to ask some questions downtown at the money vault.
23. Smashing amount of legroom
The dame has chartered a private plane to take us back from our holidays. What a smashing amount of legroom, you can really wiggle your toes. And I've had a cocktail or two, sorry, and I'm not even afraid of flying. The long-haul flight has let me thumb through the case notes for the cold-blooded murder on the spiral stairs of a city banking corporation. It doesn't really stack up. What a head-scratcher for a rat-catcher.
Preparing to descend. Preparing to descend. Fasten your seat belt, mobster mama.
22. Golden coiffure
What a swell holiday. Oh well, back to the office. Back to the little box they put me in, mould me into the shape I don't want to be, mother. The cat's not got the scraps, never mind the clotted cream in its litter tray. Anyway, it doesn't matter.
I wonder if you could help me, I'm looking for a couple of dear friends at the hotel. He's as bald as a toothbrush and she has a golden coiffure.
You threw scraps into my litter tray. Oh, my dame, what a swell holiday. But we're back to the dirty, gritty, greyscale thirties. Let me scrape the grime and crime from between your toes. Put your twisted foot into my office brogues. Oh, my dame.
21. Scraps for the cats
I've really scrubbed my skin on this holiday. My pretty dame fills my heart with scraps for the cats. Alas, it's time to return to the office and pick up the next case. There's been a cold-blooded murder on the spiral stairs of a city banking corporation, lots of blood and fossils all told.
But what do you say, dame, let's go out with a bang. A bit of a swing on our holiday day trip to a local farm.
20. My yin from my yang
Hmmmmmm. The dame and I are following along with the hotel's meditation video. I'm just trying to separate my yin from my yang, eggs for brains. Hmmmmmm. Can someone switch off the sound on the TV, man, that guru's doing my head in.
The dame and I, sti-sticky holiday. Giuseppe is a cloudy memory. And you. You feather my bones with glue.
19. A puppeteer in Sweden
I'm totally buzzing, man. Quite the cocktail of rhino tranquillizer and Baltic Lager in my blood cells. I could do a thousand laps of Antarctica in my cotton socks. What do you say, dame, let's paint the holiday resort red. Hit the pretty heights of a crimson-teared skyline, and we're never gonna stall the engines of this little rocket.
I know a puppeteer in Sweden who could grant us a discount on old-fashioned clothes. Jackets are a bit tight, but the finest tweed this side of Estonia. And you can unstitch the pockets to rest your horns. Man, this beat is earthing my bones.
18. Wine from the teapot
I was on my way back to the hotel after my primal dance class, when I was shot in the neck with a rhino tranquillizer. The hallucinations were wild, man. Giuseppe will be behind it.
Oh gee, honey pie got burnt.
Hey waiter, is this one of those fancy restaurants that serve wine from the teapot?
I know nothing about the teapot, sweethearts. I'm just here to take your puddings. The creme brulee's to die for, apparently.
Yeah, well man, I'm actually looking for a romantic sorbet I can share with my dame.
Aren't we all? I've got something round the back that the lady will love, you know, with an ice cream umbrella and a fizzy stick. She'll be eating out your hands soon enough.
17. Chuck a sandal
I was shot in the neck with a rhino tranquillizer, it made me feel quite funny inside.
I was shot in the neck with a rhino tranquillizer, it made me feel that I was alive, made me feel my blood was alive.
Don't lose sight of your senses, man. Giuseppe fired that dart, to incapacitate your faculties. Get back to the hotel and rescue the dame, raise the alarm and chuck a sandal at the culprit. Let the fever take governance of your bionic bones.
16. My breakfast shandy
I've signed up for the primal dance class at the hotel, it really helps release the stress of the three dead corpses. Oh man, the beat's too fast, can someone stop the ghetto blaster please, it's chewing up the tape. Oh hurry man, I'm about to do myself a mischief.
Well that was not in the least bit relaxing. And I'm not sure I found my inner child. Or Giuseppe, who's reflection I swear was in my breakfast shandy.
15. Pink ice cream
One pink ice cream, for my pretty pink dame. It's got a flake in it, to help you keep those lovely luscious curves.
Psst. Keep your eyes peeled for Giuseppe, he is a master of disguise. He's been an old Italian restaurateur, and the son of an Irish horse owner. Trust no one in the hotel, I've already distressed the waiters.
14. Tend my spuds
Please don't feed me to the snake. I beg of your better heart. You see, I was once a little boy, and my father had a stable. We had a horse called Rodger, who won the county steeplechase three years in a row. Imagine that. Oh, how I yearn to return to the farm and tend my spuds. I promise to peel them every night, even if my fingers are raw and bleeding. You could drive the tractor my love, it's a simple contraption, with only one gearstick. What do you say?
Mobster mama, you knock my cotton socks off. Oh, free me from these chains and we'll forget the corpses. Roll the dice, pretty dame, roll the dice on my brittle bones, shoo-wop, shoo-wop.
13. Milk bottles
You've got to let me loose Giuseppe. I'm just the milkman man, delivering my milk bottles.
You are a private detective snooping about the warehouse. If the dame found out about the machine parts sent to Melrose Place, it would be curtains for me. No, you will be fed to the snake, and she will never uncover my surveillance operation.
Well, at least let me die with my hat on.
12. Rabid dog
Oh man, there's a rabid dog intent on ripping my leg off.
When I met you at the park you filled my bitter heart with joy, oh my mobster mama, you lit a candle in my soul.
Three dead corpses died slowly at your hand, oh my brutal dame, let me soothe your twisted foot.
11. Tattoo
I have had the invoices destroyed, and the bodies disposed of. The tattoo of a dove has been surgically removed from my left buttock. But still the dame, she extorts me. And there is a private detective snooping about the warehouse. A man can take no more. It is time to let the flea-bitten rabid dogs out of their cages.
Shh guys, don't blow my cover, man. I'm down at the warehouse doing some snooping on Giuseppe and his gold hot pants.
10. Interesting reading
I tapped Giuseppe's telephone. It made for interesting reading.
'The part is buried in a crate of cigars. You can collect it round the back, there will be a couple of delivery men waiting for you. No, show them the papers. Take the crate to 12 Melrose Place, our agent will exchange it for your envelope. Please listen, the machine must be working by midnight, do you understand? There must be no delay. Otherwise she will hurt us all.'
Otherwise she will hurt us all? Oh my, the pretty dame had Giuseppe whimpering like a flea-bitten dog in chains. Just what sort of fruity magic was she casting? And why was Giuseppe packing machinery into cigar crates? It was time to do some snooping down at the warehouse.
9. A walrus with stomach cramps
Back at the office, all the little dots in my notepad sketched out a dove.
It was the crest of the Interstellar Toilet Cleaning Company.
And the feathery rat that adorned the fat man's stolen flute.
And the tattoo on Giuseppe's left buttock, exposed by his hiked-up hot pants.
If that's any help? My gosh, I feel like a walrus with stomach cramps - the next move is going to hurt. And I'm not the sort to make a pretty dame cry.
8. Absolutely furious
I'm absolutely furious, man. 12 Melrose Place is just a facade.
I could really do with a cup of coffee and a foot rub. Instead I've been dished the bum steer. But up here in my basket, I can see all the little dots. And they're spelling out the name Giuseppe.
7. I'm short on gravy
Melrose Place was a swanky joint, full of rich time bankers and city wallets. But it wasn't just the smell of the dollar that tickled my nostrils. A sick sweet scent on the breeze led me to the garage door.
The flies and maggots had been feasting for an aeon. He was the third victim to be jotted in my notebook, but the first of the case. The name badge on his uniform said "Tommy Brambles, Interstellar Toilet Cleaning Company".
What was a urinal polisher doing at the empty house of a city banker? And why were his pockets stuffed with cigars? My nostrils were flaring out wider than a pit horse on steroids.
The murder weapon was outside on the driveway. Bits of a rusted pipe, dripping in little Tommy's blood. Something's giving me the heebie-jeebies man, and it's not my great aunt's vasectomy snippers. I'm on the freak.
Brussels sprouts. Oh, new potatoes. I'm short on gravy.
6. A drive out east
A big fat yellow bird arrived with a note in its beak. "Danger awaits at Melrose Place" was scribbled in lipstick on the perfume-scented paper. Bless the stool pigeon and her twisted foot.
But if I've learnt one thing from private dick school, it's that rats don't flutter to you unless they have wings. Time to don the trench coat and take a drive out east.
5. Ring on his finger
I found the next victim - or at least bits of him - at The Los Angeles Zoological Society reptile enclosure. The keepers were tight-lipped, saying only that he slipped and fell over a 12-foot fence into the croc pit.
The ring on his finger was engraved with the address "12 Melrose Place". I'm curious.
4. Twirly straw
I was sitting in the diner, slurping my vanilla milkshake through a twirly straw.
Giuseppe handed me the receiver, it was the pink dame returning my call.
We met in the park, she told me the bloated fat man had a golden flute.
Oh, will I ever see her again, red lips and her twisted foot?
3. My puffy eyes
I called the number scribbled on the cryptic note stuffed in the mouth of the bloated fat man, and a dame picked up the receiver. She said, 'Meet me at the park, sugar'.
'The bloated fat man was a flute player in my jazz band. Gee, his fingers have been burnt.'
I said, 'Sure, doll'. The cryptic note was unravelling in front of my puffy eyes.
2. Snapped her pretty ankle
The diner belonged to an old Italian gentleman by the name of Giuseppe, who had a penchant for rolled-up shirtsleeves and a pencil behind the ear of his bald head, and suspicious eyes for customers who came in off the steamy, seedy sidewalk.
I bent down to tie my shoelace, an old diversionary tactic that I learnt from private dick school, when a lady with a tray of burgers crashed over me and snapped her pretty ankle.
'Oh, hey Joe,' I said, walking to the counter where he was mopping some split soda. 'Do the words "interstellar sphincter" mean anything to you?' I noticed he had a tattoo of a dove on his left buttock, a real giveaway when you wear gold hot pants.
'You're barking up the wrong tree, mister,' he replied. I asked to use his telephone, it was time to make a call to the number that was scribbled on the cryptic note that was stuffed in the mouth of the bloated... 'One vanilla milkshake, man, with the pink twirly straw,' I shouted to Giuseppe, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with my hand.
1. False eyelashes
I smelt trouble the moment that broad walked into my office and flirted her false eyelashes at me. She'd lead me to three dead corpses and a stolen flute.
Oh, hi guys, I'm living in the 1930's as a private dick, and it's gritty and dirty and greyscale, and you never know if you're gonna wind up in a house with a beautiful dame or a bloated fat man with a cryptic note stuffed in his mouth, and a book of matches that lead you to the seedy diner on 54th and a half street where you can slurp milkshakes through a twirly pink straw and listen to the jukebox shoo-wop shooby-doo-wop, and the bathrooms are clean.