A short narrative tale of deceit!
Hello, my faithful audience of two. Has the masked Bojangely Bastard have a tale for you. Get ready for spills, thrills and chills in this first Lance Brickland tale of deception and greed. The mystery, the passion, the action. All this and more in:
Lance Brickland and the Case of the Missing Vowel
The night was black. Black like the great fog of 1827, which shut down the city of Hansbourough like a diseased frog sucking on his own seven legs of pain and glory. Luckily, 2007 is not 1827, so the lights sprang on like they used to—or in this case, didn’t use to. Electricity is a relatively modern invention, Lance Brickland is not. O the crimes he’s solved; o the ladies he’s wooed; o superstition he’s debunked.
Lance Brickland is to detecting what FDR (the real Truman in my opinion) is to Japan. A bomb dropping, lovemaking machine. Lance is a neo-Napoleanatic pistol with one key difference—he’s as tall as water is deep. Of course, I refer to ocean water…and not shallow ocean water. O how I detest that word: shallow. It brings back memories of the crime of the century. Shallow Throat, where have you gone to play now that father J.T has gone astray.
J.T is the Governor of this story I will unweave with the skill of a magician. A magician with not a little pain—what is pain if not knowledge; reality if one wants to go the way of many before. Reality has never been my strong point; is that why I’m a babysitter? Ah, so be it, but story must go on.
First let me introduce myself. My friends call me Greg and my enemies…also call me Greg. You can call me: NARRATOR. I won’t disappoint either. I will spin a dreamlike tale of pure (fool’s?) gold, which will dispel myths of past, present and future tense. You will experience a sense of the real that can only be described as Draconian (and not because it sucks). O how my pain springs up in my bowel of bowels, rising to meet the day with a grimace fixed on its demonic and tortured gaze with the obedience of a layman’s ghost.
Ghosts you say? For here is where this tale begins: a ghost’s wail, reminiscent of a porter’s call for chicken and rye…
I (a simple baby sitter)—is there any other kind?—no, no there isn’t. Blast, the prose must begin with the momentum of a drunkard’s howl and the bass of a…a…bass guitar. Picture this, faithful reader: Knock, knock, knock.
As is the custom in this foreboding and cruel planet, I knocked on the door of misery and miserly pain. O who should open it, but Rob: forty, suave, charming, pant less? No. O God no. I’m just keeping my little readers on their toes, am I not? Would I lie to you? Nay, nay, O God nay! Where would the lies stop, but where the last began. One lie leads to an avalanche…and that’s where I begin my story:
Rob opened the malicious door. He looked at me. O those cruel amphibious eyes. Why did he look at me? He opened his devilish mouth:
“Greg, I presume.”
O what to say to this cruel inquisition, my skin swallowed my throat and my mind raced with the fury of Thor’s still flaccid hammer. Words! They do nothing…I must find a way to… no! O muse of my soul let me stand up to this man of demonic stature. O Wormwood, I feel your PAIN! O Pain, let me sing thy virtues—without you, O woes be upon my head. Pain! Pain!
“Pain.”
“Pardon.”
“Oh, excuse me. Yes, I am Greg. And you must be…”
How could I forget? This black day has enraptured my very soul. O why must my brain be as vacant as room 1101, where my adulthood truly began. (Did it begin)? How do I know where I start and fiction (O fiction!) takes over. Someday soon I will rescind responsibility. But first…
“The name’s Rob. Please, come in.”
Such simple words. ‘Come in.’ But what do they really mean? O daggers on my enemy’s soul. Why tempt me with such impurities? If only, I hadn’t lapsed on my student loans. O dark dragon of the sea, you will get you heart of gold, but it will be a gold mined by the chef of Istanbul, nay Constantinople. Aye, my Gods will, nay yet again. I’ll take you to Greece. Mighty Poseidon! The Earthshaker! No, Zeus—all praise Zeus—the wielder of thunderbolts and lightning. He will retort with a well-placed…O Zeus, speak for me. Words! Words!! Words!!!
“Sounds good.”
I made my way through this fortress of impending doom. But first, I gazed (in the purest of sense, sight has a place unique and callous to those who wish harm upon it). What did I see? Carpet, chairs (O woeful day) and couches? The kitchen had a golden glow of mischief and mistaking identity. What would Lance Brickland say?
O Lance Brickland let me sing the virtues of your golden mane. Let me extol the pieties of lost pirates and landlords upon the Aegean Sea. Only Lance can solve a crime so dastardly—O so dangerously—then the way I stumbled upon that day, O so long ago (five days ago).
Rob opened the mouth of a snake, nay a python. His tongue flickered like a dirty candle of lost souls. Where’s mine? O down the shaft of precious purity. O gone away!
Where does this babysitter go when he dies? Eternal fire? Ye God, sir, Zeus will save me before my skin boils. Odin will gallop and thrust me upon Sleipner’s mighty back. O please, Odin with your mighty mark of Justice, save me from what lurks beneath Rob’s cool demeanor.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
Aye, the world’s oldest death trap. Poison. O why poison. The fifth worst way to die, to not speak, see, hear, and smell or—the fleshiest sense of all—feel. To touch warm flesh; to laugh; to play. O Shallow Throat, speak to me—from beyond the grave—gently. Comfort me; somebody must. Tell me—O order me—everything is going to be OK. Aye, if only Lance Brickland could solve the mystery of eternal light, nay eternal life. O Shallow Throat, take me with you, we shall ride the Valkries into the land of silk and ink and make our presence felt.
The four worst ways to die: 1. to be impaled. O no, please, mighty Heimdall! Blow your horn of passion and precedent; send me to the land of egg-nog. Aye, the land of mead (just don’t poison it). Vlad the Impaler! Don’t penetrate this heart with sordid stories of ribaldry! O!
2. O Clementine, don’t drown me! Nay, this babysitter wants anything, anything in this grey and bleak world of Dragon’s blood and ovalic—is that a word, O let this be a word—fluid then to be drowned. It’s even worse than being run through and impaled through thy rectum! O no! That would mean drowning is now the first on this unholiest of lists.
I must, I can’t, I must, I can’t, I will revise the list. Now:
The first is: O Clemintine, don’t drown me! Nay, this babysitter wants anything, anything in this grey and bleak world of Dragon’s blood and ovalic—is that a word, O let this be a word—fluid then to be drowned. It’s even worse than being run through and impaled through thy rectum! O no! That would mean drowning is now the first on this unholiest of lists.
2. To be impaled. O no, please, mighty Heimdall! Blow your horn of passion and precedent; send me to the land of egg nog. Aye, the land of mead (just don’t poison it). Vlad the Impaler! Don’t penetrate this heart with sordid stories of ribaldry! O!
What—O what!—can possibly be the third way. A gunshot? Nay! A knife wound! ‘Zounds! How can this humble babysitter speak such blasphemy! O Odysseus, you of fame and glory. Aye, you know as well as this noble squire, that the bite of a Cyclops’s tooth—O the pain, O the glory—can not be matched (but by the two aforementioned cases) by anything in (or out of this world). Fame to be had and the Earthshaker’s illegitimate son to encase thee in said glory. O but the pain! Pain! Aye, the humane experience with its flowing pain! Black pain! Red pain!
O the fourth, no, I can’t—I mustn’t—somebody stop me. Please, end my misery! O the fourth way: to fall off a bike and hit a truck. O the embarrassment! Bring me the yellow, decomposing tooth of the one-eyed monster any putrid day of the week. O God of God’s; King of King’s, what say you? Evil architect of buses and bikes (Wright Brothers?) No, no they invented the plane! O Icarus, come down from the heights! You’re flying too close—O no—too close to the sun. Aye burning! Nay falling from the sky like Lucifer! And like your namesake, the betrayal of Loki himself!
I looked into the cavernous eyes of Rob:
“Keep thy poison to yourself.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, excuse me. A drink would be fine.”
“What can I get for you?”
What evil spirits lurk within inane questions of generations passed? What devil has got to him and his impious ways?
O Shallow Throat, give me the strength! O mighty Thor, join this noble battle of civilizations! The Hellenistic age was fought through battles of wits—this will be no different!
“Die, fallen one. The blood of the Diablo runs through the streets of deviations!”
“What the hell are—Owe, stop biting me! Ah, no!”
A case worthy of Lance Brickland himself.
Lance Brickland and the Case of the Missing Vowel
The night was black. Black like the great fog of 1827, which shut down the city of Hansbourough like a diseased frog sucking on his own seven legs of pain and glory. Luckily, 2007 is not 1827, so the lights sprang on like they used to—or in this case, didn’t use to. Electricity is a relatively modern invention, Lance Brickland is not. O the crimes he’s solved; o the ladies he’s wooed; o superstition he’s debunked.
Lance Brickland is to detecting what FDR (the real Truman in my opinion) is to Japan. A bomb dropping, lovemaking machine. Lance is a neo-Napoleanatic pistol with one key difference—he’s as tall as water is deep. Of course, I refer to ocean water…and not shallow ocean water. O how I detest that word: shallow. It brings back memories of the crime of the century. Shallow Throat, where have you gone to play now that father J.T has gone astray.
J.T is the Governor of this story I will unweave with the skill of a magician. A magician with not a little pain—what is pain if not knowledge; reality if one wants to go the way of many before. Reality has never been my strong point; is that why I’m a babysitter? Ah, so be it, but story must go on.
First let me introduce myself. My friends call me Greg and my enemies…also call me Greg. You can call me: NARRATOR. I won’t disappoint either. I will spin a dreamlike tale of pure (fool’s?) gold, which will dispel myths of past, present and future tense. You will experience a sense of the real that can only be described as Draconian (and not because it sucks). O how my pain springs up in my bowel of bowels, rising to meet the day with a grimace fixed on its demonic and tortured gaze with the obedience of a layman’s ghost.
Ghosts you say? For here is where this tale begins: a ghost’s wail, reminiscent of a porter’s call for chicken and rye…
I (a simple baby sitter)—is there any other kind?—no, no there isn’t. Blast, the prose must begin with the momentum of a drunkard’s howl and the bass of a…a…bass guitar. Picture this, faithful reader: Knock, knock, knock.
As is the custom in this foreboding and cruel planet, I knocked on the door of misery and miserly pain. O who should open it, but Rob: forty, suave, charming, pant less? No. O God no. I’m just keeping my little readers on their toes, am I not? Would I lie to you? Nay, nay, O God nay! Where would the lies stop, but where the last began. One lie leads to an avalanche…and that’s where I begin my story:
Rob opened the malicious door. He looked at me. O those cruel amphibious eyes. Why did he look at me? He opened his devilish mouth:
“Greg, I presume.”
O what to say to this cruel inquisition, my skin swallowed my throat and my mind raced with the fury of Thor’s still flaccid hammer. Words! They do nothing…I must find a way to… no! O muse of my soul let me stand up to this man of demonic stature. O Wormwood, I feel your PAIN! O Pain, let me sing thy virtues—without you, O woes be upon my head. Pain! Pain!
“Pain.”
“Pardon.”
“Oh, excuse me. Yes, I am Greg. And you must be…”
How could I forget? This black day has enraptured my very soul. O why must my brain be as vacant as room 1101, where my adulthood truly began. (Did it begin)? How do I know where I start and fiction (O fiction!) takes over. Someday soon I will rescind responsibility. But first…
“The name’s Rob. Please, come in.”
Such simple words. ‘Come in.’ But what do they really mean? O daggers on my enemy’s soul. Why tempt me with such impurities? If only, I hadn’t lapsed on my student loans. O dark dragon of the sea, you will get you heart of gold, but it will be a gold mined by the chef of Istanbul, nay Constantinople. Aye, my Gods will, nay yet again. I’ll take you to Greece. Mighty Poseidon! The Earthshaker! No, Zeus—all praise Zeus—the wielder of thunderbolts and lightning. He will retort with a well-placed…O Zeus, speak for me. Words! Words!! Words!!!
“Sounds good.”
I made my way through this fortress of impending doom. But first, I gazed (in the purest of sense, sight has a place unique and callous to those who wish harm upon it). What did I see? Carpet, chairs (O woeful day) and couches? The kitchen had a golden glow of mischief and mistaking identity. What would Lance Brickland say?
O Lance Brickland let me sing the virtues of your golden mane. Let me extol the pieties of lost pirates and landlords upon the Aegean Sea. Only Lance can solve a crime so dastardly—O so dangerously—then the way I stumbled upon that day, O so long ago (five days ago).
Rob opened the mouth of a snake, nay a python. His tongue flickered like a dirty candle of lost souls. Where’s mine? O down the shaft of precious purity. O gone away!
Where does this babysitter go when he dies? Eternal fire? Ye God, sir, Zeus will save me before my skin boils. Odin will gallop and thrust me upon Sleipner’s mighty back. O please, Odin with your mighty mark of Justice, save me from what lurks beneath Rob’s cool demeanor.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
Aye, the world’s oldest death trap. Poison. O why poison. The fifth worst way to die, to not speak, see, hear, and smell or—the fleshiest sense of all—feel. To touch warm flesh; to laugh; to play. O Shallow Throat, speak to me—from beyond the grave—gently. Comfort me; somebody must. Tell me—O order me—everything is going to be OK. Aye, if only Lance Brickland could solve the mystery of eternal light, nay eternal life. O Shallow Throat, take me with you, we shall ride the Valkries into the land of silk and ink and make our presence felt.
The four worst ways to die: 1. to be impaled. O no, please, mighty Heimdall! Blow your horn of passion and precedent; send me to the land of egg-nog. Aye, the land of mead (just don’t poison it). Vlad the Impaler! Don’t penetrate this heart with sordid stories of ribaldry! O!
2. O Clementine, don’t drown me! Nay, this babysitter wants anything, anything in this grey and bleak world of Dragon’s blood and ovalic—is that a word, O let this be a word—fluid then to be drowned. It’s even worse than being run through and impaled through thy rectum! O no! That would mean drowning is now the first on this unholiest of lists.
I must, I can’t, I must, I can’t, I will revise the list. Now:
The first is: O Clemintine, don’t drown me! Nay, this babysitter wants anything, anything in this grey and bleak world of Dragon’s blood and ovalic—is that a word, O let this be a word—fluid then to be drowned. It’s even worse than being run through and impaled through thy rectum! O no! That would mean drowning is now the first on this unholiest of lists.
2. To be impaled. O no, please, mighty Heimdall! Blow your horn of passion and precedent; send me to the land of egg nog. Aye, the land of mead (just don’t poison it). Vlad the Impaler! Don’t penetrate this heart with sordid stories of ribaldry! O!
What—O what!—can possibly be the third way. A gunshot? Nay! A knife wound! ‘Zounds! How can this humble babysitter speak such blasphemy! O Odysseus, you of fame and glory. Aye, you know as well as this noble squire, that the bite of a Cyclops’s tooth—O the pain, O the glory—can not be matched (but by the two aforementioned cases) by anything in (or out of this world). Fame to be had and the Earthshaker’s illegitimate son to encase thee in said glory. O but the pain! Pain! Aye, the humane experience with its flowing pain! Black pain! Red pain!
O the fourth, no, I can’t—I mustn’t—somebody stop me. Please, end my misery! O the fourth way: to fall off a bike and hit a truck. O the embarrassment! Bring me the yellow, decomposing tooth of the one-eyed monster any putrid day of the week. O God of God’s; King of King’s, what say you? Evil architect of buses and bikes (Wright Brothers?) No, no they invented the plane! O Icarus, come down from the heights! You’re flying too close—O no—too close to the sun. Aye burning! Nay falling from the sky like Lucifer! And like your namesake, the betrayal of Loki himself!
I looked into the cavernous eyes of Rob:
“Keep thy poison to yourself.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, excuse me. A drink would be fine.”
“What can I get for you?”
What evil spirits lurk within inane questions of generations passed? What devil has got to him and his impious ways?
O Shallow Throat, give me the strength! O mighty Thor, join this noble battle of civilizations! The Hellenistic age was fought through battles of wits—this will be no different!
“Die, fallen one. The blood of the Diablo runs through the streets of deviations!”
“What the hell are—Owe, stop biting me! Ah, no!”
A case worthy of Lance Brickland himself.
posted by neilly bojangles at 12:47 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home