THE SUPER SEVEN
Jul 17, 2018 16:30:38 GMT
President Ackbar™, No Morpho, Only Bánh mì, and 2 more like this
Post by Nalkarj on Jul 17, 2018 16:30:38 GMT
“The Super Seven”
a Moe Poker Mystery
I was just drinking my breakfast and longingly glancing at the bottle containing my mid-morning snack when the newsflash came on the TV: “Seven superheroes captured! Details on Channel 7’s Nightly News at 9.”
Oh, 9. “Nightly.” Huh. That was why it was dark outside. I put my breakfast aside, opened the window, and looked out. A pigeon crapped on my glabrous cranium. I snorted, turned around, slipped on that huge pile of alimony requests (which I’d unavailingly tried to persuade the mailman to forbid from my office for exactly that reason), and landed my butt. Just for amusement. Then I got up, found a sandwich that wasn’t green somewhere behind the refrigerator, and was just turning around when I saw a small, ugly man with a hugemustard mustache on his lower lip. Surprisingly, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t a hitman my landlady had paid to shoot me after reneging on my last thirty rent payments.
I meant to say something cool and Philip Marlowe-y, so it came out as, “Brunahunnadunnamack,” which is an Iroquois word for “you fart on one side, I fart on the other side, and we both stink.”
The man nodded as if he understood exactly what I said and laid down a suitcase that I expected to be filled with tons of cash or whatever was in Pulp Fiction. Because of clichés and an uninspired hack writing this story, it was tons of cash.
The man said, “Thith ith tonth ofth casth.”
I was suave and charming, as always, so I said, “Huh?”
He said, “Thith ith tonth ofth casth.”
I said, “Booly dooly ding dong. Hey, don’t you know,” I explained, gingerly scratching my inter-gluteal cleft, “that speaking in such a phony Peter Lorre impression can offend some people?”
“Oh, really?” said the little man. “I…I apologize. I’m sorry. Please forgive me! I repent! I repent! I’m a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a…”
I went over to the broken record on the other side of my desk and threw it out the window. It shot through the air like a boomerang and hit a thief in the process of robbing Jones’s Jewelry Store. I’m a detective.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’d tell you to pull up a chair, but there aren’t any, so let’s lie on the floor.”
“Thank you, but I always tell the truth,” says my interlocutor in the wrong tense. “Have you, Mr. Poker, perhaps heard of the seven missing superheroes?”
“No, but I saw the chyron on the FAKE NEWS MEDIA,” as I glanced down at my cellphone and read another Trump tweet. Trweet. Twump. Truweet. “Truweet.” I like it. It’s going to catch on. It’s really great, really super, I’m pretty, amazing and smart and do great diplomacy and Lying Ted and Lying Loser Hillary Clinton are not AS GREAT AS ME, TEH PRECEDENT!!!! Covfefe. Really.
“Yes. Well, Mr. Poker, my company—Anonymous Advising Associates, Inc.—and I are willing to offer you”—[THIS AMOUNT OF MONEY HAS BEEEN REDACTED BECAUSE IT IS SO YUGE THAT IT WOULD NOT FIT ON THE PAGE]—“to find those missing seven superheroes.”
I said yes. Of course I said yes. What am I, an idiot or something?
a Moe Poker Mystery
I was just drinking my breakfast and longingly glancing at the bottle containing my mid-morning snack when the newsflash came on the TV: “Seven superheroes captured! Details on Channel 7’s Nightly News at 9.”
Oh, 9. “Nightly.” Huh. That was why it was dark outside. I put my breakfast aside, opened the window, and looked out. A pigeon crapped on my glabrous cranium. I snorted, turned around, slipped on that huge pile of alimony requests (which I’d unavailingly tried to persuade the mailman to forbid from my office for exactly that reason), and landed my butt. Just for amusement. Then I got up, found a sandwich that wasn’t green somewhere behind the refrigerator, and was just turning around when I saw a small, ugly man with a huge
I meant to say something cool and Philip Marlowe-y, so it came out as, “Brunahunnadunnamack,” which is an Iroquois word for “you fart on one side, I fart on the other side, and we both stink.”
The man nodded as if he understood exactly what I said and laid down a suitcase that I expected to be filled with tons of cash or whatever was in Pulp Fiction. Because of clichés and an uninspired hack writing this story, it was tons of cash.
The man said, “Thith ith tonth ofth casth.”
I was suave and charming, as always, so I said, “Huh?”
He said, “Thith ith tonth ofth casth.”
I said, “Booly dooly ding dong. Hey, don’t you know,” I explained, gingerly scratching my inter-gluteal cleft, “that speaking in such a phony Peter Lorre impression can offend some people?”
“Oh, really?” said the little man. “I…I apologize. I’m sorry. Please forgive me! I repent! I repent! I’m a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a sinner, a…”
I went over to the broken record on the other side of my desk and threw it out the window. It shot through the air like a boomerang and hit a thief in the process of robbing Jones’s Jewelry Store. I’m a detective.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’d tell you to pull up a chair, but there aren’t any, so let’s lie on the floor.”
“Thank you, but I always tell the truth,” says my interlocutor in the wrong tense. “Have you, Mr. Poker, perhaps heard of the seven missing superheroes?”
“No, but I saw the chyron on the FAKE NEWS MEDIA,” as I glanced down at my cellphone and read another Trump tweet. Trweet. Twump. Truweet. “Truweet.” I like it. It’s going to catch on. It’s really great, really super, I’m pretty, amazing and smart and do great diplomacy and Lying Ted and Lying Loser Hillary Clinton are not AS GREAT AS ME, TEH PRECEDENT!!!! Covfefe. Really.
“Yes. Well, Mr. Poker, my company—Anonymous Advising Associates, Inc.—and I are willing to offer you”—[THIS AMOUNT OF MONEY HAS BEEEN REDACTED BECAUSE IT IS SO YUGE THAT IT WOULD NOT FIT ON THE PAGE]—“to find those missing seven superheroes.”
I said yes. Of course I said yes. What am I, an idiot or something?