Private Dick!; Chapter Twelve

 

The following may be grammatically incorrect, to highlight the

main character's lack of smarts! 

Chapter Twelve:

 

     The crashing noise outside my office sounded like something none-too-good; like an angry heavy deal, thrown against the outside.  I stopped writing, threw down my pen like a spear, and charged up to the door, ripping it open, and seeing a large angry man throwing heavy rocks like it was child’s play.  I shouted,

 

     “Say fella, what’s up with the heavy rock deal?”

 

     He stopped in the act of throwing another rock, saw who it was that was speaking, and went into a rage, moving all over.  Suddenly, it was raining granite, as he turned his rage towards me.  “You b*****d!” he was screaming, as he threw anger and rocks my way.  As I took refuge behind my garbage cans, which I’m here to tell you, smelled less-than-good, I was desperately trying to place him.  Let’s see, big head, beet-red face; yep, I had no clue! 

 

     “Hold up there, mister!  Let’s work something out.”

 

    His answer sailed over my left shoulder, as he threw a jagged rock at me.  “Wow!”  I said, mostly out a fear, and at least partly because I had nothing else to say.   

 

     Then Mr. Big-Head yelled, “You ripped off my brother.  He’s easy-going, but I’m not so easy!”

 

     “Your brother?  I don’t even know your brother!” I figured, if I played dumb, I could stall for time until I could sucker-punch him.  It wasn’t that difficult for me to do.  You might think of me as a coward, trying to sucker-punch him, but this dude was huge, he was pissed, and he was after me.  You’d probably have the same thoughts, if you ever found yourself in similar circumstances. 

 

     “I haven’t even told you my or my brother’s name, so how could you possibly know?”

 

     Oh, oh, time to fake an attack of some sort!  “I--ah, ah, ah, ah; aye-yi-yo; does that ever hurt!” I shouted, while grabbing my left leg and collapsing to the ground.  I was watching him out of the corner of my eye, to see what he was going to do.  If he moved away, I was sunk.  But he came towards me, asking,

 

     “Hey man, are you alright?”

 

     “Owe, yeah, it’s my rhododendrium; it flares up from time to time, like now.  I can’t--” and I sprang at him when he leaned over me, concerned.  I smashed him in the mouth, blood shot from his split lip, and he cart-wheeled to the ground, where he lay motionless.   

 

 

     He stirred at last, as I watched him from a safe distance away.  I had some clever questions for him, such as, “Who in the hell are you?”

 

     He tried to shake the beating I had given him out of his brain, and replied, “You really don’t remember, do you?  Marvin Derwood; remember now?”

 

     Marvin Derwood was a client I’d had a while back, but I was still known as Moe Friday at the time.  How in the hell did his very-angry brother find me?  “How in the hell did you find me, Dick Tracer?” I cleverly asked him.

 

     “Well, ever since you took my brother’s money and skipped town, I’ve been searching for you, so I could give you this!” and he waved his right fist; only there was something almost comical about a man with a giant head, feebly making a punching motion, while flat on his a**.  I’d like to say I was unafraid, but with his big head above a scowling face staring daggers at me, I was a little bit unsettled. 

 

     “That doesn’t answer my question.  How did you find me?”

 

     “Well, when you dedicate your life to finding a low-life dick, all it takes is perseverance, stick-to-it-ness, and your own private eye business!”

 

     Wait a minute, this guy was a dick too?  The implications of his finding me hit me like a huge log in my stomach.  If he could find me, anyone could find me.  “You’re a dick too?  As in private?”

 

     “That’s right, and if you were on the ground also, I’d...” and he swung a massive meat hook like a club;  I shuddered to think what something fleshy and big like that would do to my face.  The image in my head of myself, drooling blood from my welt-covered mouth was not a pretty picture. 

I knew it was time to leave Chum behind, and get as far away from Mr. Big-Head, Meat Hook Swinging, Out-Of-Control, Looking-For-Revenge-For-His-Pansy-Brother  Derwood as I could.

 

     I mumbled something, and got away from Mr. Derwood as quickly as was humanly possible.

 

 

     I, or rather my plane, touched down in Seattle, Washington.  From television, I expected a salmon to spawn in my pants, it rained so much, but lacy white clouds drifted in a blue-as-the-color-blue sky.  I was on the run, again.  This time from a big-headed man who wanted to use my face as a merciless punching bag.  

 

 

     I staggered up the stairs of to my leased office.  I slid the new nameplate in the metal holding deal and looked at my new name.  Gone forever was the name Butch Havelock; from now on I’d be Val Clarkson.