tumbled off the slide, ramming into me and causing my keys to go flying, blanketing me in a blanket of darkness.
The ensuing struggle was viscous and deadly, but my years of mastering Drunken Jeet Kune Do Fu from watching old Chinese karate movies paid off. Just as I was about to deliver the Mad Crazy Hamster Fist killing blow, my attacker got some sort of weapon between us and smacked me in the face. The blow staggered me, and I reached up and felt the extensive damage, my whole head bathed in warm, sticky liquid that smelled a lot like asparagus.
Then a light blinded me. A real flashlight, not the dinky one I had on my keys. I squinted against the glare, and saw him. Old caretaker guy. A light in one hand. His mop in the other.
I spat, then spat again. My mouth had been open when he hit me.
“I’m a private detective. My name is McGlade. I’m on a case.”
“Does your case involve pissing on my floor?”
I spat again. I could taste the asparagus. And the piss. It tasted like I always guessed piss would taste like. Pissy.
“Listen, buddy, you’re violating federal marshal law by interfering with my investigation. Climb back up the slide and go call 911. Tell them there’s a 10-69 in progress, with, uh, malice aforethought and misdemeanor prejudicial something, rampart.”
My knowledge of cop lingo didn’t galvanize him into action.
“Climb up the slide? How?”
“Hands and knees, old man.”
“I’ll get all dirty.”
“You’re a janitor.”
“I’m a caretaker.”
“You clean up in a cemetery. Dirt shouldn’t bother you.”
The flashlight moved off of my face and swept the area.
“What is this place? Some sort of secret lower level under the mausoleum?”
I spat again. “No duh.”
“Look, there’s a crate.”
Old caretaker guy waddled over to the wooden TAKE ONE box, opened the top, and pulled out a brown robe.
“I guess we’re supposed to take the robes.”
“Obviously.”
I walked over, grabbing a robe for myself. It was made out of felt, and had a large hood. A monk’s robe. Or rather, a store-bought Halloween monk’s costume.
Old caretaker guy put his on, and as he was tugging it over his head I gave him a Crazy Hamster Elbow to the chin. He went down, hopefully in need of some facial reconstructive surgery. I scooped up his flashlight, located my keys, and limped down the tunnel.
I followed the path a few dozen yards into the darkness, ducking overhead beams when they appeared overhead, keeping an eye peeled for rats, and giant spiders, and that guy I was supposed to be following, I think his name was Fred or George or something common and only one syllable. Maybe Tom. Yeah, Tom.
No, it was Fred.
The air down here was cool and heavy and smelled like asparagus piss, but for the most part it was clean. That meant ventilation, either in the form of an exit, or an air osmosis recirculator, and I’m pretty sure that osmosis thing didn’t exist because I just made it up.
The tunnel ended at a large metal door, the kind with a slot at eye-level that opened up so some moron could ask you for a password. Which is exactly what happened. The slot opened, and a pair of eyes stared out at me, and whoever belonged to those eyes asked for a password.
“Tom sent me,” I said.
“That’s not the password.”
“Tom didn’t say there was a password.”
“Tom who?”
“Tom,” I improvised, “from Accounting.”
“How is Tom?”
“Good. Just got over a cold, still kind of congested.”
“It’s great you know Tom, but I’m not supposed to let you in without a password.”
I was tempted to give him a Three Stooges eye poke through the slot.
“Look,” I reasoned, “why else would I be down here?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you got lost.”
“I’m wearing the robe.” I did a little sashay to emphasize the fact.
“Maybe you’re a cop.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I don’t have a badge. You want to frisk me to
The ensuing struggle was viscous and deadly, but my years of mastering Drunken Jeet Kune Do Fu from watching old Chinese karate movies paid off. Just as I was about to deliver the Mad Crazy Hamster Fist killing blow, my attacker got some sort of weapon between us and smacked me in the face. The blow staggered me, and I reached up and felt the extensive damage, my whole head bathed in warm, sticky liquid that smelled a lot like asparagus.
Then a light blinded me. A real flashlight, not the dinky one I had on my keys. I squinted against the glare, and saw him. Old caretaker guy. A light in one hand. His mop in the other.
I spat, then spat again. My mouth had been open when he hit me.
“I’m a private detective. My name is McGlade. I’m on a case.”
“Does your case involve pissing on my floor?”
I spat again. I could taste the asparagus. And the piss. It tasted like I always guessed piss would taste like. Pissy.
“Listen, buddy, you’re violating federal marshal law by interfering with my investigation. Climb back up the slide and go call 911. Tell them there’s a 10-69 in progress, with, uh, malice aforethought and misdemeanor prejudicial something, rampart.”
My knowledge of cop lingo didn’t galvanize him into action.
“Climb up the slide? How?”
“Hands and knees, old man.”
“I’ll get all dirty.”
“You’re a janitor.”
“I’m a caretaker.”
“You clean up in a cemetery. Dirt shouldn’t bother you.”
The flashlight moved off of my face and swept the area.
“What is this place? Some sort of secret lower level under the mausoleum?”
I spat again. “No duh.”
“Look, there’s a crate.”
Old caretaker guy waddled over to the wooden TAKE ONE box, opened the top, and pulled out a brown robe.
“I guess we’re supposed to take the robes.”
“Obviously.”
I walked over, grabbing a robe for myself. It was made out of felt, and had a large hood. A monk’s robe. Or rather, a store-bought Halloween monk’s costume.
Old caretaker guy put his on, and as he was tugging it over his head I gave him a Crazy Hamster Elbow to the chin. He went down, hopefully in need of some facial reconstructive surgery. I scooped up his flashlight, located my keys, and limped down the tunnel.
I followed the path a few dozen yards into the darkness, ducking overhead beams when they appeared overhead, keeping an eye peeled for rats, and giant spiders, and that guy I was supposed to be following, I think his name was Fred or George or something common and only one syllable. Maybe Tom. Yeah, Tom.
No, it was Fred.
The air down here was cool and heavy and smelled like asparagus piss, but for the most part it was clean. That meant ventilation, either in the form of an exit, or an air osmosis recirculator, and I’m pretty sure that osmosis thing didn’t exist because I just made it up.
The tunnel ended at a large metal door, the kind with a slot at eye-level that opened up so some moron could ask you for a password. Which is exactly what happened. The slot opened, and a pair of eyes stared out at me, and whoever belonged to those eyes asked for a password.
“Tom sent me,” I said.
“That’s not the password.”
“Tom didn’t say there was a password.”
“Tom who?”
“Tom,” I improvised, “from Accounting.”
“How is Tom?”
“Good. Just got over a cold, still kind of congested.”
“It’s great you know Tom, but I’m not supposed to let you in without a password.”
I was tempted to give him a Three Stooges eye poke through the slot.
“Look,” I reasoned, “why else would I be down here?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you got lost.”
“I’m wearing the robe.” I did a little sashay to emphasize the fact.
“Maybe you’re a cop.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I don’t have a badge. You want to frisk me to
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