hours.”
This didn’t sound
all that good to him. He was having a hard time making ends meet on what he was
getting, especially since he had to buy his own keys. I wouldn’t raise my
offer, so we didn’t have a deal. The guards left, locking the door behind them.
So there went that idea.
I sat down with
my back against a wall and pondered my situation. It wasn’t perfect, being
imprisoned forever never is, but at least I was on the island.
After I’d been
sitting there for about an hour, I noticed there were about a dozen guys in the
dungeon with me. It was their loud discussion about how unobservant and ugly I
was that finally attracted my attention to them. I took one look at them and
was amazed. I was locked up with the most famous detectives in the world.
There was Phillip
Manley, the two-fisted film noir detective, who had spent his celebrated career
getting beaten up nearly as much as I did. We rubbed our eyes when we saw each
other.
Then there was
Sherringford Harper, the famous British amateur sleuth. He could tell you your
whole life story just by watching you go by in a train. He was like Sherlock
Holmes, except without all the trademarks. Anybody could write about him.
That’s what I liked about him.
The others in the
dungeon were equally celebrated. Among them were: the fattest detective in the
world, the thinnest detective, the loudest, and the farthest (he always stood
in the back of any room). A lot of them were heroes of mine, who had failed to
send me autographed 8X10s when I wrote and asked for them, so I admit I was a
little glad they were trapped in here. Serves them right, I thought. On the
other hand, hey, I’m in here too.
I asked them what
they were all doing here, and they said they had each been on the trail of the
dreaded super villain Overkill. But he had bested them one by one.
“He’s a devil,
that one,” said the thin detective.
I said I might
have met him then, and described my experience at the Super Villain Club. But
they said that was probably just the real Devil I met.
“How did he
capture you?” asked Harper. “I’ll bet it was something damned devilish.”
“He picked up the
sack I was in.”
They were a
little disappointed by this, at first. “Well, that’s pretty devilish,” said
one, finally.
“Devilishly
simple, I call it,” said another.
As clever as he
was, they still felt they would get the best of Overkill eventually. But they
would have to get out of here first. For this, they had a plan. Actually they
had twelve plans, each starring the detective who had thought of it, with the
others playing demeaning subordinate roles, often with burnt cork on their
faces. No plan had received more than one vote, so they decided to try them
all, starting with Harper’s.
He approached me
to sound me out on the subject. As the others watched the door for any sign of
approaching guards, he knelt down next to me and spoke in a low whisper.
“The safety,
indeed the whole future of the world, depends on what you do next.”
I tried not to
fart, but it was no use.
When we could
hear again, he resumed: “What you do next, is…”
After our ears
had stopped ringing and dogs in the next county had stopped barking from what
must have been the biggest fart of my career, he tried once more, using a
different setup line.
“Listen,” he
said.
As I farted
along, he began outlining their elaborate escape plan, but I stopped him before
he’d gotten very far. I wasn’t interested in getting off the island. I had gone
to a lot of trouble to get onto this island. I wasn’t going to leave until I’d
talked to Overkill. So they could escape if they wanted to, but it would have
to be without me.
“Even if you do
get out of this dungeon, how are you going to get off the island?” I asked.
Harper said they
had spent the last three months constructing a small sea-going vessel using the
only materials available to them.
I looked around
the dungeon. “You made a
This didn’t sound
all that good to him. He was having a hard time making ends meet on what he was
getting, especially since he had to buy his own keys. I wouldn’t raise my
offer, so we didn’t have a deal. The guards left, locking the door behind them.
So there went that idea.
I sat down with
my back against a wall and pondered my situation. It wasn’t perfect, being
imprisoned forever never is, but at least I was on the island.
After I’d been
sitting there for about an hour, I noticed there were about a dozen guys in the
dungeon with me. It was their loud discussion about how unobservant and ugly I
was that finally attracted my attention to them. I took one look at them and
was amazed. I was locked up with the most famous detectives in the world.
There was Phillip
Manley, the two-fisted film noir detective, who had spent his celebrated career
getting beaten up nearly as much as I did. We rubbed our eyes when we saw each
other.
Then there was
Sherringford Harper, the famous British amateur sleuth. He could tell you your
whole life story just by watching you go by in a train. He was like Sherlock
Holmes, except without all the trademarks. Anybody could write about him.
That’s what I liked about him.
The others in the
dungeon were equally celebrated. Among them were: the fattest detective in the
world, the thinnest detective, the loudest, and the farthest (he always stood
in the back of any room). A lot of them were heroes of mine, who had failed to
send me autographed 8X10s when I wrote and asked for them, so I admit I was a
little glad they were trapped in here. Serves them right, I thought. On the
other hand, hey, I’m in here too.
I asked them what
they were all doing here, and they said they had each been on the trail of the
dreaded super villain Overkill. But he had bested them one by one.
“He’s a devil,
that one,” said the thin detective.
I said I might
have met him then, and described my experience at the Super Villain Club. But
they said that was probably just the real Devil I met.
“How did he
capture you?” asked Harper. “I’ll bet it was something damned devilish.”
“He picked up the
sack I was in.”
They were a
little disappointed by this, at first. “Well, that’s pretty devilish,” said
one, finally.
“Devilishly
simple, I call it,” said another.
As clever as he
was, they still felt they would get the best of Overkill eventually. But they
would have to get out of here first. For this, they had a plan. Actually they
had twelve plans, each starring the detective who had thought of it, with the
others playing demeaning subordinate roles, often with burnt cork on their
faces. No plan had received more than one vote, so they decided to try them
all, starting with Harper’s.
He approached me
to sound me out on the subject. As the others watched the door for any sign of
approaching guards, he knelt down next to me and spoke in a low whisper.
“The safety,
indeed the whole future of the world, depends on what you do next.”
I tried not to
fart, but it was no use.
When we could
hear again, he resumed: “What you do next, is…”
After our ears
had stopped ringing and dogs in the next county had stopped barking from what
must have been the biggest fart of my career, he tried once more, using a
different setup line.
“Listen,” he
said.
As I farted
along, he began outlining their elaborate escape plan, but I stopped him before
he’d gotten very far. I wasn’t interested in getting off the island. I had gone
to a lot of trouble to get onto this island. I wasn’t going to leave until I’d
talked to Overkill. So they could escape if they wanted to, but it would have
to be without me.
“Even if you do
get out of this dungeon, how are you going to get off the island?” I asked.
Harper said they
had spent the last three months constructing a small sea-going vessel using the
only materials available to them.
I looked around
the dungeon. “You made a
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