If you've come here then two things have been made clear. One, you have a morbid interest in murder. Two, you can't type very well. The following tale is for the fat-fingered would-be murderer in all of us...
My name is Dick Splosion. That wasn't always my name. I was raised as LoneWolf Stabbystab by my half-Cherokee, half-idiot mother. We went our separate ways when I turned twelve and figured out that she wasn't my mother, just some crazy Native American women that had stolen me from outside of a supermarket. That's what I do. Not get stolen. I figure things out. I'm a private investigator.
Currently a broke private investigator. So broke that my trusty hip flask is filled with tap water and my trusty pistol is loaded with M&Ms. Lucky, my trusty dog, was dead. I had eaten him. It's a dog eat dog world, that's for sure. Except that I'm not a dog. I'm a private investigator. Called Dick Splosion. And I'm broke.
This is lucky. He was loyal, loving and tasted of chicken...
I was sitting in my rented office when the buzzer went. It wasn't my buzzer, it belonged to an insurance broker next door. I had merely wrote my name over his. I had sold my buzzer a long time ago. I poked my head out of the hole where my window used to be before I sold it and looked out into the street. A dame stood in the drizzle. The kind of dame that might be looking for trouble. Or insurance. I decided to ask.
"Hey, you dame down there. You looking for trouble or insurance?"
She looked up at me with two eyes like a couple of headlamps and said. "Neither.. I'm looking for Dick."
I raised an eyebrow, got tired and let it fall again. "I guess you better come on up then. The doors unlocked."
I had sold the lock a long time ago.
When she walked into my office I knew something wasn't right. She was a high class broad. All designer clothes and expensive perfume. She didn't belong in Deadbeat Alley any more than I belonged anywhere else.
"Take a seat." I said.
She looked around. Oh yeah. Sold.
"Maybe you should just stand." I said. "Do you smoke?"
She spoke with a voice that ruined marriages and wrecked childhoods. "Sure, I smoke."
"Good." I said. "Can I have one?"
The broad lit two cigarettes and I pulled on one, relishing the nicotine. As a matter of fact I don't smoke. It s a disgusting habit, but it takes my mind off the fact that I haven't eaten since Lucky.
"What's your name, toots?"
"Toots." She said.
I narrowed my eyes and fixed her with steely glare. "Yeah, that's right. Toots. What are you, a feminist or something?"
"No. My name really is Toots. Toots Somone." She said.
I blinked. "Heck of a name. Sounds like the type of ice cream a gay man might eat." I was bluffing. I didn't know any gay men.
The home of the Toots Somone. Probably.
"I didn't come here to talk about ice cream, Mr. Splosion." She said.
"Oh yeah? And what did you come here to talk about, Toots?"
She parted lips redder than a communist's red bits and blew a thin jet of smoke into the air. "Murder." She said.
Murder? I tried to raise an eyebrow again, but I was still tired from last time. "You got me wrong, Toots. I'm a P.I. If you want a murderer you should try the phone book. Look under 'M'. For murderer."
Toots raised an eyebrow (evidently she was in better shape than I was.) "I haven't seen a phone book since I was eight years old, Mr. Splosion. Haven't you heard of the internet?"
"Yeah, sure. Haven't you ever heard of not being a jerk face?"
Let me see... gardeners, plumbers, ah yes, murderers.
Toots gave me a chilly glare. "Maybe I should just take my five grand elsewhere."
"Five grand?" That could buy a lot of dogs. She must have seen the hunger in my eyes.
"I know who you are Dick Splosion. And I know that you're desperate. I need someone dead, and you're just the kind of despicable degenerate who'll do it for me... for a price." She walked over to me, leaning over the desk that would have been there had I not sold it. "And that price is five grand."
I finished my cigarette and then ate the tip. "So. Let's talk murder."
"Have you ever heard of Eddy Eee?"
"Why would I know him?"
"He's the kind of guy that might be known to you or I."
I tapped my fingers on my knee, for want of a desk. "So, you want me to off Eddy Eee?"
She widened those headlamp eyes to full beam. "Oh, no. No, no. Eddy's my life. Without him I'm just regular old Toots Somone, but with him... with him I'm someone."
The gears in my head started grinding. I may not be the richest private dick in the area, but I know when something's not right. And something wasn't right.
I pretended I was smoking a cigarette again. Anything to stop the hunger pangs. "So. Not Eddie then. Who do you want dead?"
She didn't bat an eyelid. Probably exhausted from the eyebrow raising earlier on. "His wife. My sister. Sugar- tits."
"My Dad was a real asshole."
I nodded. "So let me get this straight. You want me to kill your sister so you can be with her husband."
"In a word Mr. Splosion, yes."
The gears were turning. There was a strange feeling at the back of my head, the same feeling that once told me my so-called-mother was a dangerous child snatcher. I may be a starving degenerate, but I'm a gifted detective. I had solved the case already, before it had even started. I smiled. The answer was obvious.
"Obviously Eddie can never know of your involvement?" I said.
"No. Of course not. He wants to leave Sugar-tits, but he'd never agree to murder."
"So, you want me to kill Somone and not get caught?"
"Come with me to the window, Toots." I said, walking over to where there should have been a window. She did. We both stared out into the city at night. "Notice anything?" I said.
She shook her head.
I sighed. "Look at all the buildings."
She squinted, sensing that something was wrong. "I don't..."
"What are they shaped like?"
For a while she said nothing. "Penises. My god, they're all shaped like penises. You think I would have noticed that before."
Does this really need a caption?
I wasn't finished yet. "And what's that down on the street?"
She peered down. "It's... It's a grammatical error!"
"Take a look around." I said. "They're everywhere."
Her mouth formed a luscious 'O' of shock. "And the typos. Good lord, the typos!" She turned to me, tears in her eyes. "What does it all mean, Dick?"
"Simple, baby. You, me, and this whole mess of beans, this is an internet comedy article."
The tears flowed freely now. "I don't understand!"
"An internet comedy article, and not even a very good one. My guess is that the whole premise is a word play on a poorly typed title. Probably on Cracked."
"What's a Cracked?"
"Cracked is where comedy goes when it gets drunk. Hold on a sec." I looked under a floor board. Sure enough there was a bag of cocaine, a bottle of whisky and what looked like a Theodore Roosevelt shaped dildo. "Yep, this is Cracked alright." The glaring illogic was offensive to my detective's intuition. Surely I would have sold these things before my window? "Must have been written by a contributor." I mused. "Probably didn't even pay the poor bastard..."
Toots was sobbing now. "What do you mean? Oh, Dick, what does it all mean?"
"Well, honey, I could explain it to you fully, but the ensuing existential nightmare would likely make your head explode. Instead, we're going to drink a little whisky, do a little drugs and then I'm going to introduce you to my friend Teddy."
This is as close to a picture of a Roosevelt dildo as our sanity will allow
They say there are a million stories in the naked city, but when your city is made of dongs and grammatical errors, not all of them get published.