The camel-colored coat hung carelessly on the back of the chair with two bus tickets to Des Moines peeking from a pocket. A crystal decanter stood precariously on the edge of the mantle, a tremor away from oblivion in shards. An overturned ottoman, scattered magazines, a broken picture in an ornate frame, sofa pillows akimbo, a heap of books beneath a toppled bookcase, a body....
Lying in foul repose in a living room strewn with the detritus of domestic battle, the body of Mallard Joss spoke silent volumes of a life well lead and badly ended. Blood, sticky and dark, cool and dank, from a Nakashima driver-sized hole in his skull made a thick stain on the fibrous geography of the beige Stainmaster carpet. The aforementioned golf club stood horizontally from the wall beside the fireplace, a titanium mimic of the gallant reflex for which Mallard Joss was so well-known in some circles.
Patterns of incarnadine sanguinate decorated the sofa as if from a macabre Jackson Pollock musing. A Chiquita banana protruded from between the pale, fleshy cheeks of his bare buttocks. A liquid once pumped by Mallard Joss’ now-stilled heart had been painted in broad palm-strokes across the wall previously hidden by the fallen bookcase. A single murderous word looked out over the non-living room, and the word was....
Lying in foul repose in a living room strewn with the detritus of domestic battle, the body of Mallard Joss spoke silent volumes of a life well lead and badly ended. Blood, sticky and dark, cool and dank, from a Nakashima driver-sized hole in his skull made a thick stain on the fibrous geography of the beige Stainmaster carpet. The aforementioned golf club stood horizontally from the wall beside the fireplace, a titanium mimic of the gallant reflex for which Mallard Joss was so well-known in some circles.
Patterns of incarnadine sanguinate decorated the sofa as if from a macabre Jackson Pollock musing. A Chiquita banana protruded from between the pale, fleshy cheeks of his bare buttocks. A liquid once pumped by Mallard Joss’ now-stilled heart had been painted in broad palm-strokes across the wall previously hidden by the fallen bookcase. A single murderous word looked out over the non-living room, and the word was....
posted by:
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Anchorage
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Re: It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
Sun, July 22, 2007 - 12:13 PM... bricolage ...
* * * * * *
Private Dick, Dick Privates hunched down on his haunches and thrust a finger thoughtfully into his right ear.
"Bricolage ... bricolage ..." he mused, whilst his stubby index finger plumbed vigorously for stray bits of ear-wax and, perhaps, an idea.
"What does it mean, Dick?" asked his breathy assistant, Chesty Humpsalott, "what does it mean?"
"It means, Chesty," said Privates, quietly, "that our killer is quite an artist: and not in the classic realism tradition: we're talking more of a Jackson Pollack, or one of those weird found-arts-types of killers."
"Huh?" said Chesty.
"Exactly," said Privates .... -
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Re: It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
Thu, August 9, 2007 - 1:43 PM"I'm here to see Privates. Dick Privates." breathed the mysterious woman, in sultry contralto.
Between smacks of gum, Chesty Humpsalott managed to say "Yeah. Everybody needs Dick these days. Who shall I say is calling, pray tell?"
In a voice like buttered velvet being dragged across greased satin sheets, the mysterious woman replied "My name is Contralto. Sultry Contralto. Tell him I have information about the death of Mallard Joss.”
“Ohh, that’ll make his day, fer shure. Y’know, lady, you tawk really strange.” smacked Chesty as she depressed the intercom button to announce Dick Private’s unexpected afternoon visitor. “Dick? Dick, are you there? I have a Sultry Contralto for you. Dick, are you…”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Chesty! Take your finger off the intercom button so I can respond!” came the muffled cry from Dick Private’s office.
“Oh yeah, I keep fergettin’ that!” said Chesty in her Bubble-icious verbal glory.
The door to Private’s inner sanctum opened. “…and that’s far from a sultry contralto, dear. It’s more like a prolonged nasal twang interspersed with the sound of Rice Krispies popping…Oh, helloooo!” Dick Private’s gaze fell upon the tastefully clad woman standing at the reception desk.
“Hello Mr. Privates. I’m Sultry Contralto. I was Mallard Joss’ … friend” Her words flowed as molasses on maple syrup-soaked pancakes.
“Mmmmmmm, pancakes…” thought Privates before he snapped back to the moment. “Mallard Joss you say? The stiff with the banana in his…yeahhhh, Mallard Joss. Come into my office. I was just pounding a nail into the wall with my shoe so I could hang my Private Detective diploma.”
“Bricolage.” stated Sultry Contralto, sounding like melted butter cascading over soft wax.
“Whaaaa?” replied Privates.
“Bricolage. To use something that is easy at hand for a tool it was not designed for.”
“Funny you should use that word. Come into my office. Chesty, hold my calls.”
Though mellifluous of voice, Sultry Contralto was clumsy of foot. She stepped to follow Dick Privates into his private office and suddenly…
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