On New Years Eve this past year, I got together with two very good friends and proposed a challenge. Together, we would write the introduction of a story, each of us taking turns to write a paragraph. The result was messy, but hilarious. At least, it was to me. I’ve recently uncovered the handwritten passages and have given some serious thought to making a project out of it. I’m not sure what I’m going to do exactly, but this story seems too important to leave unfinished. I’ll be posting this in a few places, I’d just like a little feedback. See if you can guess which passages were written by me.
The night of Bailey’s murder fell on a Tuesday evening. I remember it was a Tuesday, because Saxton put me on permanant leave of duty on Monday. I didn’t think the week would get any shittier.
That dirty fucker Saxton. Ever since I had his wife in the Arden, he’s had it in for me. It’s his own fault anyway. He took her too seriously. But that’s neither here nor there. Not to Bailey, the decapitated bartender from Paternoster Row with the gimpy leg. He’s got problems of his own, and they’re well behind him now. That’s why they called me in.
After said ‘call-in,’ I gave a look-see wonderously and my pal soporiffically took his Johnson out of his slacks and humped an importuning essence of a cloud, misty and ready for my urethra and river to bed loving.
Thinking about my friend Bailey, and how he hated his nickname Gimply, I can’t help but lose my thoughts in a drink or two or seven. Whatever. I knew old Gimply is back to his air-humping-while-daydreaming ways. You might say he was the right target for whatever made my week a downward spiral because of how his Johnson makes highly suggestive appearances. But I believe that because Gimply wasn’t one to have a life, the picture is a lot murkier. Bailey might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, while high as a kite.
But he wasn’t the first to drown his sorrows in random multicolored psychotropic drugs and pot. The question is, who would want to kill a man like that? Especially while poor Gimply was on his way home from work? What’s the thinking here? The patrolman had found Gimply splayed along 23 different cars along Kingston Row, his head fixed to a patrolman’s helmet three blocks away. The Police Constable, of course, didn’t see a thing. It was old Twiggy, of course. You could put him in the middle of the London Blitz, he might not notice the bombing. Saxton was looking frantic as I’d ever seen him, or he wouldn’t have called off my leave. He skulked over and gave me the skinny.
"Now, Gimply wasn’t exactly a non-entity, but OK, maybe he was until I forgot that I need to maybe ciphhhhhher the pot cigarettes off his incisors and then, maybe, one more pot cigarette off his "hairdo." That is the way I got drug ingestion putting my "visage" near the dead bodies until my sternum hurt. My gal pal and wife have figured out that I have narcotics in my system, but they didn’t know that it was from the tantamounts of dead bodies because these two women didn’t know there were any importuned dead bodies in the first place."
As usual, I wanted to punch Saxton in the neck. And, as usual, I could not, because it’s just too easy to assault a brilliantly cryptic word assassin. Instead, I thought to pay attention to the brand of cigarettes decorating Sir Gimply. Then, I thought to pay attention to the three brands jammed in his mouth.
I walked over to P.C. Twiggy and inspected the head bolted to his helmet. It’s a wonder we ever catch anyone in this town, with officers of this caliber. There were, indeed, three different strains of pot in the cigarettes he was choked with, but from many a smokey gamer of poker I shared with Sir Gimply, I knew he only smoked one brand, bought from a bloody Frenchman down in White Chapel. So what are the other two? Some kind of message? A statement? The two were Honduras Hurricance and Filipino Fire. And there was only one man in the greater London area who sold these strains.
I found a passel and a few wooden platforms and plaque and things. There in the chartreuse bubble letters with a few smudges on the lower case ‘h’ everything read Thompson. Who was Thompson, a person of partition? A place? Then I remembered I guy I met on the International Space Station by that name. He told me he got a wad of cash to treat the other men and women of the station to the commuter cost. He was an OK guy. Not spectacularly helpful or congenial, but not altogether insolent. He still had a bit of a Shord of the rubber band from the treated stipend wad on his triangular right hand thumbnail.
Thompson tended to hide behing an oversized black hood, wearing sunglasses. You might even have supposed a nest of birds were hidden in his long, brown beard that was enough to evade any wind. And it was a windy day, a breezy Thursday that blew out my last fag, the day Thompson would cry for the first time.
I remembered that night as if it were yesterday. Thompson was an ornery bastard who made his living selling exotic drugs out of the “Space Station,” an abandoned tube station he converted into a pub. At this moment, he was suspect number one. I pocketed the head and made my way downtown to the Space Station to see what was cooking. Lorraine would be running the bar on a night like this. She could get me in to see Thompson, maybe knew something I could use. And she would need to hear about her father’s death. I gave Saxton the wave and headed out.