THE MONKEYSHINES CASE, ENTRY 7
The coffee back at the office was as sour as the sweat on my upper lip, and I blamed Randy and his weeping and shrieking for agitating me to the point that I couldn’t even take a sip of coffee without tiny beads of anxiety curdling my cream like the shameful mid-coitus recognition of an entire evening’s worth of terrible judgment.
We had just dismantled the complex and entirely immersive mini-hotrod car track that had been surreptitiously installed by persons unknown while we were off chasing waterfalls, and the endeavour had apparently rubbed Randy’s very last nerve raw, because instead of stringing together the myriad clues the interlopers had left behind, he just began crushing mini-hotrods in his monster fist, yelping and howling every time another car imploded in his powerful grasp.
I’m not going to pretend I didn’t have my stun gun hand on high alert, hovering over my holstered weapon like an eagle over water, because I knew I would only have milliseconds to react if that kung fu grip, or its wild-eyed owner, were to acquire a taste for blood. I was betting that Randy didn’t know I had earlier traded the actual stun gun for a solid handful of brain beans—boasting a remarkable 150, 000% increase in thinking, which, to break it down for the layperson, accounts for a full 17 quadrillion magnitudes more than the closest competing beans—and was then bluffing my hand-hover over a really nicely-shaped rock that fit the holster well and kind of looked like one of my grandmothers. The mean one, with the psoriasis.
The problem, besides the alarming, ever-expanding pile of ruined toys surrounding Randy, was that I was unsure how to prepare the brain beans for maximum thinakge, and since the closest I had to a food-prep enthusiast was falling apart like a popsicle-stick castle, I decided to go in as raw as an unpeeled carrot, biting through the unexpectedly viscous outer membrane to chew on an earthy wood-gum that tasted like iodine and a destabilization of atmospheric pressure.
I could feel it working, as my capacity for thinkating grew, like, a bunch. I could feel the drool of stupidity leaving my body, dripping down my chin, and pooling in that little nook in your throat? You know the one I mean. That spot there, under your chin. Where stupidity collects once it’s been banished from the smart place, up in the head. Right there, neckwise, warm and cozy.
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Addendum: that is where any beneficial notes for this entry end, and with the exception of what I assume were a couple of really clever turns of phrase if one was fluent in octopus, the rest is a jumble of mis-tensed verbiage and poison-speak as I again found myself haunting the halls of the local hospital, up to my neck in intestinal distress, deadlines, and with the harrowing aftereffects of piercing the veil coursing through my psyche like an air bubble through my veins. I vowed then that I would race my approaching spiritual embolism against the timely conclusion of this case, shaking my fist in a show of determination that almost sent my octogenarian nurse into the wall before a still ruddy-faced Randy subdued me with a bevy of uncrushed mini-hotrods and soothing vroom vroom sounds.
