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Train, Rain, and Pain

Updated on November 13, 2012
Train...
Train... | Source
Train in the rain...
Train in the rain... | Source
Pain...
Pain... | Source

Mental Inventory...

Recent business reverses force me to reappraise my writing career.

My ill-advised attempts to ‘corner’ the Internet has led to the ownership of twenty-three copies of The Game of Monopoly, near insolvency, and an embarrassing criminal conviction. The reader needn’t worry about the sordid details of that failed enterprise...suffice it to say...I learned my lesson...

I understand that long-term writing success requires long-term writing effort.

I know this. I do.

The concept does not sit well with my notions of instant gratification...namely...that the pleasures of instant gratification shouldn’t be delayed too long...still...one must hone their craft.

I understand this. I do.

It’s a matter of mastering the online S.E.O. rules...picking appropriate topics, and generating correct titles. It’s about writing many fine ‘useful’ articles that people are actually Google-ing results for.

I know this. I do.

Previous efforts failed due to a lack of expertise in the relevant subject matter.

Again...this is now known by me.

A cooking hub went south. Efforts to help ward against internet hackers resulted in a Hub that explained, in 3,000 words, that I actually did not know how to do that. Attempts to clarify Hub Metrics proved less than impressive. Again...lack of expertise...

I had done some niche research prior to flailing into my latest literary endeavor. They like Hubs about kids. I briefly considered a Hub I had written about Orphans.

That was perhaps not my niche, either.

How-to’s are popular. Especially the ones that have detailed pictures of the how-to-ing as it is doing. Many of the things I know how-to do, however, would be a direct violation of TOS policy I fear...and I would certainly be unwilling to provide pictures as I was doing those things that (directly) violated TOS policy.

It was in the course of this research that I found the niche, in which, I would rest my laptop...

Travel and Places.


Luggage...
Luggage... | Source
Blood Bank...
Blood Bank... | Source

Luggage Inventory...

I live in a tourist town. I know tourists. I don’t like them...but I know them. They’re tourist. They bring money into town that helps pay for our fire guys to protect us. General tax fund stuff, I think. I’m not really sure. My expertise lies more in knowing that I don’t like tourists...

I had to get a train ticket. That would necessitate moving some assets and liquidating others.

The asset I needed to move was a 1984 Nissan pickup truck that I had paid $500 for and which officially started...the one time. It has been sitting in my garage for the past six months...tires deflating...slowly sinking into the concrete.

I plan on moving that particular asset to the local Pick-and-Pull yard. I figured I could get a hundred bucks.

More complicated were the assets I planned on liquidating...through the sale of blood and plasma. I figured I could get $30 a quart (pint?) or so.

I would call Pick-and-Pull, pack, stop at the local Blood-bank, and then head to the train station.

The tow-truck was on its way before I hit my first snag. I don’t have any luggage. The Canadian Mounties confiscated my Samsonite awhile back on a lonely stretch of border and I had yet to replace it. I double bagged a Hefty 33-gallon trash bag before loading it with clothes and toiletries...

My fears were realized at the blood bank. There was a long wait. The line was filled with tourists who had lost their gas money in the slot machines of the local casinos in Reno, Nevada and were, literally, pooling their resources to get home. Fucking tourists...


 A picture of my chocolate chip cookie.
A picture of my chocolate chip cookie. | Source
Juice Box...
Juice Box... | Source

Money Inventory...

Two hours later, woozy and armed with a juice box and an oatmeal cookie, I’m at the train station. I sway slightly as I shift my grip on the double-bagged Hefty 33-gallon trash bag. Loss of blood makes everything a little blurry. The cookie and juice fight valiantly to make things right within my remaining blood stream...

Issues at the ticket counter. There's one remaining berth and two occupants vying for it. Myself and a foreign guy. The foreign guy had foreign money and was putting up a stink about the Amtrak attendant’s refusal to accept it.

“I have 444 pounds, 4 Shillings, and 4 pence in the bank!!” Yelled the distraught man...

I quickly pull out my truck money, blood money, and a jar of change (all American) to pay for the fare. "I'll take that ticket!"

As the nickels and dimes splash across the counter I’m accosted by the foreign guy...

“I SAY!” The foreign guy begins to protest. “Do you know who I am??”

The man’s perfectly egg-shaped head, quizzically arched eyebrows, green-eyes, small upturned mustache, and dandified dress made him immediately identifiable to me.

“Uh, yeah.” I say impatiently, “You’re a tourist, huh? Big surprise. Here’s the thing Frenchy...you need to change that money into something the fire-guys can spend...then come back here and buy a ticket. That’s how it works.”

The foreign guy begins sputtering his protestations...

“I am not French! I am Belgian! My name is Hercules Poirot!!” (Late of the Belgium police force and currently living in London...).

I look at him as the attendant counts my change...

“Whatever. Don’t spill the butter out of your waffle trough, dude.” I seek to calm the obviously hysterical man. “Bottom line...you’re on vacation...you don’t gotta be anywhere. I need to be on this train for work.”

As the portly Belgian works up his response...the attendant passes over my ticket and informs me that the train was boarding and I should hurry...

My race for the platform is, briefly, sidetracked when I see a police officer. I make a report, based purely on racial profiling, about the chubby foreign Belgian-type guy...

“What’s he doing?” The cop asks suspiciously.

“He’s being foreign.” I confide in a conspiratorial whisper.

A mean look comes into the cop’s eye as he pulls out his Billy-club...

“We’ll see about that...” He says menacingly...

Come to Reno for vacation...go home on probation...get returned...on a violation...


Poster advertising the Orient Express
Poster advertising the Orient Express | Source
Luggage...
Luggage... | Source

Clothing Inventory...

Almost immediately upon finding my stateroom, the cookie and juice admit defeat. I take a nap. I wake up several hours later to feel the train swaying from side-to-side as it rushes head-long through the stormy night...

Outside in the hall I hear the porter calling passengers to the dining car. Dinner was to be served in twenty minutes. Dinner on the Orient Express is served promptly at eight.

I dig through my double bagged, Hefty 33-gallon trash bag looking for something appropriate to wear. I shake the wrinkles out of an old Save Shelter Dogs t-shirt and find a serviceable pair of cargo-shorts.

It occurs to me that I didn’t so much as pack...as just gather my dirty laundry into the double-bagged, Hefty 33-gallon trash bag. I slip on my flip-flops.

I also pull Creative Voice out of the bag and, likewise, shake the wrinkles out of him. I didn’t have enough blood to pay for two tickets. Creative Voice stowed aboard in my laundry.

“Really? You couldn’t have just opened the bag before taking a nap? I get to lie among your dirty laundry for three hours before being allowed any air? Really?”

I feel bad. I blame the cookie and juice...they’re both quitters. They let my blood sugar down.

Still...I don’t believe in molly-coddling Creative Voice...it tends to make a bitchy situation worse...

“Shut up or I will throw you off this train and you will die when your body hits the bottom of the ravine. By God that will happen if you say one more thing on the matter.” I inform him matter-of-factly in a cold and calculating tone.

I may have had ‘harsh’ dialed up a little high...

“What the fuck? Where does THAT come from??”

“Shall we get ready for dinner?” I ask reasonably.


Room 411 at the Pera Palas hotel in Istanbul, Turkey, the room where Agatha Christie wrote Murder on the Orient Express.
Room 411 at the Pera Palas hotel in Istanbul, Turkey, the room where Agatha Christie wrote Murder on the Orient Express. | Source
Carl Reiner at the 41st Emmy Awards
Carl Reiner at the 41st Emmy Awards | Source
German garden gnome
German garden gnome | Source
Dr. Seuss...
Dr. Seuss... | Source

Passenger Inventory...

The dining car is an opulent affair, as one would imagine, on such a famed train. Fine china. Waterford crystal. Heavy expensive cutlery. Linen tablecloths. Silver candlesticks...a clutch of paisleys sitting at each table. Fancy.

There were seven place settings with six already occupied as Creative Voice and I entered the car. The other passengers watched our progress. It was an august body of literary, cinema, and television personalities.

At table one sat the Grand Dame of the mystery genre...Agatha Christie. Her traveling companion, Mary Westmacott, idly picks at her salad as we take our seats. Working clockwise...the next table is occupied by Angela Lansbury and her sleuth friend...Jessica Fletcher.

I was noticing a (mystery) trend that was shattered at the next place setting...

Carl Reiner and Richard Deacon. Reiner of course needs no introducing...he’s pretty famous. I really remember him most from his “Alan Brady” role on the old Dick Van Dyke Show.

For those familiar with that television gem...Richard Deacon played Alan Brady’s hapless brother-in-law...Mel Cooley.

Much to the discomfort of Richard Deacon...they appear to have reprised their roles from that show for this story...

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” Screams Reiner.

“I’m...I’m...sorry Alan...I will be...” Stumbles Mel...

“SHUT UP!” Roars Alan. “Tell me you’re an idiot. Tell me you’re an idiot!!”

“I’m an idiot.” Concedes Mel...

The next table was immune to the goings on at the previous table. Indeed, they were immune to the rest of the room. They were in love. They were newlyweds. They had nothing but eyes for each other.

By trade, the groom was a Gifted Garden Gnome, and the blushing bride was a, rather, saucy Smurfette. They were honeymooning. Although they were unaware of their surroundings...their torrid embraces are noted by various parties around the room...

The next passenger was a medical man. Doctor Seuss.

His patient (Under medical care for depression and erratic behavior following the divorce of his hot wife...Jessica Rabbit), Roger Rabbit, was fussing about and casting worried looks at the large man sitting at the next table who is rocking back and forth, staring at him, and whispering to his companion...

“Tell me about the rabbits George. Tell me about the rabbits...” Asks Lennie Small as he rocks back and forth. He stares at Roger Rabbit as if in a trance...

George Milton quiets his simple friend as he watches Creative Voice and I settle in and begin to consult our menus.

Seeing no threat being posed by us...George begins talking about the idyllic rabbit farm that was promised them by John Steinbeck in Of Mice and Men.

The loaded gun George had brought on the train was hidden in his luggage...

We were a disparate group as we kept to ourselves and ate our dinners. The train rushes through the night as the lashing rain gains strength...

By this time tomorrow...one of us would be revealed as...a MURDERER.


Wet Tourists in Trafalgar Square
Wet Tourists in Trafalgar Square | Source
Donner Party Memorial statue: erected in June 1918
Donner Party Memorial statue: erected in June 1918 | Source
Built-in Train Berths...
Built-in Train Berths... | Source
A privy...
A privy... | Source
Crack'd Mirror...
Crack'd Mirror... | Source
UCLA students protest taser incident, November 17, 2006. Photo: Michael Linder, KNX.
UCLA students protest taser incident, November 17, 2006. Photo: Michael Linder, KNX. | Source

Rain...Most Foul...

I hate the rain. Almost as much as I hate tourists. Have you ever smelled a wet tourist?

The train was sidelined by a fierce storm that descended down from the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The Sierra Nevada’s can be rough. Ask the Donner Party. Pack a lunch...

I was still awake when the train came to a stop...in the rain... That had been a little after two in the morning. At that time I had poked my head out the door in time to see an orange kimono-clad back exit my car and move to the next...

A combination of factors had kept me up. The three hour nap was the first factor...

My sharing of a wall with the honeymooning Garden Gnome and saucy Smurfette proved the second factor. Seeing that the berths were built into the wall and thus...unlikely to be the source of ‘banging headboard’ sounds...I hoped the saucy Smurfette was wearing a helmet...

Still...it was distracting. It has been awhile...you know...I mean...

It was for that reason that the stopping of the amorous activity was noticeable. This happened at 2:55 A.M.

Post coital cuddling, apparently, wasn’t a priority as I heard the door to their compartment open and close about five minutes later...someone moved past my door and down the hall...

Looking around I noticed...Creative Voice was gone...

My final reason for being awake? The three pots of coffee I drank at dinner...I went searching for a bathroom...

It was my search for a privy that put me in contact with information that was...probably privy...

“How can you let him speak with you that way?” The woman’s voice carried through an opened compartment door and into the hallway where I was, conveniently, eavesdropping.

Even had the door not been opened...her scorn-laced tone would have pushed through any obstacle...

“Well Mary...now...he’s my brother-in-law,” rationalized Mel Cooley. “He’s angry about the blackmail...”

“I don’t give a shit about his anger!” Mary Westmacott cuts him off with a hiss. “If he was worried about that he shouldn’t have had sex with that Blue strumpet! You tell him to have the money ready or I will tell that virile Garden Gnome of his transgressions!”

I move down the hall. In the next train car I experienced a (Jimmy Buffett) style blow-out of my flip-flops and, while making adjustments, I noticed, conveniently, another open door...

Although the direct view was obscured...a Crack’d Mirror on the wall showed the going-on(s) in the room...

Roger Rabbit was strapped down to a table and receiving electric shock treatment at the hands of Dr. Seuss. George Milton is watching. I can see the butt of a revolver sticking from George’s belt...

(ZaAaPP!) Went the electric shock.

“YEOW-ZI-Yow.” Yells Roger Rabbit.

“Where’s Marvin Acme’s Will?!? Is it shaped like a pill? Have you had your fill?” Demands Dr. Seuss.

“Up the juice.” Suggests George.

(ZaAaPP-ZAAAPP!) Went the electric shock.

“YEOW-ZI-Yow.” Yells Roger Rabbit.

“Where’s Marvin Acme’s Will?!? Is it near a hill? Would you tell the location...if I gave you a bill?” Demands Dr. Seuss.

“Up the juice.” Suggests George.

(ZaAaPP-ZAAAPP-ZaP!) Went the electric shock...

“YEOW-ZI-Yow.” Yells Roger Rabbit...

I was about to intervene (on Animal rights grounds) when I hear someone scream...CARL REINER HAS BEEN MURDERED!!


Desk garden gnome
Desk garden gnome | Source
Weathered old sign on side of building Uptown, advertising "Fish Fry" held every Friday and Saturday.
Weathered old sign on side of building Uptown, advertising "Fish Fry" held every Friday and Saturday. | Source
Very Hungry Cats at Crete.
Very Hungry Cats at Crete. | Source
A long Dark Tunnel...
A long Dark Tunnel... | Source
Jessica Fletcher...
Jessica Fletcher... | Source
Incontinence pad for men (package)
Incontinence pad for men (package) | Source

Murder...Most Foul...

We were all gathered in the dining car.

The train was moving again.

Dr. Seuss had examined the body. Yes...Carl Reiner was dead. Death was caused by the eighteen stab wounds his body had sustained.

Also...at the back of his throat were lodged nine pieces of black polyurethane plastic. Black pieces of a plastic trash bag...

My luggage set was unique, among the passengers, in being the only one composed of polyurethane plastic bags...

I was surprised that Agatha Christie was not the lead investigator on the case. Instead...she seemed to be surrendering that role to Murder, She Wrote ...Jessica Fletcher.

Indeed...Christie is aloof. Like a feral cat at an outside fish-fry (waiting for a red-herring)...her intentions can be gleaned but her methods are shrouded in mystery...

Sitting next to her is Mary Westmacott...Mary looks pissed. She’s busy sending daggers of anger towards the saucy Smurfette and her man...um...Gnome...

As always...those two...right? The saucy Smurfette had her hands deep inside the Garden Gnomes beard...some good scratching...some good sounds...it was good for both of them...

Admittedly...kind of awkward for the rest of us...

Perhaps the most awkward member of our party was Mel Cooley. He was muttering under his breath and mopping his wet, bald, brow with a crumpled blue handkerchief...

Roger Rabbit is sitting next to Lennie and twitching (from the electric shock) as the large man pets the softness that is...a cartoon rabbit. Roger is responding and a glimmer of trust, indeed, of salvation for the two of them is born in the tragedy that is Carl Reiner’s death.

George Milton watches the scene dispassionately.

Creative Voice and I sit next to one another as we watch the final act of our macabre story play out.

He passes over the Wikipedia article that I had requested with a knowing nod. My suspicions had been correct...

Angela Lansbury is showing the strain associated with sitting on ONE side of the room...while the other her...Jessica Fletcher...presents the results of her investigation to the group...

...narrowing the subjects...probing motive...examining means...

The whole amateur detective thing she does...

The train enters a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into darkness...

The train leaves a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into brightness...

“From the disturbing scene displayed last night in the dining car,” began Jessica. “It would appear pretty obvious that Mel Cooley is the prime suspect.”

Mel Cooley pees himself...

People move their chairs away from Mel Cooley...

“Motive, however,” continued the sage Maine-based sleuth, “Is not means and Mel Cooley is not, in my opinion, capable of brutally stabbing a man eighteen times! No.”

Mel Cooley visibly relaxes...

“Well...um...what if he had an accomplice?” I idly throw that idea on the (metaphorical) grill of an outside fish-fry...like a red-herring...

Mel Cooley pees himself...again...

Dr. Seuss writes a prescription for incontinence...

The train enters a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into darkness...

The train leaves a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into brightness...

Like feral cats at an outside fish fry (waiting for a red herring)... the saucy Smurfette...and gifted Garden Gnome are totally doing it...

Young love. What are you going to do? We continued with the investigation...


Source
Of Mice and Men...
Of Mice and Men... | Source
George's Revolver...
George's Revolver... | Source
Source

Jessica’s Thought Process Enters a Long Dark Tunnel... The Dining Car is Plunged into Darkness...

“I have it on very good authority that these two men are wanted by the police in California for the death of a foreman’s wife. The literary character (Curly’s wife) in the John Steinbeck’s novel...Of Mice and Men.” Jessica declares as she points to Lennie Small and George Milton.

Dr. Seuss chimes in...

“With directions from George...the electricity did scourge. The search for a Will...resulted in nil...”

After delivering his expert medical opinion on the matter...the good doctor sits down.

Jessica continues, “Exactly. George Milton hoped to get hold of Marvin Acme’s Will so he could get the money needed to buy the idyllic rabbit farm promised them by John Steinbeck in Of Mice and Men.

Creative Voice asks the obvious question. “What does that have to do with Carl Reiner?”

“Well, obviously...” Stammers Jessica Fletcher. “I mean clearly...” She looks to me in desperation.

The thing was this...she’s a fictional TV character, dependant on lines, fed by writers, to move the story to the next commercial break. Agatha would have been the better choice for assistance. As mentioned, however, she declined to participate.

Mary Westmacott, the name under which Christie wrote seventeen Romance novels, was a poor choice. It was while doing her research for her new book, Growing a Garden in Gnome, Alaska...that she was presented with the blackmail opportunity...

As a romance novelist, however, she’s ill-equipped to relief pitch for a mystery story this late in the game...

In terms of writers...that left me. I was, likewise, disinclined to help Jessica. I did figure a way to put her out of her misery, however...

I nudge Creative Voice who abruptly stands up...points at George and theatrically screams, “LOOK OUT! HE’S GOT A GUN!”

A look of sadness clouds George’s eyes. He understands that their attempts to flee by rail had failed. Once again...he pictures the pure sweet Lennie in the hands of an angry mob bent on revenge and frontier justice for the death of Curly’s wife.

Better that Lennie’s death came quickly. At the hand of one who loves and understands him. Damn John Steinbeck! George pulls out the gun...

The train enters a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into darkness...

Lennie’s last moments on earth were peaceful...

He was cradling his new friend, Roger Rabbit, in his lap while that poor creature twitched and gave off a faint buzzing sound as he nuzzled in the large man’s arms...

The train leaves a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into brightness...

The bullet that entered the back of Lennie’s head forced the front of his head (face included) into Roger Rabbit’s lap in a goo-ey mess.

Understandably...Roger freaks out...

As his trousers were absorbing his new friend’s perforated brain matter; His mind was absorbing the loss of his new friend...

Roger descends irretrievably into madness...

Dr. Seuss notes on his chart to up the voltage and Thorazine......

George readies to shoot again...

The train enters a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into darkness...

(BANG-BANG)

(Splat. Splat)

(THUMP)

The train leaves a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into brightness...

George is gone. Jessica Fletcher lies on the floor.

The bullets that entered the front of Jessica’s head forced the back of her head (face included) into Roger Rabbit’s lap in a goo-ey mess.

Understandably...Roger freaks out...

With a sad shake of his head...Dr. Seuss makes another notation on his chart...


Omelet Station...
Omelet Station... | Source
John Steinbeck Grave. Salinas. Own Work. 2007
John Steinbeck Grave. Salinas. Own Work. 2007 | Source
Sharon Tate Murder Scene...
Sharon Tate Murder Scene... | Source
TO-DO List...
TO-DO List... | Source
The Writer's Hero Journey...
The Writer's Hero Journey... | Source
Knives...
Knives... | Source

The Gaping Holes at the Back of Jessica’s Head Allow in Some Light...The Dining Car is Plunged into Brightness...

The dining car was a collection of smells. Cordite from the gun. Sex smells from the honeymooners. Onion and garlic from the breakfast service. Ammonia from Mel’s crotch...

I take over the narrative...

Stepping over Jessica’s corpse, I move to center stage. I survey the remaining ten people in the car. ..

Agatha Christie looks interested...

Mary Westmacott looks pissed at her lost blackmail opportunity...

Angela Lansbury looks at her dead ‘on-screen’ personality...

Dr. Seuss looks after his patient...

Creative Voice looks at the “TO-DO” list we had put together last night...

Mel Cooley looks at his ruined trousers...

Roger Rabbit looks at Lennie’s corpse...stares off into space...shivers...

Garden Gnome looks at Saucy Smurfette...

Saucy Smurfette looks at Garden Gnome...

I look(s) at my reflection in the Crack’d Mirror on the wall...

“George Milton and Lennie Small didn’t kill anybody.” I state mater –of-factly. “Well...I guess Lennie did kill Curly’s wife...but that was an accident. And yes, George did just blow away Lennie and Jessica, I suppose.” I temporize...

“But Carl Reiner...?” Prompts Agatha.

“Right, right, right.” I regain course. “Neither of those men killed Carl Reiner! That murderer is still on this train!”

The group bursts out in apathetic protestations of their innocence...

“I say...”

“Poppy-cock...”

“Tsk-tsk...”

“Balder-dash...”

“Pfft...”

“I have no guilt I say with a lilt.”

I begin to present my case...

In an awkward moment of shameless product placement...my excellent (but under read) short-story series (In six parts no less) falls out of my pocket and hits the floor...the title is clearly evident...

The Writer’s Hero Journey. (Featuring Faye)

During the pregnant pause that ensues...Creative Voice checks off “Shameless Product Placement” from our TO-DO list...

After nonchalantly picking up the possible, award winning mini-series, from the floor...I deftly move on...

“The answer lies in the savagery of the attack. I point out. I hold up a finger...

“Eighteen brutal knife wounds would suggest hatred so utterly profound as to have only been conceived in madness.” I lift my second finger...

“The cramming of nine pieces of black plastic trash bags down the victim’s throat speaks to the murder’s contempt.” I pause before stating the obvious. “It should be noted that black plastic trash bags can be bought anywhere by anyone.”

I hold up my third finger...

“MEL COOLEY...!” I yell...

The train enters a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into darkness...

The train leaves a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into brightness...

The brightness reveals that Mel has soiled himself again...

As I marvel at the man’s bladder capacity...Creative Voice checks off “Fuck with Mel’s Head” from our TO-DO list...

“IS INNOCENT!” I finish yelling...

Mel Cooley just straight passes out at this point...

The Gifted Garden Gnome and saucy Smurfette begin to use his inert form as a sex prop...

“But you understand that rage, don’t you? I say to the murderer as we make eye contact.

“You know the significance of those two numbers...eighteen stab wounds and nine pieces of black trash bags down his throat? Trash bags that, incidentally, can be bought anywhere by anyone...”

The briefest of acknowledgement slides into her eyes before retreating behind the madness that always simmers just below the surface. The rest of the passengers gasp in horror when they realize my unfounded accusation had hit home...

She barred her teeth in a horrible grimace against that truth. Madness flashed like a razor at a drunken longshoreman’s bachelor party...

The train enters a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into darkness...

As I decide what to name the next section...Creative Voice checks off “Build dramatic suspense” from our TO-DO list...

The train leaves a long dark tunnel... The dining car is plunged into brightness...


The Story's Over...Nothing to See here...
The Story's Over...Nothing to See here...
The Scooby Gang...
The Scooby Gang...
In Action...
In Action...

Should I just End the Story Now...?

(That would be unfair...Oh Shit...we’re back...)

Angela Lansbury began jabbering nonsensical gibberish upon her denouement and is quickly detained by Creative Voice and Dr. Seuss. Seuss administers a very strong sedative.

As she lapses into unconsciousness her inert form is slowly absorbed into the games being played by Garden Gnome, saucy Smurfette, and the unconscious Mel Cooley...

“How did you know?” Asked an impressed Agatha. “Respect.”

“IT only made sense!” Reported the new voice from the open rail car door...We all turn in that direction...

The cast and crew of the awesome Saturday morning T.V. cartoon show...Scooby Doo.

Freddy and Daphne began fighting for space in front of the Crack’d Mirror. Scooby pees on Mel’s crotch...Shaggy raids the omelet bar...Velma...tells the story...

“Angela Lansbury had been driven mad by the shear amount of hairspray she’s used over the previous forty years to sustain the exact same hairstyle.”

Everyone in the dining car (not having sex, passed out, or dead) makes the mental connection...

“Right...?”

“Manchurian Candidate...same hair...?”

“We should have seen it coming...”

“But Carl Reiner was bald.” Points out Mary...

“Angela Lansbury holds the distinction for being the most-nominated (but never winning) person in Emmy history.” Velma explains. “Tellingly...she holds eighteen Emmy losses. One loss...for each of the stab wounds...

“The holder of the most Emmy nods?” She asks rhetorically. “Carl Reiner...with nine victories. Each victory...celebrated with a piece of trash bag being jammed down his throat.”

Lansbury always likened Reiner’s career to trash...

Angela briefly revives and reverts to the villain often portrayed in Scooby Doo...

“And I would have gotten away with it too if not for them darned kids!!” She notices what is happening to the lower part of her body and passes out again...


Source
Back Home...
Back Home... | Source

Consummation of a Deal...

“You took a number of liberties with my story young man.” Agatha says.

The bodies had been cleaned up; the orgy removed to a local Reno Motel...Roger Rabbit safely secured in a local sanatorium...

She and I were standing on the platform.

“You will notice,” I point out. “Hercules Poirot was taken care of.”

Agatha does not appear pleased.

“I wanted to do it. I wanted to frame him for the murder of Carl Reiner!”

Poirot had first appeared in her 1920 novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, and by the late thirties Christie found him to be insufferable. By 1960 she found him to be a “detestable, bombastic, tiresome, egocentric little creep.”

“This is better.” I assure her.

“What’s happening to him?” She demands.

“Well...if the lurid stories I rely on for information are true...he’s being passed around like a good book inside Washoe County Jail.”

She shows interest...

“Would I be able to watch this happen?”

“Um...sure. I guess...I’m not really sure of the rules...you could ask I suppose...”

“I will.” She states emphatically as she hails a taxi...

Creative Voice saunters up. “We done here?”

“I guess. We have to write that Travel Piece.” I point out.

He grimaces. It was on the TO-DO list. We tarry a bit longer for an ending to this story. Sometimes inspiration strikes...making for a tidy conclusion. After awhile it became obvious...Like the forgotten uncle who is left at the train station...inspiration wasn’t picking us up...

We walk home...


working

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Marketing
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Say MediaWe partner with Say Media to deliver ad campaigns on our sites. (Privacy Policy)
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Statistics
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