Thursday, June 19, 2008

The Last Thing Your Feet Hear Before They Die PART 1

NOTE: The following story is a record of actual events that actually all happened in actuality...except the parts I made up.

It was a rainy Tuesday in the City-So-Nice-They-Named-It-Twice-And-Made-It-Smell-Like-Hobo-Urine. I remember it was a Tuesday, because the bossman was out of the office, having one of his "Golf/Hooker Tuesdays," and I was passing the time by making silly phrases starting in the letters that made up the word "Tuesday," like:

Two Ugly Eskimos Sexing During A Yeast-infection

God, I'm clever. And my mom says I'm handsome.

Anyway, there I was, trying to look inconspicuous as I rubbed one out beneath my desk to a total stranger's facebook pics from their trip to the beach, when there was a knock on the door.

"Um, hold on--uh, don't come in yet, I'm bus--who is it!?"

In walked a blonde bombshell, with a face like an angel, a body like a high-class Vegas hooker, and legs that went all the way the point where they stopped. I finished myself off, gave my hands a quick Purell and introduced myself.

"The name's Berbs, Private Dick," I said.

"Looks pretty public at the moment," she said.

I zipped up.

"What seems to be the problem, Miss...?"

"Manuela," she replied. She totally wasn't Latina, but I was too busy picturing her lezzing out with that chick from 24 to say anything. "And this is the problem."

To sum it up, feet were washing up on the shore of someplace called British Columbia, which is a totally suck-ass name for it, being nowhere NEAR either Britain or Columbia. I digress...

The crazy part is, these feet didn't have people attached to them, as if someone had purposefully cut the person right off of the foot. I asked her why she'd come all the way to the Big Apple for help, when British Columbia is all the way over...wherever the hell it is.

"Why'd you come all the way to the Big Apple for help, when British Columbia is all the way over...wherever the hell it is," I asked.

"Because The Royal Mounted Canadian Police are fucking stupid," she replied. She quoted some Canook bitch to prove it:

"We are exploring the possibility that it could be people who may have drowned," said Annie Linteau, a spokeswoman for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. "It could be missing fishermen. It could be the remains of people who may have died in a plane crash."

"She said this after they found the sixth severed foot," Manuela said. "Five of them were right feet, so it's not even like just 3 dudes lost their feet. The SIXTH severed foot comes washing up in the same area, and this bitch isn't ruling out an accident."

She went on to quote some other dumb bitch Mountie as saying:
"Our first step is to establish identity," said Constable Sharlene Brooks of the Delta Police Department in British Columbia. "It is a little mysterious, but we don't know if it is linked to others."
"Like all 5 feet just happened to have found themselves removed from their owners in totally separate, unrelated incidences that led to them washing up on the same damned shore. It's ridiculous!" exclaimed Manuela, who, may I reiterate is as hot as all get-out.

"Listen, dame," I said. "While this is all very interesting, and quite possibly something I may blog about in the future, what's it got to do with you?"

"My husband's disappeared. He's been missing for 2 weeks now. I fear for his feet, and his life."

"In that order?" I asked.

"He had really nice feet."

I slid back in my chair and adjusted my half-stack (seriously, you should've seen this chick, I wish I had my frickin' camera phone charged so that I could've taken a pic for the Spank Bank) and said, "so that means you're technically on the market again, yes?"

"Well, we don't even know if my husband's dead or where he--"

"It's been two weeks since his disappearance, you say?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Yeah, he's definitely dead, and that would make you single again, yes?"



"I'm still not sure he's--"


"Yes," she sighed.

"Excellent. I'm on the case!"

"Oh, you are?!?" she exclaimed.

"Yeah bitch, are you deaf?" I replied. "Now, did your husband have any enemies, someone that would possibly want to...I don't know, sever his foot and toss it in the water around the area of...say, British Columbia?"

I knew her answer before it ever came out of those beautiful DSL's. Of course he didn't, she'd say. God bless 'em, but women always think their man is a saint, a boy scout all grow'ds up (a Man Scout, if you will) without a sin on their soul, without a stain on their boxers, without a naked 15 year old on their hard drive, without--

"Oh definitely. He was a drug dealer, so I'm guessing this is the work of his competition," she said.

"I knew you'd say that," I said. "What kind of drugs?"

"What kind of drugs do you think?" she asked.

I was all, "bitch, why you sendin' that kweshun back at me?!? I ain't murried to tha muh'fucka!"

I collected myself, apologized. Sometimes I'm just gangsta like that.

"Marijuana," she said. "British Columbia is like one of the weed capitals of the world."

"Weed capital, eh? World, eh?"
Manuela nodded. "Yeah, it's basically weed houses and strip clubs."

I was on the next plane to British Columbia. And I brought friends.


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