Something Special


Screams and flames make for an effective alarm clock.

My face felt like something stepped on twice over, microwaved, and left to cool off for supper, ya know?
So I wasn’t in the mood to play superhero. I rolled over and curled up with a cuddly pillow; tried to relax and go back to bed.

An axe crashed through the door, pissing me off. A bunch of guys yelling followed. I decided this was the way my day would begin, like it or not, so I shuffled my way to the coffee pot only to find the handle smoldering, melting to my palm.

“sonofabitch!”

Where were the naked women of yesteryear? Why were my palms blistered?

This wasn’t what I signed up for. Couple blowjobs a week, send a few smarmy winks toward some smarmy broads, and reap the rewards.

And yet here I was, being strip searched by firemen, in my boxers, on Christmas Eve; an apoplectic Jew.

Sure, I’d murdered before but that was the past; a spider web even the daintiest of ants fear tread on.

Really there was no story. No murder mystery to tangle your dangle all up in. Just a misunderstanding.

A miscommunication between friends. A mix up, if you will. Some kind of something or other left for God
to sort out.

Outside the snow was falling, a young woman lie dead in the gutter. No big whoop, right?

WRONG.

She was a woman once very close to me; when she was alive that is.

Then again, a lot of women were. It came with the territory my job description laid out. After all, I had a handsome face, strong arms, and a man’s personality.

Also, I enjoy a good cuddle; something many a dame appreciates. I wasn’t in the mood though, for a cuddle, when the mob of men with axes draped me in a grey, wool blanket and threw me out the window.

Nor was I in the mood to be interrogated, but I wasn’t the mayor and I didn’t write the rules so tough shit.

The light in my eyes was a bright florescent one; still I could make out shapes behind the shadows.

A blue shirt, a gold badge. A cigarette.

“What precinct you out of, detective?”

“Why don’tcha leave the questions to me?”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

So here’s what happened: her name was Kookoo Munyanna, she was a dancer down at the Disco Flex-one of those dives old men search out for half-hearted hand jobs and warm liqueur-she’d gotten in with the wrong crowd, performed erotic asphyxiaton on a few guys in a few dark alleys, maybe that had something to do with her being strangled? Maybe. Oh, there was one other detail; she was MY COUSIN.

HENCE HER BEING VERY CLOSE TO ME.

Detective Parlington wanted to know what I knew but I couldn’t tell him much. Not yet anyway.
I had some analyzing to do. But I wasn’t in the mood for that. So after Parlington let me out on good behavior, I took to the streets.

Billingsworth’s was two miles by subway from here; I’d be able to quench my gullet there and put some ice on my face. I was, after all, a burn victim. Plus it’d give me a good excuse to lean over a juke box and brood.

That’s what I was in the mood for: a brood.

Chippy The Doorman didn’t recognize me. I had to headlock his ass, and drag him to the ground before I was able to go in. Things weren’t much better inside, but at least it wasn’t snowing.

I hate snow.

Behind the bar a young dame jiggled her mama-jugs and poured some slob a shot of whiskey. That was Ginger; she was something special. She had all the sizzle of a Serrano pepper, the sass of a pregnant Puerto Rican, and a voice like Tom Waits. She was deaf though, so it wasn’t her fault. Ginger learned lip-reading at the library, since no one was aloud to speak loudly, and aside from the occasional goof you’d never know she couldn’t talk like a regular person.

Whatever. She could coo “Union Square” into my ear any day, I wouldn’t stop her.

The bar was warm inside. Not house-fire warm, but warmer than snow falling warm so I counted my blessings because, oh yeah, I was fucking homeless now.

Which got me thinking.

So I went outside, patrolled the streets, the alleys, the curbsides and everything in between, until I found what needed finding and where it needed be afterward. Three nights later and there I was in my new home; a dumpster, fully furnished, situated between 48th and Broad, when I heard a knock.

It was the mailman. He was drinking milk from a straw.

“Mail’s here” he said with a smirk.

“All right. Out with it Old Man.”

There was lettuce on my shoulder and I didn’t have time for this shit.

“MAIL Man.” He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, tossed it at me, and left.

It was a letter not unlike those I’d seen at the post office; I enjoyed reading it immensely, except for all the threats and curse words it contained.

“Who’d wanna curse me out?” I thought aloud. So that meant it was time to visit my informant, RastaMan420@ymail.com. And that was that.

A cabbie took me to the library, where I got to wait in line till some kid finished playing video games so that I could use the computer. Meanwhile I leaned over a shelf containing Young Adult Literature and made broody faces.
Finally, it was my turn to use the internet. I hopped on my favorite chat room to get the nitty gritty.

RastaMan420 was very helpful. After sending $50 to his PayPal account I was privy to quite the juicy details. He didn’t know anything about that letter though, so I was out of luck there.

I didn’t want to, but it looked like I had to, so I went over to see Parlington; at the 25th Precinct, LOL.

“Tell me more about Kookoo” I said.

“What you wanna know?”

“None of your business”

“Alright.”

“Fine.”

“OK.”

This wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I tried another tactic.

“Shut up.”

“No.”

“OK.”

“What are you doing in my office?”

“Tell me more about Kookoo.”

“Like what?”

I started to tell him what I wanted to know, my darkest secrets, and even that stuff about the letter before figuring out how duped I had just been. I squinted at Parlington, pursed my lips, and wagged my finger in his face.

“Hahaha, I wrote that letter. I knew you’d come to me about it.” Parlington said.

I left his office with my eyes still squinted and headed back to Billingsworth’s. So now Parlington knew what I knew except now I didn’t know what to think about that; all I knew was I now had to come up with a new plan.

“Goddamnit” I muttered into my bourbon. That broad I told you about earlier was behind the bar, pouring shots.

I was angry. I was hurt and confused. And worst of all, I was single. It’s not like I could take any of this out on a girlfriend, mistress, or wife so I went over to the ladies room and knocked on the door. An “effeminate” voice came from the other side. I knocked again, this time harder, quicker. Again, the voice yelled back, a bit more annoyed.

No one talks to me that way, I said to myself, and REALLY laid into that door. Finally a big ole broad with burly shoulders stormed out and the two of us had ourselves quite the shouting match.

We resolved our differences and I went back to the bar to get more drunk.
Ginger winked at me. I smiled, because it’s my favorite thing to do. I told her I loved her while she poured my bourbon but she was looking at another customer.

Great. Another chance lost.

Well I was back to square one. Nowhere to go with nothing to do and a huge wound leaking pus down the side of my face. That’s when I remembered how this all began; my house was set aflame and my cousin strangled in some back alley, left to die.

I didn’t know what to make of it all, sure, but I knew someone who did. Someone who knew a lot of stuff.
So I dialed that person’s number, and waited for an answer.

Then I heard a voice say, “You’re under arrest you cocksuckin sonofabitch” so I hung up.

I turned to my left and saw Parlington holding handcuffs in his hands.

“I was just calling you, dipshit.”

“Why? I’m right here.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Good, cause you’re under arrest you cocksuckin sonofabitch. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

HERE COMES THE TWIST!

“You’ve got the wrong man!” I shrieked.

“Hahaha, remember when you spilled your guts to me in my office? I bet you don’t. That’s why I took the liberty of TAPE RECORDING your confession to MURDER IN THE THIRD DEGREE. Hahaha, you weren’t happy regarding your COUSIN Kookoo Munyanna’s chosen profession so you dressed up like someone else and asked to be erotically asphyxiated over near 48th and Broad. But things went wrong. And you ended up erotically asphyxiating HER! Hahaha, so you tried to make it look like YOU were the victim by setting your house on fire and going to sleep! But it didn’t work, because I’m the best goddamn detective there ever was, hahaha!”

“Billingsworth, stop laughing. This isn’t funny!”

“Parlington.”

“Yes?”

“No, Parlington.”

“Speaking ton?”

“I’m DETECTIVE PARLINGTON! Billingsworth is the name of the bar we’re at!”

“Ahhh, Christ, get me a drink, wouldja?”

“I’m not the bartender! I’M A COP YOU IDIOT!”

So being the cop he was, Parlington slapped the cuffs on me and took me to jail. After that they sent me to court where a jury convicted me of all sorts of things and now I’m locked up.

But I guess this story ends on a positive note, because my face finally healed up and I’m no longer homeless. Plus I get three square meals a day!

Take THAT Parlington, LOL!

What about Ginger? Well she ended up marrying Parlington later that night in Billingsworth’s with Chippy The Doorman as the guy who does the marrying. (Officiater? I don't know if that's the correct word.)

So yeah, everybody wins.