My name is Satan Donut. I'm a private investigator, and I've got an important story to tell. A story that needs to be heard. A story of significance. A story that's worth at least twenty dollars in hardback and ten in paperback.

I remember when it all started. I was sitting at my desk waiting for time to pass.

It's a long wait.

How does that song go? "Time keeps on spinnin', spinnin', spinnin'...into the future." Man, I hate that song.

Time is our mortal enemy because it makes us mortal. Yet without time we wouldn't exist. And it would be damn hard to figure out what's on TV. Two-minute eggs would be right out.

Like lemmings at cliff edge, beads of sweat hurled themselves off my forehead onto my gunmetal grey ink blotter. I was itching for a case. No, scratch that, it was my crabs acting up in the heat. What I really needed was an unguent of some kind. The only problem, gentle reader - and I'm assuming here you're still reading - is that unguents and heat don't mix. Neither do crabs and heat. No matter how you slice 'em. You can't even parboil 'em. And believe me I've tried, Oh Lordy, how I've tried. And this particular day in question was hot. Damn hot. The kind of heat that causes H2 to divorce O, and Hall to break up with Oates. Which is really too bad for Oates because "Hall" is fine by itself. "Ladies and gentlemen, here's Hall!" That's okay. "Here's Oates?" That's just weird.

I was staring out my window, munching on a veggie burger, and having a cup of coffee to help me relax. The sun slapped against my window like a backhand to the right cheek. Like a brick across the ol' bean. When a brick sailed through my window sending glass shards across the room at Warp Factor Three, Mr. Sulu, and landed square on my mung bean plant, all I could think was, "How ironic."

The dirt from my mung bean plant was strewn onto the hardwood floor in a pattern not unlike the Afro of Gabe Kaplan in the early episodes of "Welcome Back Kotter." Although, come to think of it, did his hair actually evolve as the show went on? Was it different in the later episodes? Frankly, I can't enjoy a sitcom if the character's hairstyles don't grow with us as we get to know and love them. So much for Mr. Kotter as one of my role models.

I knelt by the dirt, uneasy with the ramifications of this symbolic representation of a traditionally "black" descriptive (i.e. the "Afro") applied to a white man. It reminded me of Elvis' appropriation of black music for his own success. I also reminded myself never to use a Latin derived abbreviation (i.e. i.e.) again. I rearranged the dirt until it looked more or less like the nose of former Minority Whip Dick Gephardt. This put me at ease.

I picked up the brick and peeled off the plant plastered on it like Wile E. Coyote under a boulder. I tossed the plant into the garbage with a snarl: I'd been growing that mung bean plant with intent to torture it later. I'm a vegetarian, you see, not because I love animals but because I hate plants. My antipathy developed in childhood when a rosebush started growing out of my hip. The kids used to call me "Rosehips." It's been a thorn in my side ever since.

I examined the brick closely. It looked much like a regular brick. There were several white paint marks on it in the shape of fingerprints. I studied these white marks for several minutes before I realized there was a note tied to the brick. I untied the pink bow and read the attached paper:

BewArE bRIcKS

Hmmh. If only I'd gotten the message sooner... Before I had a chance to ponder this delivery, there was a knock at my door. "One moment," I yelled, "I'm masturbating."

I wasn't, but I like to keep 'em guessing.

up to top        back to novel page       purchase information