something else

A drunken jazz-like jam without purpose or meaning or plot or ending.

Just typing whatever comes to me...

(consider this the equivalent of an indulgent drum-solo)

by meat™

HARRY KALARIOUS STOOD IN NONDESCRIPT WEATHER trying to remember something. He fancied himself something of an everyman everything professional these days. In fact, this week alone he stood to make over two hundred bucks as a freelance detective. If he could just solve the case that is. Last week he fixed a stranger's plumbing and charged him $125. The stranger felt the price too steep and offered to punch the detective plumber in the mouth as an opening gambit for a heated game of Bargaining. They settled out of court for an undisclosed amount (parts and a beer, basically) due to the fact that the detective plumber (and occasional producer beekeeper zombie-hunter bird-watcher detective surgeon accountant PA film-critic dentist plumber serial-killer waiter counselor cineaste gigolo) hadn't actually contracted for the job. Or been asked to do it. The detective plumber was more into, and a little zealous about, "cold-calling."

It was a Tuesday. At least in theory.

And his name wasn't actually Harry Kalarious. The waiter surgeon named himself after something he'd heard a child say.

And it was actually Thursday. I'm not always entirely reliable. So there's that.

Across town, and three hours earlier and 235 years later, Felix and Loon were sitting in the grass on the NW corner of Dime Bag Park contemplating their newly acquired "weapon." To try to keep things brief, because this small story of little import could easily bloom into thousands of pages, we'll call the item in question an Intelligencer Gun.
This will not figure into the story at all and I regret having brought it up at all. I'm really very sorry. I'll try to be more reliable, or at least more to the point from here on out.

It was a Tuesday. There were no new leads on the current case. Mostly or entirely because the box-maker car-salesman baker couldn't remember the case or who, if anyone, had even hired him, and he was considering diversification. What he most wanted was to try and get a few more fingers into a few more pies. The analogy unexpectedly depressed him. It almost inspired him, also, until he remembered his brief-lived baker career. Then it depressed him two-fold. His desk and office were in no condition to cheer him up. In fact they added a few more fold to the problem. Mostly because his office was actually a bathroom and his desk was the toilet with the lid down. He was wearing very dirty "white" briefs and a wife-beater with a couple more holes than absolutely necessary. It also didn't help that his files were random scraps of paper (including backs of envelopes, the insides of burger wrappers, etc) and his "printer" was a ten-color-pen and a sharpie. He did in fact have a metal badge that said" PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR" in raised letters around a badge-like looking background and shape. It was pretty sweet. He got it when he was eleven years old from the back of a comic book. It cost him a dollar. The best investment he ever made.
His assistant said nothing and I again regret bringing it up. He didn't have an assistant, not even a fake one. I just thought that in the context of him being a loser fucking waste and sitting in his underwear on the bathroom floor pretending he's not an insane crackpot and mentioning his assistant would be funny.
Don't shoot the messenger?
Anyway, I'm going to move right along to something else.


This:I couldn't think of anything.


So more of the same. Harry Kalarious, also known as Juniper Galler, Peabody J. Norfolger, Steve "Macho Guns" Seiver, Karl K. Lightning, Tim Cobsa, Meat Trademark (before the REAL meat [ME, goddamnit] kicked his ass), Albescentia Aliundi, and many, many others, was feeling especially indefinite this awful, brilliant Tuesday. And that's not even mentioning his failed careers as a dental hygenist, bee-keeper (in Montana, as opposed to his other slightly more successful attempts), singing-telegram spokesperson, fry-cook, concierge, data entry technician and hand model.
Lightning struck dramatically, from a clear blue sky, in his mind.
Still, nothing happened.

He remained batshit insane, tweaking about in his bathroom.
(this took about fifteen minutes, editing and justifying and giving up incl.)

an aperitif