This is cutting edge improvisational blogging. We call it –
“Whose Blog is it Anyway ?” 2 – The Unanswerables
We have written this for FUN, not serious, to amuse ourselves and our readers, and help promote our blogs. Please read with that in mind.
Commenters – Please DO NOT post outbound links whilst the event is going on AND please DO NOT post comments if you are a moron.
Whose Blog is it Anyway? 2 – The Unanswerables
Why “The Unanswerables” ? Because the titles assigned to my guest improvisers don’t have an exact scientific answer or they are just zany and off the wall.
Do not expect fact here. Do not expect the truth here. This is creative writing for FUN, HUMOUR and for those with a SENSE OF HUMOUR. It’s cutting edge IMPROVISED blogging, not science weekly or the historian’s gazette.
The guest improvisers were assigned titles by me, and are therefore NOT necessarily experts or even actually FOR the topic they are writing about. They all did however “YES, AND” the challenge which is the spirit of improvisation and what we’re doing here.
We’re not interested in your critical appraisal, it simply isn’t required. It is in fact IRRELEVANT to the context of improvised, for fun creative writing. Stop taking yourselves so seriously.
So without further ado …
His Lordship – The Exceptional And Extraordinary Vanautu Gold Watcher
Phil is new in the Don Charisma writing stables. He scored very highly in the vote, perhaps because he was first on the list ?
I’m fairly sure he doesn’t know this, but we share a common interest in the Gold market. Although for me after spending a couple of years as a Gold day trader I threw in the towel, it just kept going in the “wrong” direction. I think Phil’s still active in the Gold market. Gold to $10000 an ounce, yay !
Phil is a witty and wordy soul and has produced this most excellent writing which with a little expanding could make an ebook or perhaps a mini-series for the TV 🙂
It’s one of the zanier titles issued to my guest improvisers. But zany is good, easier to write creatively with a zany title, well in a fiction sense anyway 🙂
You can find Phil at The Watcher blog.
Please give a warm welcome to Phil.
What Happened When I Hired Two Private Investigators to Follow Each Other
(Inspired by Mad Magazine’s “Spy vs Spy”)
Hello ladies and gentlemen.
If you’re already feeling left out, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is my motto in life so just for you – what category would you like to be placed in other than the “Ladies” or “Gentlemen”? Perhaps – “Royalty” or what about “Illiterates”, “Humourless”, “Senile” or maybe just one of “The Beautiful People”? Your call.
My name is Phil Manhire (aka “The Watcher”) and I’m here to hopefully entertain you and possibly even engage you , tantalise you and intrigue you enough for you to want MORE….of me!
(Journal: A moment in time – exactly 27 memorable weeks ago. The day my world did a pancake flip, a now-it’s-stuck-to-the-ceiling flip. July the 8th, the day that my life changed irrevocably).
I AM A CHRONIC LIAR….or….am I?
You can decide for yourself as the tale unfolds of Jacqueline de LaCourt or better known to her many conquests (male AND female) and equally as many enemies (both personal AND professional) as – “Junkyard Jackie” or “JJ” to those closest to her.
Oh but this isn’t just about “JJ”, oh no!
She is sharing the stage with one of the most repugnant and unsavoury characters imaginable, one who somehow manages to pass himself off as a human being, of sorts, to the rest of the uninitiated world – Sebastian (“The Barrel”) Barnes.
Be assured, both are real pieces of work, if you get my drift.
Especially JJ. She is impressive, I’ll give you that. Standing 6 foot one inch in bare feet with a cascading-past-her-shoulders shock of flame-red hair and a body and face that befits the front cover of “Super Model” magazine, JJ is definitely a real “looker”. A head-turner for either sex, as it turns out. However, lurking beneath this high gloss exterior hides something dark and malevolent. Worse than that actually. She is in reality – 185 centimetres of unadulterated “evil-personified”. As viciously efficient with a knife or stiletto heel as she is when her ball-busting, intimidating-to-the-max, rapier-like intelligence is employed in verbal assaults against anyone. Hard-arsed, street-wise grown men on the other end of her verbal fist have been known to go to jelly in a pool of tears and pants-wetting. Me – I prefer to call it “scaring the absolute shit out of you!”
Sadistic, yet compellingly seductive, Jacqueline de LaCourt is one BADASS she-Devil in disguise. You do NOT want to know her, NOT for any reason. Similarly, you do NOT want to attract her attention – at all, as she will strip your soul AND money from your body with the ease of an eagle popping the eye of a dead rabbit.
Now the not-so-lovely Sebastian isn’t one you would wish to have as a social media “Friend” either. His repugnance pulses from him in constant waves of unsettling “vibes” that are almost demonic in nature. No, it’s more than that. Anyone who has even the most miniscule understanding of the human psyche and presence would know intuitively, with a “RED ALERT, BRAIN” signal if Sebastian The Barrel) Barnes was ever in their immediate vicinity.
The first smack to the senses is a “feels-like-a-Tyson-uppercut” to your nostrils. Fed by the addition of at least a litre of two-day-old, two-dollar after-shave, the word ‘rancid’ quickly comes to mind and then just as rapidly dismissed as a “you’ve got to be kidding me” thought…. one that dictates that phrases such as ‘rancid’, ‘putrid’ and ‘stomach-churning’ to describe Sebastian’s body smells are about as far from reality as me winning the lottery without a ticket.
It would be easy to believe that he actually uses this olfactory announcement as a real and viable weapon in order to temporarily disable/paralyse anybody who may be deemed to be standing in his self-serving path of inevitable carnage and destruction.
Once, sorry – IF you get past the initial eye-watering, gut-lurching introduction of his intrusion into your clean-air space and get to actually sight him, you are likely to regret having done so – FOREVER!
Truly, it’s the stuff of nightmares. You know the kind, don’t you? Remember when you were a kid and those times when no matter what you did to try to fall asleep IMMEDIATELY when you went to close your eyes, IT happened. Initially, IT was the sound of the clock – ticking, ticking, ticking…….and getting louder and louder and progressively louder with a decibel count that was fast becoming a match for Deep Purple’s Loudest Hits album played at full volume on the stereo from hell…. UNLESS you opened your eyes….just a wee bit, no more than a tiny squint, a mere glimmer of the night’s light being let in and then finding that doing this apparently hastened the speed of the wardrobe in the corner that was moving…toward you…coming to get you. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t type of thing.
Anyway, “The Barrel” stands as an equally impressive sight as JJ. Different, mind you but for all the wrong reasons, just like her.
It’s hard to know where to start in describing this miserable lump of human trash, though from a respectable and not too close a distance (out of nose tissue-destroying range, preferably) the first material fact that strikes you is his body-shape similarity to a diseased, mouldy orange – not quite round, more like an imperfect circular form with a few collapsed surfaces here and there offset by an eclectic collection of obnoxious, unhealthy-coloured bumps and blemishes marking a failed creation of what was meant to be a human being.
Sitting atop that obscenity is a head, well not exactly a head as such. More akin to a GIANT, hairless mega-boil that was about to explode in a Mt. Vesuvius-like eruption of unmentionable filth and tragedy. In a cruel quirk of genetic degradation somewhere within Sebastian’s gene pool, he simultaneously also reminds one of a bowling ball. Brightly coloured…a sort of stark and angry purplish-red with hints of infection-yellow and small-pox black throughout AND just as in a bowling ball, only three holes marking his face – in the same two-up, one down configuration. No nose, you see.
Look up “one-ugly son-of-a-bitch” in any dictionary of note and you’ll find the words Sebastian Barnes as the description of same. His no-nose appearance is oddly menacing and I imagine, favourable from his perspective – highly disconcerting. Can’t even stand to look him in the eye. Disturbing. Extremely disturbing.
However, I don’t care about any of that right now because at this very moment, these two fetid, dehumanised souls are unknowingly about to play a game. A winner-takes-all match in which the loser or I should say, losers, will pay the ultimate price for their past misdeeds and one never-to-be-forgotten-nor-forgiven misdeed in particular – the one perpetrated against me and mine.
For nearly six months now, I have planned this event with OCD-comparable meticulous care and attention. The plan devised is not of the Black Adder’s Baldrick “I have a cunning plan sir and it cannot fail” genre. Rather, it’s a strategic plan of sweet revenge that was born out of a festering lust for the regaining of what’s rightfully mine – justice. A malicious intent on my part to totally and emphatically destroy two lives and in so doing, save the human race from any future possibility of further bastardisation of the human species DNA. Saviour of the masses – that’s me, though I must admit to a bit of help from my ever-loyal sympathizer and strategic genius of a lawyer, Janice – my bitch-in-a-wheelchair sister.
Now one fact binds the two about-to-be protagonists. They are both PI’s. Private Investigators, duly licensed by the State but also a proven law-unto-themselves aberration of their mutually-chosen occupation. Sebastian was a merciless stand-over thug and loan shark in the handy guise of a PI who would pulverise a mark’s head with a 9 iron, for the sheer pleasure of it. The other’s existence is, however, unknown for the present. I know this as being factual as my fixated, extensive research has dismissed any other possibility – absolutely.
The first call I make is to Ms. de LaCourt. The appointment is set for 3 p.m. this afternoon – Monday. Purposefully, my second call is scheduled for 10 a.m. tomorrow. I’m not entirely stupid. It will be an open-air appointment, on a nearby beach for the reason, as explained to Mr. Barnes, of a need for privacy from prying ears and eyes. The real motive behind this choice of course is to give me the advantage of meeting within an environment of air-cleansing salt spray with its accompanying underlying tang of decomposing seaweed – far more preferable a perfume to that of the collective odours emanating from the pus-ridden pores of the man who will be sitting on the opposite end of the carefully indicated portion of beach retaining wall.
My stated motive for hiring them was that their target had betrayed me and that I was keen to exact a suitable (and definitely illegal) revenge upon his or her head. This was about the closest I ever came to telling the actual truth throughout my one-on-one dealings with them. The truth? Both of them were responsible for the death last summer of my twin brother, Peter. Making matters worse, they individually shrugged it off at the time as just “one of those things”. Sebastian, the vicious stand-over usurer and Jacqueline de La-bloody-Court, the seductive leech and killer of the man she convinced to walk off a roof – 15 stories up.
(Journal: Tuesday. Both appointments – done and dusted). Not without casualties though. The stench, imagined or otherwise from the encounter with Sebastian, had permanently and indelibly infiltrated my made-to-order YSL hunting jacket and fashionable co-ordinated trousers and waist-coat. What a tragic loss. First time worn and already only fit for a high-octane petrol-fuelled bonfire.
My instructions to both – follow the other and report back to me by phone with their findings – twice daily at pre-arranged times. They were both issued with a folder containing recent photos, bio and detailed background of their target along with a very healthy 6-figure advance payment and promised generous per diem for their efforts. I insisted on one condition of employment, however and I was immovable on the subject. Due to the potentially dangerous nature of the assignment I reminded them, they were coerced into giving me temporary Power of Attorney over their affairs. After all I considered it my duty to take care of matters for them in the unlikely event of their death or extensive maiming. When you’re sitting with someone who has a hundred thousand bucks on the table in front of you, telling you it’s yours to take with you, you don’t put up an argument. You do it. They did it.
An additional bonus (chuckle) was my giving to them the very latest in technology in Smart phones, one each, an ‘as-yet-to-be-released’ Samsung “Universe” (I had saved the company CEO’s from exposure of his involvement in an “IP-for-sex” scandal many years back, a fact for which he remains eternally grateful). The beauty of this particular device, is that in addition to its many high-end user applications such as Q4-quality camera attributes, it also has one particularly nasty-for-them feature incorporated.
Using NASA top-secret holophotonic technology (a gift from the other “IP-for-sex’ person involved), the phone can be remotely exploded with enough power to rival that of a kilo of C4 and most importantly, only by my voice-scrambled, specially encrypted, one-of-a-kind “Universe-All4#1” Master phone. With it, I can real-time monitor their every move, every conversation and sound within 100 metres of them, their pulse rate with supporting ECG dynamics, their food intake, their toilet movements (literally) and even when they have sex. I hope I never have to use this latter feature in keeping tabs on Sebastian, though. God, that would be a nightmare extraordinaire!
(Journal: Thursday. What they didn’t realize was that I already know where they will be at any given moment over the next 72 hours). Imagine their surprise when, in an extraordinary turn of apparent good fortune, they both received very special and irresistible invitations for the coming long weekend. Invitations to be the sole honoured guests at the country estate of the supposedly wealthiest woman in the entire country, Lady Margaret Worthington-Smythe (aka Janice), an obvious-to-them eccentric and apparently feeble-minded British aristocrat who had inherited a massive fortune from her recently-departed husband’s patent-protected potato peeler production factory (a globally-licensed invention) business. Her annual royalties were reported (by me) to run into hundreds of millions of dollars a year, presenting her as a perfect target for an unscrupulous, amoral trickster or in this case – two of them.
(Journal: Friday. The two “honoured guests” have arrived, separately, at the estate). “Lady Margaret’s” explanation for the invitations was that she knew of them both by reputation as unstoppable go-getters and because of her own fragile health considerations, she needed to conduct an urgent search for her missing heir-apparent, one Dr. George Worthington-Smythe the Third (non-existent, of course). His last known whereabouts, according to her, was deep in the heart of the Chinatown slums where he was last heard to be operating a drug rehabilitation drop-in centre for hard-core crystal meth addicts.
Their mission, should they decide to accept it, was to work together to first find and then convince the now not-so-young George to quit his altruistic humanitarian exploits and return to run his late father’s business empire. Their reward for success? Each to have a life-long percentage share of the royalties – enough to keep them both in the beyond-luxurious lifestyle to which they both aspired.
As an added twist to their contracts, Lady Margaret advised them both, alone and confidentially, that should either of them die before completion of the task set them, the team’s survivor would acquire the royalty interests of the other, therein doubling their potential reward. Naturally and as expected, both JJ and Sebastian mentally noted this ‘Condition’ and started on the formation of plans to rid themselves of their joint venture partner – permanently.
The first Report came from JJ, right on time. The profound greed of some people never ceases to amaze and disgust me. I had barely finished my peremptory greeting of “Hello” when she was gushing in cyberspace about her incredible stroke of good luck. Let’s face it, as far as JJ was concerned, she was already receiving an over-the-top generous stipend from me and now she had the chance to also set herself up for life. Her target was already in plain sight, she reported, having a welcoming morning tea with her Ladyship, in fact. I already knew this of course, thanks to my new best friend, my “Universe-All4#1”. After her receiving my “Wow, isn’t that great news” response, subsequent contact arrangements were re-confirmed then I hung up.
Two hours later came the first contact from Sebastian, once again, right on time. He was damn lucky to even get past the “Hello” bit though, as I SWEAR I could smell him across cyberspace and I came THAT close to activating the DESTROY code right there and then! But I digress.
Sebastian was also full of quietly evasive happiness at his own good fortune. He reported to me details of the event that would take he and JJ to New York’s Chinatown district in three days’ time whereupon I told him that I would book two first-class seats on Monday’s early flight to New York for them. I kept my word, although in deference to any poor traveller who might end up seated next to him, I in fact booked three seats with the one adjacent to him guaranteed to be empty for the duration and also ensured that JJ was separated from him for the entire trip (well, I couldn’t subject even “Junkyard Jackie” to that form of abuse ….yet). Before I hung up, I also informed him that I would look into the possible whereabouts of the good Doctor via my own network.
(Journal: Saturday. Nothing of interest to record. Just the usual bodily functions and perfunctory conversations between hostess and guests).
(Journal: Sunday). I made a pre-arranged phone call in the early evening to her Ladyship to inform her that I had a strong lead on her fictitious son’s present location – Room 409, at the Sun Inn in Chinatown, (the room that was booked two weeks ago by me) and could she please pass along this fortuitous piece of news to her dinner guests.
When her Ladyship put the phone down she excitedly told them about some hotel in Hester Street, NYC where George had been tracked to and where, for some peculiar reason, he was registered under a different name. “Goodness me. This IS very odd”, she was telling them. “Some horrible Chinese place” she said. “Why would he call himself Max Ballinger?” her Ladyship muttered as she manoeuvred her wheels away from the table to fetch her nightly cigarello to accompany her “white no sugar thank you” tea on the porch.
People, especially those with a hyper-active super gene named gReeD9, are just so easy to predict. Sebastian (The Barrel) Barnes had the gene – of that I’m certain. He was out of that chair with (for him, at least) the speed of a startled gazelle and up to his room to make a series of urgent phone calls to New York – “arrangements” he called them. But I’ll give him his due, he called me first up. Just as well. It was his appointed time to do so anyway.
Simply, his so-called arrangements were calls to “associates”, organized to confirm that a guy by the name of Max Ballinger was registered at the hotel, another to a “friend” with instructions to collect him at Laguardia on the following day. From there, he would call into a sports store on the way to Chinatown. He was about to become the key batter for the Kill-JJ Team, a team of one. Only then would he capture son Dr. George and claim his reward from Lady Margaret.
JJ had different ideas. She knew that Sebastian would try to stiff her….or kill her, probably both. One call to New York was all she needed to ensure that she would be the first one to reach Room 409 – armed to the teeth and ready for the coming showdown with Sebastian. Her next Report was due at 6 a.m. next morning.
(Journal: Monday, July 8th). Early start to the day with JJ’s call – from the local airport and out of earshot of her travelling companion, naturally. Blah, blah, blah was what I vaguely heard – a voice in the void. I knew what she was up to. Capture Max, shut him up, put him out of sight for the time being and wait for Sebastian to show.
So while Sebastian was gorging himself on Pink Gins and pretzels and Madam was enjoying a relaxing champagne-induced beauty sleep in first-class seclusion, I had my own checklist to get in order. Room 409 – Champagne flutes x 2 -check; a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon in the new refrigerator – check; direct-to-base police security alarm installed and working – check; cyber-controlled door-locking system ready – check; high-tech video recorders in place and running – check!
JJ’s quest to be first to Max’s seedy hotel room was successful, helped along somewhat by a covert whisper in a flight attendant’s ear while disembarking about that ugly-looking man telling her that he had some sort of bomb or something hidden in his luggage. Oh yes, Sebastian would be here soon and he’ll be one VERY angry freak.
No sign of Max yet but at least the lobby clerk had told her that Mr. Ballinger was out and returning later, early evening he thought.
So she waited for Sebastian, knowing he would come. He had told her once that he had a fetish about “getting it off” with Jessica Rabbit. To give her greater advantage when the time came, she has dressed accordingly – in a killer outfit that epitomises the on-screen Jessica. Devastatingly fetching, outrageously seductive…dangerous.
Both “Jessica” and I became aware of his impending entrance through the room’s heavy steel fire door. I knew of it through the “swish, slap” sound ringing down the hallway – a 9 iron swish immediately followed by the slap of metal against thin paper-clad walls.
She was ready for him. A learned aficionado of true style and class, by the time he made his bull’s charge into the room, JJ was standing there, beside the turned-down sheets – with two glasses of chilled champagne in her hands and to Sebastian, looking like the personification of all of his wet dreams, all at once. It was almost too much for him. “A toast”, he rasped as he stretched a trembling hand to take the proffered glass from her. “A toast to our partnership and may it live forever!”
JJ then did something that completely threw Sebastian off-balance. She walked, no, glided across the floor in a semi-ethereal fashion straight towards the narrow area that separated him from the bed and stood closer to him than any female had ever done in his life. Raising her glass to him, she covertly reached for the gun hidden under her gown and…..that’s when all hell broke loose!
A terrifying screech followed by a loud and deep “thunk, thunk” sound from the front door as it embedded its steel prongs into the freshly-slotted wall. At that very same moment, the high-pitched wail of the security alarm sounded (tee, hee) resulting in two full glasses being thrust toward a splintery finish on the floor.
Their faces were pure joy to watch as they turned into comprehending disbelief at the betrayal of the other. As the Gary Player signature wedge swept upward into its face-crunching arc, JJ turned her Glock, aiming directly at the mid-point marking where Sebastian’s nose should have been. As two very neat holes appeared in his face, a blinding blue flash filled my phone’s screen as the signal from my DESTROY button reached their targets. I heard later that by the time the Police and fire-trucks arrived, they found the two top stories of the hotel had made way for still-settling brick dust. There was nothing left. No bodies. No guns. Nothing. Did they deserve such an end? The answer to that can be found in my smile as I make my way to the boarding lounge.
(Journal: Monday, January 13th.)
The recently-formed “Sebastian de LaCourt Foundation” is doing very nicely, thank you. It has paid for Janice’s treatment in Geneva and I am looking forward to seeing her again next week in Florence. We have a lot of planning work to do to bring our villa in the Tuscan hills up to the standard we deserve.
My name is Frances. I cannot tell a lie. Or can I?
You may eventually find the truth at “The Watcher” – http://vanuatugoldwatcher.com.
BY Phil, blogger extraordinaire at The Watcher blog.
Notes for commenters:
Comments are invited. BUT you are reminded that this is a public blog and you are also reminded to think before you press the “post comment” button.
DO NOT post outbound links in my comments whilst “Whose Blog is it Anyway? 2” is in progress.
Good manners are a mark of a charismatic person – so please keep comments civil, non-argumentative, constructive and related, or they will be moderated. If you feel you can’t comply, press the “unfollow” button and/or refrain from commenting.
I read ALL comments but can’t always reply. I will comment if I think there’s something that I can add to what you’ve said. I do delete without notice comments that don’t follow rules above. For persistent offenders I will ignore you permanently and/or report you.
Most decent people already know how to behave respectfully. Thank you for your co-operation on the above.
Warm regards, Don Charisma