2008 Woodie Awards
Film Noir for April Fools
Sarah Mann
Issue date: 4/1/04 Section: Humor
Here I sat in my office, bubble gum cigar half-chewed in my mouth, trench coat properly wrinkled - just like the Panama hat on my head. I looked good. I even had my feet on the desk, just like any gumshoe should when she is waiting for employment, but my bottom was getting numb. I watched the rain reflected in the glass of my door with the letters "eyE etavirP :levohS ahtnamaS." I could only hope the other side of the door said "Samantha Shovel: Private Eye." Otherwise, I would have to sit on the other side of the door, and I hate empty hallways.
Suddenly a silhouette appeared on the door. She must be some special broad to make only a silhouette on a clear glass window. Not that it mattered. I don't go in for mysterious broads, or any broads for that matter. I'm a broad myself, and trust me; I ain't nothin' but trouble. Either way, I suspected I had a case, and that suited me fine. I was in serious need of money to fund my shoe addiction. The door opened.
She was obviously in trouble. There were clues from head to toe: her frizzy hair, her shoulder pads askew and a run in her panty hose. She was either in need of a mirror or of a private investigator. I offered her both.
"Thanks, sister," she said, settling down in my other chair and wiping her lipgloss with one manicured finger. "I need help in the most awful way, and something told me you were the only one I could come to." I nodded sagely. She must have gotten that feeling from the large billboard across the street. The one that said, "Samantha Shovel is the only one you can come to." I believed in subtle advertising.
When she looked less like a drowned rat, I cleared my throat. "Lady, nobody comes here without some kind of problem. What's eating you?" She looked up, and for the first time I noticed a large raccoon perched on her shoulder, nibbling her hair. That answered my question. This case was getting better, and I hadn't even heard it yet. Soon I wished I never had.
"I work at an upscale restaurant downtown called McWendy King. Last night, I was closing up for the evening and I noticed a pool of red liquid next to the napkin dispenser on one of the tables. I had hoped it was just blood, but after smelling it, my worst fears were realized. It was ketchup." She gulped down tears. I gulped down a derisive snort.
"Lady, what's the matter with ketchup on your tables? You have packets of that next to the fountain drinks!" I knew from experience the layout of the classy joint. It was another time, another case, another pair of leather-soled sandals with man-made upper materials and cute little beads on the strap. I sighed and returned to the present.
The dame was glaring at me like a fire hydrant glares at an approaching Great Dane. "For a reputed gumshoe, you sure are soft in the head." I patted my hair, feeling guilty for the extra conditioner I had used that morning, but she continued speaking with fire in her eyes. "AHHHH! HELP, MY EYES ARE ON FIRE!" When we extinguished the suspicious spontaneous combustion, she continued with an irritated edge in her voice, "Ketchup is never seen in our restaurant. We provide only the finest Fancy Tomato Catsup. Whoever planted the ketchup in our store must want to ruin us real bad. I need you to get to the bottom of this plant and double quick, see?"
I got to the bottom of the plant; it was mostly dirt just like my other potted ferns. "So you want the dirt on the bottom of the plant, Lady? Well you're gonna have to pay up front. Otherwise we continue this farce of overused film noir clichés. No personal checks please."
So she paid me, and I put in a call to my contact downtown. He said there had been a report of a crashed truckload of troubled broads near the interstate. I looked at the tag around her neck, which confirmed her shots were up to date. I called the number shown and collected the reward for returning her, getting paid twice in one day. Not a bad day for shoe shopping, I thought as I closed up the office, not a bad day at all.
Sarah Mann is the humor columnist for the Omnibus and can be reached at FraggleSarah@hotmail.com. She knows most of her readers will see this column after April Fool's Day, but dem's da breaks, kid.
Suddenly a silhouette appeared on the door. She must be some special broad to make only a silhouette on a clear glass window. Not that it mattered. I don't go in for mysterious broads, or any broads for that matter. I'm a broad myself, and trust me; I ain't nothin' but trouble. Either way, I suspected I had a case, and that suited me fine. I was in serious need of money to fund my shoe addiction. The door opened.
She was obviously in trouble. There were clues from head to toe: her frizzy hair, her shoulder pads askew and a run in her panty hose. She was either in need of a mirror or of a private investigator. I offered her both.
"Thanks, sister," she said, settling down in my other chair and wiping her lipgloss with one manicured finger. "I need help in the most awful way, and something told me you were the only one I could come to." I nodded sagely. She must have gotten that feeling from the large billboard across the street. The one that said, "Samantha Shovel is the only one you can come to." I believed in subtle advertising.
When she looked less like a drowned rat, I cleared my throat. "Lady, nobody comes here without some kind of problem. What's eating you?" She looked up, and for the first time I noticed a large raccoon perched on her shoulder, nibbling her hair. That answered my question. This case was getting better, and I hadn't even heard it yet. Soon I wished I never had.
"I work at an upscale restaurant downtown called McWendy King. Last night, I was closing up for the evening and I noticed a pool of red liquid next to the napkin dispenser on one of the tables. I had hoped it was just blood, but after smelling it, my worst fears were realized. It was ketchup." She gulped down tears. I gulped down a derisive snort.
"Lady, what's the matter with ketchup on your tables? You have packets of that next to the fountain drinks!" I knew from experience the layout of the classy joint. It was another time, another case, another pair of leather-soled sandals with man-made upper materials and cute little beads on the strap. I sighed and returned to the present.
The dame was glaring at me like a fire hydrant glares at an approaching Great Dane. "For a reputed gumshoe, you sure are soft in the head." I patted my hair, feeling guilty for the extra conditioner I had used that morning, but she continued speaking with fire in her eyes. "AHHHH! HELP, MY EYES ARE ON FIRE!" When we extinguished the suspicious spontaneous combustion, she continued with an irritated edge in her voice, "Ketchup is never seen in our restaurant. We provide only the finest Fancy Tomato Catsup. Whoever planted the ketchup in our store must want to ruin us real bad. I need you to get to the bottom of this plant and double quick, see?"
I got to the bottom of the plant; it was mostly dirt just like my other potted ferns. "So you want the dirt on the bottom of the plant, Lady? Well you're gonna have to pay up front. Otherwise we continue this farce of overused film noir clichés. No personal checks please."
So she paid me, and I put in a call to my contact downtown. He said there had been a report of a crashed truckload of troubled broads near the interstate. I looked at the tag around her neck, which confirmed her shots were up to date. I called the number shown and collected the reward for returning her, getting paid twice in one day. Not a bad day for shoe shopping, I thought as I closed up the office, not a bad day at all.
Sarah Mann is the humor columnist for the Omnibus and can be reached at FraggleSarah@hotmail.com. She knows most of her readers will see this column after April Fool's Day, but dem's da breaks, kid.
Be the first to comment on this story