Jimmy Plush, Teddy Bear Detective Page 8

  “I’m going to respectfully decline.”

  The policeman hanged his head.

  I put my hand on my chin.

  “Actually…”

  The cop perked up, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

  “I’m just going to decline.”

  I shot the cop in the face three times. From all the grief the Nero City police department had given me, it felt good. Not good enough though. Only one thing would make me feel good enough. I let the new stitches set in then headed to the police station where I was going to show this city’s police force that nobody gives Jimmy Plush a plaid right arm then offers him a cushy job he doesn’t want.

  When I got to the police station, it turned out somebody had gotten the idea before I had. Every cop in town was dead in a heap, riddled with bullets. The culprit was still at the scene of the crime, looking awfully pleased. He had only beaten me to the punch because it was the sort of thing Jimmy Plush would do, and he had been Jimmy Plush long before I had.

  “Well, well,” I said, reaching for my gun, “if it isn’t Jimmy Plush.”

  He shook his head “no.”

  “You must be mistaken, Mister Plush. Clearly you’ve taken a few too many bullets in your fuzzy wuzzy little head. You, sir, are Mister Plush. My name is Hatbox. Does it ring any bells? Surely a great teddy bear detective like yourself can figure it out.”

  “Well, Plush, I’ve gotta hand it to you, you sure are a great archnemesis. Killing a man’s enemies for him? That’s the work of a real Professor Moriarty. You know what I’d really hate? If you paid my electric bill or set J.L Wong’s on fire. Looks like I’m not the one with a head full of stuffing after all.”

  He wagged a finger at me.

  “How can a man walking around in my body, whose body I walk around in now underestimate me so? I did this to remind you of something.”

  “That policemen aren’t bulletproof? Thanks, but I figured that one out myself. That these men deserved to die for working for the man that for no good reason arranged for the woman I love to die? Knew that. You confuse me, Plush.”

  “No. I wanted to prove that I’m a better you no matter which you I am. I know every petty little move you want to make, every little bullet riddled tantrum, you furry little frustrated id. A tiny facsimile of a bear, a tiny facsimile of a man. Silly, tragic, stupid. You’re no better than the hired gun. All you can do is shoot. No matter how much you shoot and how much you hate, you’ll never be able to hate as well as I can. Even at the one thing you have left, you’re a failure. You weren’t good enough at loving to protect Jean and Kate from the police and you’re not good enough at hate to stop me from undermining anything important to you, which I can do at my leisure. Like now, for example. Your grief was important to you but all you’re going to think about now that we’ve met again is hurting me real bad. I’m going to take off on the next boat to London. And your love and your grief will fade away. And to really hammer my point home, I’m going to fill you with holes.”

  He might have been a bastard, but he was no liar. I was going to need a lot more stitches and I couldn’t think about a damn thing but seeing him dead.

  Author’s Note:

  During the pulp magazine era, it was greatly en vogue to burn large piles of fiction so future generations would be confused or disappointed. This made a lot of sense to us because young people were getting ruder and dumber and didn’t seem to deserve the benefit of our genius. How could we have known back then that this cool, sexy practice could come back and bite us in the ass? Nowadays, it doesn’t seem like such a valid excuse and because we didn’t have Rap Music, MySpace and videogames to make us dumber, we look pretty ridiculous for it. There are a couple gaps in the narrative between Mr. Plush and the Chief Inspector and Jimmy Plush in the Tomb of the Martian Pharaoh, but I’m sure these will not impede your understanding or enjoyment too much as the plot of the eight stories between Chief Inspector and Tomb of the Martian Pharaoh flowed smoothly and did not really introduce a lot of new elements.

  Enjoy!

  Egypt just got worse. It had started out dry, sandy and utterly devoid of worthwhile human culture but somehow it had become something more awful than that—dry, sandy, utterly devoid of worthwhile culture and completely interminable. There hadn’t been so much as a band of dirty, scheming Bedouin thieves for over a week now. A week of wandering a desert that hadn’t been any good to anybody since Alexander the Great sought to rid it of its negroid cat worshipping savagery.

  We brought no food or water as the Sheikh of the City of Brass had told us, we rode no camels, we prayed to no god for help and did not break camp. I was not sure exactly how my stomach could growl so loud when there was nothing but stuffing in it, but it was getting to be unbearable. I considered eating Chang, but he was pretty scrawny and as loyal as he might have been, I somehow didn’t think he’d agree to it. I could tell from the ravenous look in his eyes that François was thinking the same thing. The gigantic lumberjack had not eaten since the great feast the djinn had conjured for us.

  “My stomach rombles, Monsieur Ploosh. I wurhee for ze revonge alon cannot sate a man forevair. We have wondaired so far…”

  Don Pedro patted François on the back.

  “Do not panic theñor! It shall not be long before I find the theal that my tattoo matches, the one that the king of the thiudad told us about and we destroy that bathtard Jimmy Plush forever! Theenk of your daughter left at the altar, theenk of my brother! I need only feel my thtomach with hith blood, and you need only do the thame!”

  The Spaniard was flamboyant, but a gifted swordsman like he should be. If it hadn’t been for him the pirates would surely have gotten us. We learned a lot on that pirate ship, about war, about manhood and about who we could trust. François had thought all Spaniards were weak before they fought side by side, but he’d been proven wrong and he knew that Don Pedro was wise beyond his seven years of age.

  François nodded his head gravely and took Chang and me into his heavy, muscular, stinking sweaty arms.

  “Ze Spaniard is right! We moost not loose sight of ar goel. Zat will only lead to meesfartune. We moost be veejalant and stroong of weel!”

  Veejalant and stroong of weel we were. Starving and dying of thirst, we also were. So, when we saw a colossal, shallow, drinkable lake of sparkling green water we stopped speaking of vengeance, adventure and strength of will and ran toward it. We waded into the shallow water, cupped our hands and drank for a very long time. The water was sweet, there was a hint of lime to it, but it burned a tiny bit like good liquor. Got us a little woozy like good liquor too, but we were mighty thirsty, so we kept drinking. Must have been really good liquor, because in the middle of the lake I hallucinate a gigantic, island sized sea turtle with a concerned look on its huge, sea turtle face.

  “You should leave this place,” it told me in my liquor water addled head, “you should leave this place before it’s too late.”

  “Do not be stupide, turtle! Zees place ees a good place to be!” Francois replied to the turtle’s voice in my head.

  “The water eeth deleethious, turtle, you weel not have it all for yourself!” Don Pedro shouted, reprimanding the creature.

  “A bad man lives on my back,” the turtle explained, “he is worshipped as a god, a bad god. He has tricked the people that live on me and they are not good people anymore. Leave now. While you still can, before the poison in my urine makes you slow.”

  I shot the turtle in its mansized eye.

  “Why did you do that? I was only trying to help you.”

  Francois swam up to the turtle’s eye and began hacking at it with his axe.

  “Do not tell us what to do, turtle! And do not hog your precious urine!”

  Don Pedro in turn swam up to the eye and started poking it with his saber.

  “Yeth! Thith ith the thing to do! We muth not let the turtle trick us out of his magic piss!”

  “You are drinking my urine,” the turtle calmly explained
again, “you are drinking my urine and it is poisonous. If you do not flee as fast as you can, right now, there is going to be trouble.”

  Chang launched himself at the turtle’s forehead, hitting it with a flying kick, then clinging to it, so he could punch it several times.

  “You deceive and betray us, giant turtle! Your greed will not be tolerated.”

  “Alright,” the turtle said, it’s voice heavy with annoyance, “you can drink all the urine you want, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Chang bowed to the turtle.

  “You have fought honorably, giant turtle in my imagination. I honor you with honor.”

  “Thank you,” the turtle replied, his tone patronizing, “I love honor.”

  Francois laughed heartily.

  “Join us, turtle in dreenking your piss! We will get dronk together and we will have merry times!”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen. You’re all going to die soon. I warned you but you’ve had too much of my urine to drink and you’re probably too stupid to listen anyway.”

  “Keel ze turtle!” Francois resumed his hacking, Don Pedro his stabbing, Chang his karate chops and me my shooting – the buzz from the urine fueling our violence. (I added that line because I feel there needs to be a bit more blatant explanation for all the characters’ violence, especially Chang.)

  “Actually, the term is zaratan. And stop attacking me. You’re all in terrible danger.”

  Suddenly, Chang collapsed from a blowdart to the neck. Then, Francois collapsed from a blowdart to the neck. And then Don Pedro. As I blacked out from a blowdart to the neck, I could hear the turtle sigh.

  “I warned you.”

  I awakened to typical post blowdart trouble. Chang, Don Pedro, Francois and I were tied to giant beef jerky sticks. Jackalheaded men were dancing around is in a circle, chanting in some nonsense language. Maybe it was a nonsense language. Maybe it was just French or something. I don’t know, all those languages sound like nonsense to me. That was typical post blowdart trouble. The man towering above us, his vast body clothed in the skins of a lot of these jackal-headed men, meant more than typical post blowdart trouble.

  This must have been a pretty big turtle if Townsquare Vanzetti could take up residence on its back and start a cult of jackalmen. In the future I would remember to always listen to turtles and not to drink magic pisswater, no matter how good it was or how drunk it got me. All I could do was what I usually did in these situations, create a diversion with some snappy banter while I think of a (usually violent) solution. As I decided to do this, Vanzetti tossed Francois’ giant jerky stick into his mouth, swallowing it whole. I started bantering immediately after that.

  “So, Vanzetti, you’re doing well for yourself. I don’t think I know anybody with a cult of jackal people back home.”

  He chuckled. The turtle shook.

  “I can smell the fear on you, Plush. I didn’t think teddy bears could sweat.”

  I could…then I could…maybe…umm…I was drawing a blank. All I could come up with was to banter more.

  “So how did you get here? You were dragged into the ocean by half the town.”

  Vanzetti yanked a nearby palm tree out of the ground, reached into the pocket of his jackalman suit and pulled out a book of giant matches. He lit the palm tree and started to smoke it.

  “Yes, Plush, you did me quite the disservice back there. Not only did my congame get revealed to my associates, I had to deal with the harsh facts myself. I hate the Chief Inspector so much! He thwarted me every step of the way for years and to find out it was me was a horrible shock. I spent a year in a coma as I drifted at sea. For six months I came to terms with this horrible realization and then for six months, I engaged in a battle with my other self that raged throughout my psyche. A battle I finally won.”

  “Good for you,” I shot back, “I never liked the Chief Inspector.”

  “Nobody really did. When I awakened, I found something truly fascinating.”

  “Your feet?”

  Vanzetti chuckled again.

  “You wish, Plush, you wish! No, it was a bottle the size of a small ship bobbing alongside me. And there was a message inside. Do you know what it said?”

  “Dear Friday, I just don’t think it’s working out. I’ve found comfort in the arms of Tarzan of the Apes, yours, Robinson Crusoe.” Not the wittiest thing anyone’s ever said, but I was under a lot of pressure to keep the conversation going.

  Vanzetti didn’t appreciate the joke. He plucked Don Pedro’s jerky stick from the ground and swallowed him whole. The turtle quaked again with his laughter.

  “A tasty morsel, but not very satisfying. Maybe I’m just in the mood for Chinese.”

  He wanted me to shout out, “no!” – to beg for my chauffeur’s life and then for my own. It wasn’t something I was going to do. That would be over quickly and besides, giant cannibal mobsters usually could not be talked out of eating people. Still thinking. Still realizing that these ropes are too tight to squirm out of and that it would be hard to jump out of the way as he shoved me down his cavernous throat. Also, violence was out of the question. Situations like this made me see just how often violence actually does get me out of most of my scrapes. When even violence has forsaken you, you’ve got troubles.

  “You trying to scare me by eating my chink? Go ahead and eat the chink, then. I’m not scared, Vanzetti. I’m not scared and I never will be.”

  “We’ll see about that, Plush,” he replied. The worst thing about his tone was that it wasn’t threatening. He was too sure of himself to need to make threats. I couldn’t blame him.

  He ate Chang. He ate the faithful chauffeur who I could count on even before the Seven were assembled. I considered violence again, but the opportunity wasn’t there. I hated to admit to myself how much I’d needed the goofy, slanty SOB, but I had. And now the Spectacular Seven was down to one. It was one of those times when I felt like I’d always been the least of us.

  “You know what that note said, Plush?” he asked.

  “You asked me that already.”

  “And now that you’re all alone, I’ll tell you. It said to get onto the third zaratan I saw and that it would end up beached in Egypt. And when it was beached in Egypt, I’d get the chance to finish you off once and for all. To kill your friends and get you alone. It was signed Charles Hatbox. In exchange for this information, all he wanted was to make sure my jackalman friends cut out your heart before I swallowed you and sent it to him.”

  “Then why haven’t you cut out my heart?”

  “Because I’ve gotten what I needed from this Hatbox fellow. And when all the fur’s been dissolved, I want to be able to taste the meat inside. If there is anything but stuffing.”

  “Probably isn’t. You ought to let me go. I’m not really worth eating.”

  There was no more banter, Vanzetti picked up the beef jerky stick and swallowed it and me whole. I closed my eyes and prepared for Hell. There was no way a guy like me could expect Heaven.

  Hell was something moist and gooey. I was probably in some sort of mud trap. I opened my eyes so I could stare down my demonic tormentors. Apparently, in Hell you got your feet stuck in a chocolate cake the size of an elephant. Apparently in Hell a girl dressed as a squirrel climbed up said cake to help you out of it. Apparently, I was not in Hell. She took my hand to extricate me from the cake and then put me on her back and started the climb down.

  “Hang on tight, Mr. Plush. We’ve been expecting you. Your friends, the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff of Hell?” I just had to make sure.

  “Nah. I don’t know if Hell even has a sheriff. Since we’re mostly hookers, we’re not a very religious people.”

  “Makes sense.”

  When we got to the base of the cake a girl dressed in a tight amoeba costume was waiting for me with a bucket of cold water to scrub the cake off of me. As she washed me off, I couldn’t help but notice that the cake I’d climbed down from had big do
uble doors on it, as if it were being used as a building. There were several other cakes as well with doors on them and busy Furries went in and out going about whatever business they went about in here.

  “Excuse me,” I asked the amoeba girl.

  “Yes, Mr. Plush?”

  “Why does that cake have double doors? Why am I still alive?”

  “The sheriff will explain that at city hall.”

  “City Hall?”

  “It’s inside the cake.”

  I didn’t even try to ask for an explanation. I don’t know why, living a life like mine, I would have expected anybody to have a sensible one. My time as a detective taught me that in the end the solution to every case is that life doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t have to. A giant mobster can have a belly full of hookers residing in a cake city sometimes. And this giant mobster did. This giant mobster also had a familiar big lumberjack in his stomach, one that set down a large bundle of beef jerky outside of the cake building.

  He threw his big, hairy lumberjack arms around me. For once I didn’t feel like shooting him in the head for it.

  “Monsieur Ploosh! It is un plaisir to see you again!”

  “And to see you, Francois. There isn’t any way you could explain this to me is there?”

  Francois let go so the amoeba girl could return to the business of toweling me off. He did not provide me with the explanation I wanted.

  “Done!” said the amoeba girl, toweling me off, “You’re ready for your meeting, Mr. Plush.”

  Francois said nothing. He simply led me into the cake. Gathered around a table made of stale bread were several more Furries of nearly every species imaginable, sultry crayfish, shapely meerkats, buxom voles...Vanzetti had devoured a lot of hookers in his day and variety, for him, must certainly have been the spice of life, adding flavor to each one of the poor unfortunate whores. Also seated around the table were Don Pedro and Chang, who didn’t seem any worse for wear. Chang gave a bow.