Become Hemmingway
 

I thought it would be fun to collectively write a novel. I'll write a paragraph, and then turn it loose for you to do the next, and the next etc. Only one paragraph a day, per person, but you must take up where the previous Cellarite left off.


WINTER COMES EARLY IN THIS CITY. THE FIRST SNOW COVERS ALL THE SOOT AND DEBRIS THAT THREE OTHER SEASONS LEFT BEHIND. SOON, WINTER WILL STAIN THE CITY WITH ITS OWN FILTH, BUT FOR ONE DAY IT COVERS MANY SINS. IT HAD BEEN SNOWING STEADY SINCE ABOUT 2 PM, AND NOW, ALMOST 7 PM, IT WAS DARK OUT. THE SNOW CUSHIONED A LOT OF THE CITY’S NOISE ALSO, AND MADE MY WALK DOWN THE STREET FROM MY OFFICE ALMOST DREAMLIKE. I WAS HEADING FOR GREASY RICHARD’S DINER FOR A CHEAP DINNER AFTER A LONG DAY AT THE OFFICE. THE PRIVATE DETECTIVE BUSINESS ISN’T AS GLAMOROUS AS THE MOVIES PORTRAY IT.

AND THEN THE POWER WENT OFF. SO I WENT HOME AND WENT TO BED.

I WAS AWAKENED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT BY THE SOUND OF PAPER BAGS RUSTLING. I AROSE QUIETLY, AND TIPTOED TO THE KITCHEN. THERE WERE EMPTY POTATO SACKS ON THE FLOOR, BUT NOTHING ELSE WAS AMISS.

WHO HAD EATEN THE OVER 300 POUNDS OF POTATOES IN MY PANTRY AND ONLY MADE A LIGHT RUSTING SOUND? THE KNEE-DEEP SACKS MADE SUCH A HAZARD THAT I COULD BARELY TREAD FROM ONE SIDE OF THE ROOM TO THE OTHER.

THEN THE REALIZATION STRUCK, POPPY'S STILL! PULLING THE WINCHESTER FROM ITS OILSKIN I SLIPPED THROUGH THE SUMMER KITCHEN AND INTO THE COOL NIGHT. AS SOON AS I BROKE OVER THE RIDGE I COULD HEAR FLINT'S MANIC TAPPING.

THEN I DECIDED TO HAVE A DRINK.

So there I was at 2 in the A.M., in a town that never sleeps, in a bar that never serves good booze, thinking a about a problem that won't go away.

At least my hangover had finally subsided, though, and my self narrative had returned to lower case. Now to apply my introspection to the problem at hand. 300lb of potatos was enough to give anyone a gippy belly. Whoever had done this wasn't just about the spuds, they were making a statement. A personal statement. The hangover returned. Tap tappity tap tap. TAP TAPPITY TAP TAP. That was no hangover, it was that damned Flint intruding on my thoughts again. He had no place there. I had no place here anymore. I finished my drink, checked the safety, and left through the side door.

AND THEN THE POWER WENT OFF. SO I WENT HOME AND WENT TO BED.

I tossed and turned; but, couldn't sleep. Something had changed: the mattress seemed lumpy. I raised the mattress and found, there between it and the box spring, ... POTATOES! The perpetrator had evidently returned to the scene while I was away. WHY is the perp antagonizing me like this and of what significance is the fact that ALL of the potatoes were PEELED?!! I'm tap-tappity-tap-tapped out of ideas.

The potato peeling perpetrator, peeled pecks of potatos, and pilfered the peelings... the pecker!

More questions were nagging at me. Why did the power keep going out when I wasn't living in California? Why did I always go home and go to bed when that happened? And what about Poppy's still? Also, how did flint ever get into my head? Suddenly, the simple answer to all the questions came to me. It was all because of the peeled potatoes! I knew what I had to do next.

I knew I needed to re-peel those potatoes. It was as if removing the skin of these potatoes had released a Tuber Pandora-like pandemic, and the only way to stop it was to get the skins back on the potatoes. How long would it take me to sew skins back on 300 pounds of potatoes? I sighed, and went to work.

First I had to gather the materials; so, I went to the pantry hoping that whoever stole my whole potatoes had overlooked something that I had hidden behind the cereal boxes:

Attachment 17339

I opened the bag and examined the contents. I noticed that these potato skins had no eyes. THAT WAS IT! When the stolen potatoes were peeled, not only were their skins removed; but, their eyes had been eliminated ... and I'm a "private eye." Someone wants to ELIMINATE ME! The tables have turned and I, the traditional hunter, have become the quarry. My adversary keeps me moving by knocking out the power wherever I go. When I instinctively return home to get much needed rest, I'm antagonized even there. I'm being worn down for an easy kill.

Who would be so determined? Could it possibly be that all of this is happening; because, I refused to share the production from poppy's still with my old nemesis Flint?!

Evil old Flint. Well, I'm still the best private eye in Spudville, so I'll sew those skins on, and then the bait will be set. Flint can't resist the smell of cheddar and BACON!!!

AND THEN THE POWER WENT OFF. SO I WENT HOME AND WENT TO BED.

When I woke up, I realized what a dickhead my neighbor was. I forgot about Flint for a minute; I had bigger fish to fry. I laced all my neighbor's chewin' tobacco with arsenic, and watched from my window as he pulled out of his driveway in his penis-substitute pick-up truck. He took one last spit out his truck window, grabbed his crotch, and died right there in the street. The neighborhood was suddenly brighter, cheerier.

I went to the store for more Potato Skins.

Darn, I thought this thread was going to be about rampant alcoholism... :(

*Takes bottle of scotch and sulks out of thread*

I stopped for breakfast at Greasy Richard's Diner before heading to the store. This time, I knew I would be able to finish my meal without the power going out. The windows were all steamed up from cooking, but I had missed the morning rush, so the place was almost empty, and Dick was doing a crossword puzzle. There was a wonderful aroma of coffee in the air, and I was glad Greasy's didn't stink of burned butterscotch coffee like the Moonbucks Coffee chain store out on the turnpike.
Before I sat down, Greasy had my coffee poured and was cooking my usual breakfast. When he brought over my food, he brought his coffee also, and sat down across from me. From the look in his eyes, I knew he had potato problems too.

Dick was doing a puzzle, but I was puzzling over Dick. What did I really know about Greasy anyhow, save his unerring ability to time eggs to perfection? Maybe it was the skins business playing on my mind, or just the long hardened streak of paranoia that I've found so useful over the years. Either way it worried me a little that I had allowed unconscious trust. So what reason did I have to suspect him? Unimportant. What mattered was I could see no concrete reason not to. I acknowledged his delighted smile at having solved part of the puzzle, with a nod and returned my attention to my plate.

I mentally chastised myself for allowing a moment of doubt where Greasy was concerned. This man, who had so faithfully served me coffee over the years. This man who slaved over a hot grill to bring me sausage, eggs, and hash brown potatoes. Potatoes? I glanced again at Greasy and noticed he was throwing me some furtive glances. With a knot in my stomach, I used my fork to scatter my hash browns. Sure enough, in the middle of the oil and salt-laden goodness...were forksful of missing "EYES." It was then that the maniacal laugh of Greasy permeated my former feeling of peace and security. It was then that I knew I had to run.

Months later, I discovered that Richard "Greasey" Palmss had a police record. All those years I supported the man who now wanted me dead!

The last picture of Greasey's Diner before it exploded in 1999 due to excessive flatulance vapor buildup.

Well, sheesh...we're missing the whole middle of the book!

No, not a flashback, a flash forward.
Back to the story.
Breaking thru the front door at Greasy's, I realized it would be suicide to go back home. It would have been booby trapped while I was away, so I went to my safe house in the basement of LaRue's Forklift and Lingerie Company..

AKA Suspense and Suspenders......

... where, for over a decade, I have safely stored my private stock production from Poppy's still. I felt secure and optimistic here where I had amassed a small fortune in spirits which represented my retirement investment. It was a relief to be where I could use the forklift to access a case of schnapps, slip into something more comfortable :blush:, and regroup to figure out my next move. Perhaps it's time to call in a few favors. Who's in a position to help me, which of them can I trust, and do I really want to involve others knowing that it could place them in jeopardy?

Of course I do. I've got to protect myself and my booze at all costs, as long as it's someone else's cost.
Having decided to call in favors, my first thought was "The Cellar," but discounted that because several Cellarites were unhappy with my immature and simplistic puns and artwork. Some might even feed me to the Giant GW Bush Hating Hobgoblins that lurk in the background of the Cellar.
No, wait! What was I thinking? There is no vast leftwing conspiracy in the Cellar! They all love me there! Someone is working mind control again! And I know who it is! It's...

.. immaterial to this story of course.

Having resolved, at least to my own satisfaction, the Potato Skins Mystery, I settled back to enjoy the combined delights of inebriation and the fine feel of silk against my scrotum. Nothing like putting your size nines up on a desk with the feeling of taking your weight off your stilettos and simultaneously admiring your own shapely calves in sheer stockings.

Oh nothing Rocky Horror - never that crude. Just the barely black seamed ones so beloved of Hollywood starlets in the true age of glamour.

Anyway, a few Schnapps later I decided to stop this self-indulgence. So after I mopped up with a couple of Kleenex I started thinking about the real issue here - where in hell's name was Poppy. A gun-totin', hard drinkin', straight-talkin' powerhouse of a woman and I hadn't seen her in a coon's age. And why hadn't this puzzled me before?

Now I thought about it, last time I saw her she had me laughing fit to split my colostomy bag about a preying mantis which took a shine to her. Vaguely in my brain, like a late night curry stirring in the belly, came a memory of an X Files episode where the red headed dame in the pencil skirts was stung by a computerised bee. Or something.

Could Poppy have been subverted by the CIA and turned into a law-abidin', non-drinkin' Stepford Nurse?

Enquiring minds needed to know...

Ooops. I realized I had been in my other personality for a few minutes. He only comes out once every election year. His name is Tim Glide, and he goes nuts every so often. Then he pretends he's heterosexual, and joins a cult, and marries a B list movie star.
But he's gone now, at least for four years. So back to the potato problem. Who was really behind this plot, and why peeled potatoes? Where was Poppy? What was the significance of the TAPPITY TAP TAP in my head? Does red wine really go better with meat than fish?
I knew the answers were out there, so I slipped into my shoulder holster, and ventured out into the cover of the night.I knew I had to get to...

This is fucked. I blame LumberJim.

I'll have to continue anyway, LJ or not. To continue...
I had to get to the cheap hotel downtown, to collect evidence.

for not contributing?

looked like the mercenary was trying to dick with you.

i can't read more than like....4 lines....so.....don't take it personally.

i got the reference. don't taze me, bro.

No problem, LJ. but now, back to business.
When I arrived at the hotel, I asked to see the manager. I was introduced to Mr. Rob Travelers. I asked if he had noticed any unusual activity in or around his hotel lately. He replied that there seemed to be a lot of Governors fro NY state checking in and out lately. That confirmed my suspicions about the potato skins! T NY governors were coming to town to...

presumably, garner votes. Was it a coincidence that this town was chock-full of potato farmers, and all the sleazy seedy side business that came along with it? As I wandered the streets that night, I started to notice things. Things I didn't want to know. The prostitutes were making their clothes out of potato skins. The drug dealers were lacing the drugs with potato juice. Whatever this thing was, this force that had overcome Poppy and, indeed, Greasy Dick, it had infiltrated nearly everything in town.

I knew I had to find someone, anyone, who had thus far escaped the potato horror. I knew it had to be soon.

I decided to go to the all seeing Undertoad for advice. To get to the Toad's abode, I had to cross the River of Fire, then navigate the valley of death, and finally survive passage through the mountain of Hillary's used pantsuits.

When I finally got to Undertoad's neighborhood, I found it blocked by police cars and Television trucks with dish antennas on top. I got out of my car and asked a TV cameraman what was going on. He told me someone in UT's house had put a potato in the microwave. The massive explosion interrupted transmission of American Idol. Fire inspectors also notice the "Do not remove" tags were missing from several cushions blown out of UT's house. It was a bigger disaster than ...