Become Hemmingway

[TheMercenary]

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

[Shawnee123]

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.

[Dingleschmutz]

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

*Takes bottle of scotch and sulks out of thread*

[spudcon]

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.

[DanaC]

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.

[Shawnee123]

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.

[spudcon]

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

[spudcon]

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

[Shawnee123]

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

[spudcon]

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..

[monster]

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 , 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?

[spudcon]

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...

[Sundae]

.. 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...

[spudcon]

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...