Here’s where we left off last week: the protagonist has hired a private investigator to track down the source of the toxic fumes that have invaded his apartment, and turned his life upside down. The P.I. is certain that the culprit is the dry cleaning shop in the storefront. He’s instructed the protagonist to camp out in front of his apartment to wait for the arrival of the truck that picks up the dirty clothes, and record the license plate. Then the P.I. will conduct an investigation of the cleaning company, and determine if the chemicals they use match up with the ones in Apartment One! This could lead to big bucks!
Leave a comment—please!
The Mooncake Festival—Part Two
We’ll ensnare them! Nabû-Kudurrī declared. And you shall be our indispensable aid in this endeavor.
Encamp yourself before the untenanted hell of Apartment Number One.
Await the odious arrival of the vile delivery truck.
Observe the license plate, and make a record of the digits.
The resulting numbers will unravel their diabolical secrets.
Together we shall uncover what Foul Chemistries they employ!
And should they prove culpable, they shall face the swift and unrelenting judgment of the court!
I snatched a cane chair from the ruins of the kitchen.
I grabbed a pillow from the unmade bed.
I chose An Ancient Book of Prayer from the shelf, and set up on the sidewalk in front of Apartment Number One.
At once, a sense of trespass assaulted me, as I felt myself dissolve…
I suffered hostile glances.
I weathered cat-calls and complaints.
I thought ill of every passerby, but repented seconds later.
Where’s that evil truck? I pleaded, as I tossed a curse at every passing car.
And oh! Time passes slowly on this unforgiving pavement, I thought.
As evening’s shadows lengthened and the sky turned an apocalyptic orange, at last, the filthy truck appeared!
I delivered the Magickal Numbers to Nabû-Kudurrī in the back room of The Kiev, over Buckwheat Groats with Bowtie Pasta. (Again, I saw the shades of madness in his gaze.)
The days followed one another while I waited in a dead-whorl of disquiet:
I scuttled back and forth along Division Street.
I saw stars above the Brooklyn Bridge!
I hid my face from passersby and blew the rent on Peking Duck.
I have unsettling news, Nabû-Kudurrī confided, as we huddled over Mooncakes in the shelter of a tea house.
I’ve identified the poisons they employ, but alas, they don’t match up with ours! The trail’s run cold! He said.
However, he wasn’t finished with me yet. I’m going to call in a professional! Kudurrī declared. (We’ll name her Nanshe-Nisaba—you know the reason why). She holds a degree in Toxicology—her testimony’s gold!
Like a visiting dignitary, Nanshe-Nisaba entered the abject theatre of Apartment One to great effect and regarded the beggarly surroundings with some slight amusement and a measure of contempt.
This is the pinnacle of incongruity! I thought, as the regal Nanshe-Nisaba stood inside the sordid barn of Apartment One.
And even as I choked, turned blue, and gasped for breath, Nanshe-Nisaba sniffed and said:
No, I don’t detect the slightest toxin! This might be a case of Chemical Phobia. I suggest a visit to the Etemenanki Mental Health Clinic in Morningside Heights.
Now wait a minute… I said.
Listen when she’s speaking! Nabû-Kudurrī warned me with a scowl.
I’m done with Nabû-Kudurrī, the Private Investigator! I said out loud, as I landed on the pavement.
That scamp!
That mountebank!
That Sorcerer of the Impossible!
The days tumbled down, falling all over themselves, and landing on the slag heap:
I sought out Nameless Restaurants.
I lay face down on yellow foam.
I walked back and forth on Mott Street wondering:
Will the poison ever leave Apartment One?
The incompetent "investigation" came to an ignoble end. The "professional" accomplice was unhelpful and unsympathetic. The whole farce crashed & burned. Over. Done.
Next week will highlight a completely different farce! Thanks for the comment!
That’s it?? We gotta wait till next week?