Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 4!

Check out Part 1Part 2, and Part 3.

This one’s a little short at just shy of 800 words, but there’s so many jokes it’s almost unreadable! <-That’s a good thing! Hope you enjoy!

A plucky PI users her unconventional methods to find out the truth after an army private gets caught under the influence of marijuana but claims she never smoked.

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

scroteonerevised-1


At the morgue, the mortician told me there was no body there with the name Jessica. I had her check for Jess’, Jessies, and Archibalds, because I really wanted to see a dead guy named Archibald.

I told her a little bit about my case and she said she’d heard about it on the news. I was surprised when she told me Jessica wasn’t dead. It felt like people kept telling me that. Talk about déjà vu.

Luckily it checked out with the story Belda had fed me, so I was onto something, even if it was something everyone else seemed to know already. At least I was earning my paycheck. After all, I’d already spent my pay on a dead body I bought from the mortician.

“I told you, I’m not selling you a body! Get out of here!,” the mortician yelled as she chased me out. Whatever. It saved me five grand.

I was glad to leave. None of the bodies in the morgue could tell me where Jessica was anyway, not even when I moved their mouths with my hand. I thought Ditch could help, but I hadn’t heard from him. Not since his frantic phone message asking about a wallet. If he was speaking in code, I didn’t know what it meant.

I bought a soda with a dollar from Ditch’s wallet and called Belda.

“She’s at the park. I told you that,” Belda said through the speaker, sounding annoyed for some reason. By Belda’s tone, I was glad Jessica wasn’t dead, because it sounded like a bad time to break the news. I hung up on her and headed straight for the park, only getting in two accidents on the way.

Once I was done washing the shrapnel and blood off the side of my car, I pulled into the parking lot of the park.

The park buzzed with typical activity: couples walking together, children playing, and film students making a terrible movie. There was one unusual thing in the park, however: Patrick Poogal, proprietor of Patrick Poogal’s Private Investigation Company LLC. My greatest rival.

He was making his way towards me, eating an onion like an apple because he always does. He’s the type of guy you’d fuck more for his confidence than his looks, then you’d fuck him for his looks.

He asked me what I was doing, as if I wasn’t obviously slashing his tires. Turns out it wasn’t even his car so I went to another car and started slashing those tires. He told me that wasn’t his car either. I should have known. It had some stupid window decal of a stick-figure husband, wife, kid, and a dog in a wheelchair.

“I’ll slash every tire here until I find yours,” I warned him.

He took a big bite of his onion and asked “what’s got you in such a huff?” blowing his breath sexily with the word huff.

“Because you didn’t take the case to help this girl. You took it because you’re trying to get under my skin. You wouldn’t help a woman if she was on fire screaming, ‘help me’.”

He said I was being ridiculous, so I grabbed a can of gasoline and poured it all over myself and struck a match to prove a point. He wrestled the match from me in a panic before I burned alive.

Damn. Patrick, 1. Riz, 0.

He stomped out the match and plugged his nose, “Jesus Christ, there’s something wrong with that gasoline, it smells like skunk.”

The joke was on him. I already smelled like skunk before the gasoline spilled on me.

Needing to get on with the show, I told him he needed to get off my turf, calling him a couple of choice four letter words, including some that weren’t even real words.

“I didn’t think you knew those words,” he said with a wink.

“I know a lot of words. Like dog, marshmallow, cerebral palsy, penis, vagina, penis-vagina, and um, a bunch of other ones,” I told him, brilliantly.

“Do you know ‘date’?” he said, as if he was all smooth or something, and not totally making me wet.

I told him I was seeing someone, plus, he was a total jerk, so I’d answer him in the only way I knew how…

“No, thank you.”

I marched away, sidestepping ghosts, because I see them, remember? I hoped Jessica had some answers for me, and that there weren’t any skunks in this park. I’d been sprayed enough that day


Let me know what you think in the comments! And make sure to check out my books on Amazon. 🙂

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