Indeed.  Its all text.   This is a story I wrote for/in school a few months back, so what the hell.   Have run reading it.

  Not a single mouse sneaks in, not a single cat lurks up, not a single barracuda swims by, not a single anything does anything without somebody seeing it.   That's the first thing to remember in my line of work.  The name's Jimbo Benard.  Perhpas you've heard of me?  I've mad a name for myself among the criminals of New York City.  I am the one responsible for leading to the capture of hundreds of worthless wastes of breath including the infamous Billy the bank robber, Bobby, the baby snatcher, Benny the bridge blower-upper, and Theodore Elton the rapist.   People at the station came to think that I had some kind of paranormal abilities.   They even called me Jimbo the psycic detective.  There are people out there who'd rather credit your personal success to something they know nothing about then yo you and your own sweat and blood.  But it only goes one way.  You slide down 50 feet of spiral raling and take out a murderer in the act, and it's an act of God.  You forget to wear pants to a murder scene, and it's your own damn fault.  New York has always been like that.  Which reminds me of the time my mother told me that the big apple had gone bananas.  She told me that when my father, a Fruit of the Loom model, got his promotion.

      My father is probably where I got my talent.  He defined the word "Determination."  He always told me to just hang in there.   "Hold on to what you got and wait to see where it gets you.  Because life's a competition, son, and you never know when the guy ahead of you will get canned for pooping in the banana suit."  At least that's what he told me when he was the apple.  After he got his promotion he told me, "son, lif'es a competition, so whatever you do, don't poop in the banana suit."  I credit my father for my success in the detective business because he scared me away from the fruit profession altogether.  Everyone knows that if you tell a person not to look down, he will look down.  So I knew, if I were to ever put on a banana suit, I would most definetly poop in it.  But in these black leather shoes, and this long, light brown trech coat the urge to poop is very minimal.  It was this badges mighty bowel control that made the WHO DONE IT game my destiny.  Also contributing to that was the unjustified murder of my only parents.

      I was just Ofiicer Benard back then.  I came home late that night because me and my partner, Wuzzum, caught a late showing of Godzilla.  I don't remember which one it was but Wuzzum is quite fat.  I went home with a bad case of the heevee jeebees.  I had a funny feeling that GOdzilla was in the refrigerator behind that pasta salas that I can neevr remember to throw out.  So I decided that I had better go into my parents room, and sleep with them in case they were to be attacked by giant lizards late that night and I would have to protect them.  But I was too late.  They were side by side, lifeless with no sign of thier toes.  Thier toes weren't cut off or anything like that, they were just gone, disappeared, camoosed.  It looked like they were wearing slippers but they weren't.  They couldn't possibly have been.  I stole thier slippers and taped them to Wuzzums dog's feet so he wouldn't make that clicking noise every time he went into the kitcken to pee...

      It was 8 years later (after I established myself as the cities most respected detective) when I got the phone call that changed my life.  It was my friend Wuzzum from beyond the greave.

      "Hey jimBO, ya gotta come down here man, It's crrazy, it crrrrrrrrazy!"  Wuzzum was always the paranoid type.  Always on his toes.  That's what I like about him.  He could have been the best detective out there is he weren't so fucking fat.

      "Okay," I was a little annoyed.  There's nothing worse than being woken up in the morning by the ring-a-ding sound of Wuzzum calling you into work.  "Where exactly is 'down here'?"

      "Ok, um, ya no dat gerrave stone buy ma house?  It just be-yond dat," He explained to me in his high pitched voice as I was lying on my back kicking my legs in the air trying to dry my nails.  Don't get me wrong, I'm a manly man, but I have a strange infatuation with pretty toe nails.  I want them.

      When Wuzzum finally stopped yackin, I hopped in my car and drove past the very familiar grave stone.   (which is to my childhood as a pork chop to a pink domesticated pig with homosexual tendencies and big ears.)  I was looking for a "small mansion".   "1442 Itsadoa Drive," I said to myself as I browsed the neighborhood.   My rythmic muttering slowly evovled into my very own rendition  of "Bohemian Rhapsody".  "Itsadoa Drive, Itsadoa god-a-day-o a-something for the doo da.  Got ma mayo got ma mayo got my mayo in my pant-sA!"  I could never remember the words to that song.  I've never really even liked that song.   For some reason it just always popped in my head.  "For me, for mee, for MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

      I was woken from my random spurt of uncontrollable head banging by the ring-a-ding sound of a giant oak tree kicking my car's ass.  The front of my car was completely ruined and I took a big bite out of the steering wheel.  The damn thing looks so much like an Oreo, it gets me every time.  I peered at a house through the shattered whindow of my horse shoe lookin' car and BOOYA, 1442 Itsadoa Drive for meee meeEEE...

      "What da hail matta wit you?" Wuzzum pulled me from my car slightly angered.  "You hit ma wit ya car, man, ya nock ma down wile Iya wud eatin' ma candy corn!"

      "My apologies, Wuzzum, it won't happen again."

      "Ya da-yam rrrrite it won't happin agane, Iya alls out of candy corn!"

      "I'll buy you some more but in the meantime tell me why I'm here," I said to Wuzzum as we walked towards the murder scene.  Wuzzum is my partner and my best friend.  I've refused to work with anybody but him.  (We go back a long way.)  Wuzzum was a good sized man.  Nearly six foot if I remember right.  He hadn't a single hair on his pale bcreamy-white bald head but he had the bushiest, brownest eyebrows you'll ever see.  They kind of looked like the drummer's for REM but Wuzzum had two eyebrows like a half way normal person.  Unlike that freaky, son of a uni-browed bitch-drumming side show motherfucking freak.  More than anything, Wuzzum was three hundred and eighty pounds of detective know-how.

      "Hay-ear she is," Wuzzum said as he pointed to a motionless middle aged woman in one of the strangest positions I had ever seen in my life.  She was lying on her side on the nicely cared for lawn where the mail box used to be.  It was now broken about six inches from the ground and rested between Madam Bushels legs.  In her right hand she still gripped a typical black purse that was half way open and its strap still around her shoulder.  In her left hand she held a pop sickle.

      "Who wa she?"  I asked finding it hard to discrete with all the cops and media and spectators buzzing around like bees on a Tuesday.

      "Da neighbras round here say day caller MADAM Bushell."

      "Oh yes," I recalled, "I've heard about this lady.  She was quite wealthy if I remember right."  I knew right then that she was obviously killed for her money.   But why?  Probably for her money.

      "Iya bet she wud killed for her munnny," Wuzzum lended his expert opinion.

      Just then I saw a good friend of mine.  "Hey Arnold!" I shouted through the commotion.   "Yea?" "Yeah?" "Yea?"  "Yeah?" "what?" "Yeah?" "Yeah?" "yea!" I got many replies. "HOLY SHIT!" I said to myself.  You know it's a Monday when you're caught up in a whirl of wind of over twenty cops and two thirds of them are named Arnold.   But I found the situation strange because it wasn't Monday at all.  It was Wednesday.  Iremember looking at my watch to make sure.  But, damn Pokemon merchandise never holds up.  K-mart was all out of Casio's and a detective without a watch is like a dog without a nose.  If you lose track of time, you are bound to miss the Simpsons.  "Arnold Mckay!" I specified.

      "What? Hu? HEY, Jimbo!"  Arnold gave me a hearty welcome after realizing who the hell I was, "So what brings you here?"

      "This dead body, duh."  Arnold was never good at asking question but he always had the answers.  "Yea, Arnold I figured you could tell us the facts better than any of your moronic comrades."

      "Oh, you mean the Arnold Brigade?"  Arnlod laughed, "Yea, I don't care much for those personality-less buffoons either.  And I was the first on the scene."

      "Like always," I ackowledge his boast.

      "Hey, Wuzzum, whats up?" Arnold shouted high fiving my partner.

      "Nuttin much Iya justa.....Ya got any candy corn?"

      "No, sorry."

      "Den what good are ya?"

      "He could tell me what's going on here," I said tapping on my inoperative pokemon watch.

      "oh yes, Mr. little less talk and a lot more tell me what's going on," Arnold started his briefing, as usual, with a non-witty smart aleck remark.  "When I arrived she was just like you see her, she was straddling the mail box."  I looked at Madam Bushel laying on her own front lawn on her own mailbox, broken at the base.  The look on her face creeped me out.  It wasn't her time to die.  Especially not while riding a mail box.  "When we found her, she had a loaded gun in her purse."

      "Has any of the bullets been fired?"

      "Two were.   The others were jyst laid off. HA!"

      "Now," Wuzzum took over while Arnold rolled on the ground laughin at his own brainless joke, "da cawz of death wud ob-via-lesley dis."  Wuzzum reached past a six inch gash in Madam Bushel's throat and revealed an empty bottle of Riddlin.  "She most like-a-lee OH DEED on her med-a-kay-shawn!  But dis is where it get wierd! Look in da bottl! Look in da bottle," he said, waving the marked cylinder in front of me, "Dat not rid-len! Datsa PICKLE!"  Skeptical, I took a long, and without a doubt, there was a pickle in that battle.

      "So you think she overdosed on pickles?"  I questioned Wuzzum.

      "Yesh."

      "So the deep incision in the center of her neck had nothin to do with her death?"

      "Dat wud after da pickles.  Da core-o-ner will back me up on dat one."

      "What?"

      "It might sound crazy, but it aint no lie," Arnold returned after brushing grass off his uniform.   "Here is what I have concluded:  Ok, it's a normal Tuesday for Madam Bushel, nothing unusual.  The sun is out, the bees are buzzing, the trees are swaying and getting hit by cars.  Then an unexpected guest arrived, from what a neighbor has told me, most likely her son.  She greets him with a big bear hug.  One of those ones that makes you feel like your ribcage is going to burst.  Ones like my fat Aunt Liza used to give.  Then she invites him in for dinner.  After dinner they have some cheescake.  Not just a piece, they eat the whole thing and lick the pan.   They they decide to play a game, most like Yahtzee, and the day drags farther into the night.  Then yadda yadda yadda Madam bushel is dead."

      "That didn't explain anything.  What about the part you yaddaed over?"

      "If we knew the yadda part, then the case would be cracked, jackass."

      "True."

      "Da Yadda yadda yadda part is wear we come in, jimBO."  I always hated the way Wuzzum said my name.  He had the strangest voice.  He was Canadian but he talked like he came from a ....phew, a place where people talk really really really strange.  His wierd high pitched voice and his pale skin(and so much of it too) always made me think he was from that one planet in Lost In Space.

      "alright, lets get on with out investigation shall we?"  I said to Wuzzum as we locked arms and played ring around the rosie.  When we walked to Madam Bushel's house.  It was a beautiful white house with green shutters and assorted flowers along the base of the rounded concrete porch.  The door was open.  We went in.  The house was quite normal for a middle aged wealthy woman.  The hallways were decorated with pictures of, who was most likely, friends and family and beloved pets.  The furniture was atained with a dark brown finish and upholstered with a creamy blue fabric.  The tops of the chairs held homemade doilies that may have been family heirlooms.   Everything was as you would expect it except for a rather large motorcycle lying on its side among the broken glass at the base of a shattered window.  The carpet was a clean sky blue without a single smudge of dirt or a single piece of trash.  The walls were coated with knock-down plaster that reached up to the ceiling where it became speckled and splattered in an artistic manner.  The kitchen was spotless with glistening pots and pans dangling above the sink from an Ace Hardware pot-hanging contraption.  But the motorcycle in the living room caught my attention.  It just seemed like a terrible slaw on the interior decorator's part.  It did not fit in.  Maybe if it had a doily on it, it would have been ok.  Maybe, I don't know, but it needed something because it just did not work.

      "What ya make of dat mo-toe-sigh-call, jimBO?"

      "Not sure.   But I bet it had something to do with last nigh't murder.  I think we should take a quick look at the rest of the house."  Wuzzum bobbed his head in agreement and we ran all through the house with our arms spread wide making airplane noises.  We ran/flew upstairs and in and out of every bedroom, storage room, closet, and laundry room.  And nothing seemed out of the oridinary.  The only thing that caught my attention was that all the walls in some of the bedrooms didn't have that thing coat of lumpy plaster.  There was absolutely no notable evidence.  The only thing even close was that motorcycle and that was a bit shady, if you know what I mean.   So, dissapointed, we left the house after taking a can of green beans from the refrigerator, removing the tin foil that preserved its freshness, sticking as many green beans as we could fit in your back pockets and sitting down so our asses would smell like green beans.  And after taking a couple pictures of the motorcycle and the victim and what not.

      As the body was being taken away I went up and tapped Arnold on the shoulder.  "Hey Arnold," I said, "Earlier you said that Madam Bushel's neighbor had given you some information?"

      "Oh yea, it's that house right there," He said, pointing at a brownish yellowish house with red raling and tin roofing that waved and clashed and blew around win the breeze.   "He's a helpful guy.  Real cooperative."

      I thanked Arnold as Wuzzum and I made our way to the neighbor's porch.  Wuzzum reacher up and knocked on the door.  "Knock Knock," the door said.  A tall, skinny man, in his thirties, answered.  "Hi, I'm detective Jimbo and this is detective Wuzzum. We'd like to talk to you about the death of Madam Bushel."

     "Well hello there, my name is Pudrick," the man said as he hunched down to make an unsuccessful attempt to bring himself to eye level with us, "Come on in."  He was tall, at least 11 feet, with an incredibly wiggley nose.  He was fairly young, early twenties/late thirties.  He wore clothes that I might wear which didn't work too well due to him being over five feet taller than me.  His pants didn't go but halfway down his calf and his bottom hung out a good three yards.

      "Well," Pudrick smiled, "are you gonna come in or are you gonna just stand there all the live long day?"

      "Da-yam! You ttall," Wuzzum commented while picking his nose.  Pudrick just gave a little smile and led us into his living room.  The first thing I noticed was the incredible high temperature of the house.  I was dying to take off my coat but I didn't dare, for it was Wednesday, and on Wednesdays I wear womens clothing under my long coat.(or threads as I like to call it.  I'm too hip to refer to my trechcoat as anything but threads, so from now on I won't!)

      "Just brush aside a Pekinese and have a seat," Pudrick said as he went into the kitcken to make some hot chocolate.  Every square foot of his living room had at least one Pekanise covering it.  The piano, the couch, the chair, on top of the TV, on top of each other, everything had one of those ugly dogs laying on it.  Even the floor was covered by a thin layer os brown Pekineses who didn't seem to mind being stepped on.   THe rather high ceiling was covered by the annoying and abundant mutts that had somehow obtained ability to be sticky.  "I'm just fixing up some hot chocolate for us.  I won't take but a minute," Pudrick spoke over thee little yips and yaps of the dogs.  Wuzzum and I just murmured a quiet resopnse, mesmerized by the growing doggy pile that was forming in the center of the room.  The dogs were just climbing onto one another as if they were playing some kind of reindeer game altered and refitted to match the recreational perforations of that particular breed of mushy faced dogs.  We just stood there and watched, wonderin if they were going to stop before they reached the cieling fan directly above them or if they were going to ignore it and get their asses chopped off.

      Just then Pudrick returned with a meatal tray that carried three cups and a rea kettle.  He set it down on the coffee table, on top of a layer of dogs, and brushed the couch clear of Pekineses (for we were obviously too shy to do it ourselves)  He did the same to a wooden antique chair and placed it in front of the table facing the couch.  Then, after pushing over the growing stack of Pekineses like a careless over-experienced professional porta-potty pusher who would tip over a cow (or a porta-potty) he sat down and directed us to do the same.  We did (despite the natural instincts to maintain good hygene exluding the washing of the areas between the toes) cautiously, hoping that the couch wouldn't be soiled or drenched with urine.

      "So what can I do for you?" Pudrick asked as we were trying to sit as close to the edge of the couch as we could without falling off.(Wuzzum fell off three times before deciding to screw politeness and stand)

      "We wanted to talk to you about Madam Bushel."

      "Oh, did she hire you?"

      "Hire me?"

      "What you talkin' bout?"

      "Mrs. Bushel is always hiring detectives," Pudrick said sensing our confusion, "She always has one hunting for here.  She has a certain problem with her head and she thinks that people are stalking her.  Quite rediculous really.  Every week I get a different detective or provate eye or officer or bounty hunter or local yokel or a very intimidatin parakeet knocking on my door asking me questions about a guy who is supposedly stalking her.  Usually these guys don't even exist.  On the rare occasions when they do, they are people who don't even know of Mrs. Bushel.  Like the weather man or the kid who works at a movie store is Ragidass, Canada."

      "so, you are saying that Madam Bushel had a mental ilness?"

      "No, I'm saying she is flat out crazy!"  Pudrick's tone was slowly growing away from it's happy polite murmur.  "She even thought I was stalking her!  Can you beleive that?  She reported me to the police back in 1964.  I wasn't even born until 72!  I went straight from the womb to the interrogation room..."

      "Hey, you a poet and ya just had no da-yam idear that you wud one!!!"  Wuzzums's interruption didn't even phase Pudrick.

      "The doctor never got the spank me.  You know that!?"  Pudricks face started to tremble.  "Some stupid cops made me take my first breath!  They fucking whipped me with a strip of leather!!  You know the kind that the law uses to get innocent people to confess crimes thet didn't commit!  Just so they can call it justified and avoid going out and actually DOING their job.  They kept whipping me and tellin me that I had better talk.  But I couldn't talk!!! I was only 13 minutes old!!!!!"

      Pudrick was getting way too emotional.  His eyes were watery with rage and his race was as red as my toenails.  I thought if I put on the old compassion he might calm down a bit.   So I said , All sympathetic like, "They gave you a physical interrogation when you were an infant?"

      "YES!!! FUCK yeSss...." It didn't work.  The manw as gripping his hands in fists that could have broken his own knuckles.  He was moaning and groaning and rumbling with angrer.   Then, what seems to be the beginning the the building of a ruthless ogonizing battle cry, climaxed to silence.  Then turned into a single tear that signaled the end of intermission.  "They were playing good cop/bad cop," he continued, "One the them was whipping me and shouting at me while the other one was breast feeding me."  He was talking alot slower and not as much angrily, as he was sad.   H was truly torn to tears.  He couldn't fo on with the interview. And to tell you the truth, neither could I.

      "Hey, look on da brite side," Wuzzum tried to ease him.  "You a poet and ya just had da-yam idear that you wud one."

* * * * *

     "Well, I said as fast I could.  I wanted to get out of there beofr Pudrick went down the whole list of emtions.  Just incase he was going in alphabetical order.  Because everyone knws it goes happy, man, sad, tittelabsential(which is a burning desire or emotional anxiety, brought on by agressive feelings of misplacement, where you know, deep down in your heart, that you are a flying boob named Gallager)  "I guess we better get going, " Istood up and let out the biggest fakest yawn in the whole world.   "I want to thank you for your time, Pudrick, I know its probably kind of hard to deal with the thought of violence in your own neighborhood.  So we'll be leaving."

      Pudrick gave a little smirk and stood up and looked down at me as if I were a thousand feet below him.  Then we did all that "goodbye, thanks a lot" bullshit.  I just wanted to get out of there before Wuzzum said anyting lese stupid.  Man, he's so fucking fat!  We showed ourselves out the door.  Glad to feel that breeze.   And we decided to take one last look at Madam Bushels house.  On our way down his steps, Pudrick stuck his head out a window and asked us if we wanted a Pekinese.   "Little Lassie had a couple puupies and I can only afford to keep one," he said.  Odd fellow.

      As soon as we passed the property line to into Madam Bushel's yard, I slapped Wuzzum in the face.   "What was that?" I asked him, referring to his stupid comments about being a poet.

      "Iya wud just trine to help.  Pud-rrr-wuck wud in some des-per-ate need of in-car-age-mint.  He also in kneed of sum doggy condoms.   But Iysa aint don't got nun on me."

      "Alright, that fine," I said, "just next time, let me do the talking."  I guess I can be a little overbearing sometimes.   I like to run the show.  Maybe thats why Wuzzum and I make such a good team.   He dosen't want to run the show but he wants to be a part of it.  Sometimes I feel bad for him.  How I get bossy on him.  It's not necessarily true, but I sometimes tell him that he does the thinking and I'll do the talking.  I tell him that we would do it the other way around wif it weren't for his speech impetiment.   He likes to be humored.  He also liked to be tickled, but like I said, I'm a manly man.  Manly men don't tickle other men.  I leave the tickling to Wuzzums lady friends.  If you saw him, the first thing you wouldn't beleive is just how fucking fat he is.  The second thing you wouldn't beleive is how much of a babe magnet he is.  The ladies dig the way he talks, the way he walks, the way his ass smells like green beans.  They love the way he trips on his own shoe laces.  The way he drinks his coffee with his pinky up, and the way he sometimes falls off the toilet and spends a good half hour trying to get himself back on his feet.  The women love him.  I could never see why.  That's a mystery that I will never solve.

      We walked back into Madam Bushels's house.  I decided to check the kitchen while Wuzzum searched the living room.  I had one of those hunches that we were missing something.   I searched every nook and cranny of the kitchen.  My senses were telling me to check in the drawers.  Somehow I couldn't get my mind off them.  They were made of a tansih wood, possibly cedar with little pearly knobs.  They looked kind of like nipples.  I thought that was very funny.  I found, what must have been, the junk drawer.  Every house has one.  It's where the people who live in the house put their junk.  Stuff like scissors, receipts, old losing lottery tickets, fingernail clippers, old screws that one one can remember where they came from.  In some houses they carry crack, fuses, sometimes an old picture thats turned yellowish or has been scratched by some of the paperclips that are in their.  Junk drawers also usually have rusted wrenches and cracked cassette tapes and old pens that are sually out of ink.   But this junk drawer didn't have any of those things.  It had forks, and knives and other various types of silverware.  Even stranger, the silverware drawer was filled to its maximum capacity wiht scissors, receipts, old losing lottery tickets, fingernail clippers, old screws, some crack, a couple pf fuses, an old picture that was all scratchedup, paperclips, a couple rusted wreches, cracked cassestte tapes and an old pen that was out of ink.  Iw as reading a hand written receipt when Wuzzum called for me.

      "Hey, jimBO," he said as if he had won a game show, "Come quick.  Iya fown sumthin!"

      I rushed into the living room and found Wuzzum sitting in a recliner with his feet propped up.  "What did you find?"

      "Oh, um dat!"  Wuzzum said pointing at a motionless Jamaican man with a bullet hole in his head and a bloody knife gripped tightly in his hand.  "Datsa look like a pickle two me!"

      "Wuzzum, that is not a pickle.  That is a dead man..."

      "No, Iya wud talkin bout dat pickle on da nite stand.   Iya never saw da ded dude."

      On Wuzzum's behalf, there was a pickle on the nightstand but I felt that the Jamaican guy, who we somehow missed on our first run through, was much more significant.  He was sitting at the very end of the couch with his free hand on the armrest.  Fingers just inches away from the TV remote control.  I noticed that, for some reason, no one had bothered to turn off the television.  I thought that Madam Bushel's loved ones probably didn't want whateevr she left behind to go to the power company so I walked over and turned it off.

      "Hu! Wha! Who turn off the cartoon!?!" I jumped back and saw the very alarmed Jamaican out of his seat.  He wasn't dead at all.   Too bad I have a weird phobia about taking pulses.  I can give a dead a first class ticket to your soul!  "Who turned off the cartoon, mon?"

      "Uma...He dunnit!!!!" Wuzzums pointed to me.

      "Oh, I'm sorry," I tried to calm everyone down with my fake apology.  I turned the TV back on and tried to introduce us so everyone could gather what was going on.  "Don't be alarmed.  We're friends."

      "Freinds uh?  Thats what you call friends?   Friends son't turn off the cartoon, mon.  Friends embrace the cartoon.   They share the cartoon. They smoke each other out to the cartoon."

      "Hee hee," Wuzzum laughed, "This car-tune isssssssssssSilly!"

      "I'm cool," I said.  "I'm down with the cartoons, man." I don't know what it is, but whenever I'm around Jamaicans I have the urge to be cool and be down with things.

      "You cool?" The man looked at me with his suspicious Jamaican eyes. "How cool?"

      "Oh man, I'm soooo cool," Istarted to really get into it.  I am really quite hip.  "I am so cool that you better not stand close to me..."

      "Wha...why?" He looked at me as if I told him that I was so cool that I have a viciously contagious testicular disease in which your nut sack turns into a door to door Nutter Butter salesman.

      "Cause your nose hairs will freeze! Thats how cool I am!!!!!"

      "Dats rite!" Wuzzum caught on and jumped in the act.  "He trew-lee dat cool!" He walked up next to me and stood there for a second.  The he threw himself on to the floor and started screaming, "MA NOWZE HAYARES ARE FORE-IN!!!!!!! MA NOWZE HAYARES ARE FROSE-IN!!!! AHHHHHHHHHH!" He was screaming at the top of his lungs banging his head on the coffee table. " AHHHHAAAAA!!!! Day FROSE-IN TO DA CO-ORE!!!!! MAKE DEM UN PHREEEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZ-ZZZZZZAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" Wham! He his hhead on the coffee table almost breaking it.  "WHY YOU HALF TA BE SEW COOOOOLLLLLLLL!!!!!??????? YEW GHREEEEEEEEEZ-IN MA NOWZE HA-YARES HERE......."

      Wuzzum passes out for a few seconds.  Wuzzum can be a little over dramatic sometimes.   But he can make a beleiver out of anybody.

      "Whao mon, you must be pretty domn cool."   The Jamaican said as I was bending down to help Wuzzum up.

      Wuzzum woke up, "No! Dowant tuch ma! Ma nowszze ha-yares just unfrose!!!!!!"   Wuzzum never fell out of character.  Thats why it was in everyones best interest that I never let him get into character.

      "Ok mon, if you that cool then you can sit down and embrace the cartoon."

      I accepted his offer and sat down on the three cushion couch keeping one cushion in between us.  Wuzzum looked as if he wanted to sit in between us but I knew he was too fucking fat.  So he took his seat back in the recliner.  I then started the small talk.   "SO," I said all casual like, "Whats the deal with that bullet hole in your head?"

      The Jamaican gasped like I had insulted him, "What?  How dare you, mon?  Asking me personal health questions like that.  MY body is my domn business.  You don't hear me asking you about your blood/sugar level...."

      "I'm sor...."

      "I don't even know your nam, mon.  I'm not about to tell my life story or give my medical history or give any of my genuine homemade squirrel jerky to somebody that I don't even know their name.  Maybe if I knew your name it would be different.  But I don't.  So it's not....Mon."

      "My namd is Jimbo Benard and this is Wuzzum."

      "Oh.  Nice to meet you, Jimbo.  Here have come genuine homemade squirrel jerky."  He handed me a lumpy black stick of charred meat and greeted Wuzzum while giving him a piece.  "My name is Jammamon."

      "So, tell me...."

      "Wow!" Wuzzum yelled.  "Dis is da best gen-you-wine home-maid-sqew-earl jerkA Iya ever eat!!!!"

      "Aw, you like it," he gladly accepted the compliment, "I make it myself, mon."

      "So tell me," Isaid "How'd you get that bullet hole in your forehead?"

      "Aw, this?  Oh it's nothing really...Ok, mon, I tell you the whole story.  Ok so I'm riding my motorcycle or-how you Americans like to call them-hog.  So I was riding my hog, mon, and I was a little lost.  I was looking for the E-Tap Pub.  Which is just a few mile along a rural road near my home in Jamaica.  And all of a sudden, mon, the road didn't look the same.  It look like American road how it was all paved and all.  So I stopped for a second and asked a man how to get back to Jamaica.  He pointed up and told me to go to hell.  But I figured that was you silly American's way of saying go north and take the seconds left turn.  So that's what I did, mon.  But I didn't find Jamaica.  I found a house.  I couldn't stop, I was going too fast, so I had no choice but to crash through that big window and some old lady started screaming at me.  And I was like, "Cool it, lady! I am only passing through." But she wouldn't shut up.  So I decided I was gonna pull out my trusty knife and stab her in the butt.  But she must have thought I was there to kill her os eomthing because as soon as I whipped out my blade she shot me in the head.  Americans are so silly.  So I fell on the ground, mon.   I was unconcious for a few minutes until I was woken by another shot.  It was from a distance but it was still loud enough to wake up Jammamon.  Then I notice that crazy bitch stole my knife."

      "Whoa," Wuzzum unterrupted, "why wud she stay-ale you're nife?"

      "I dunno.  Someone stole it.  I didn't take it.  Did you take it?"

      "Nop"

      "Then that crazy bitch must have taken it.  And I decided that is she took my knife then I gonna watch cartoon on her boob-tube...."

       "Then where'd that knife come from?"  I asked.

      "I dunno.  After watching the cartoon for awhile I passed out and didn't wake up till you turned off the cartoon...."

      "Hee hee," Wuzzum laughed "this cartoon isssssssssSilly"

      "Is that your 'trusty' knife?"

      "Well yes,mon, but it wasn't this bloody before, mon.  I don't know what went on while I was snoozing."

      "Did you kill Madam Bushel?" I decided to stop playing cool and get to the point.

      "What, mon?  Who is Madam Bushel?"

      "Madam Bushell is da ladie dat you killed!"

      "Oh, her?  No, mon, I didn't kill her."

      "Oh, really?  How cane you be so sure?"

      "Becuase, mon, I'm not a murderer.  I'm Jammamon"

      "Dud Jam-a-man hapin two bee a murd-errr-ore?"

      "No sir.  Not Jammamon!"

      Wuzzum and I started our famous interrogation crossfire, bound to crack the mind of any man, woman or child.  You should see what is has done to some people.  Out interrogation crossfire fills the target with confusion and word driven spite and leaves them dumbfounded and jelly-minded as a leg-quivering, dark, deathly, throat-choking, grip of impaling horror leaves them perspiting pints of raunchy, stinking, sweat...and honesty.   It has been known to be so intense that it can even change the gender of the person exposed.  But we usually try not to get that hard on most people.

      "I have a question, mon! Why the hell are you asking me all these questions!?"

      He was a weak one.  I could tell.  I knew right then and there he wouldn't even last thirteen hours.  "Because...." I said as Wuzzum and I flashed our badges in sync with each other as if we were mirror images...in those circus mirrors that can make a fat ugly guy look skinny or a skinny guy look really fucking fat.  "we are detectives! Now tell me why your knife is bloody!!"

      "Uh...mon" Jammamon slid down in his seat, weighted down by a sudden pulse of stress, "it must have happened while I was aslepp! That crazy bitch must have gotten in extra bloody!"

      "Why wud it bluddy in da first place?"

      "because, mon, I um..." Jammamon struggled with his words for a second.  Then he stopped to take a deep breathe and reposition himself, resting a couch pillow on his lap and digging his fingers into it.  He continued in a much lighter tone. "I...uh I haven't been completelt honest with you....I .....am.mmmm....................Jamaican."

      "We knew that."

      "Well then, mon I am being completely honest with you and I am contiuing to be completely honest when I say that I never kill no domn madam!"

      "Den why you're nife bluddy!!!"

       "Because I stabbed some people in the butt!"

       "Why did you do that?!"

       "Because, I'm Jamaican!!! Jamaicans stab people in their butts!!! It's out culture, mon!  It's not a big..."

      "So you attack random people by stabbing them in the butt?!?"

      "No, mon! Not attack! It's more of a friendly thing.   It's like 'hello, how are you?' POKE!!! and I stab them in the butt!!! They don't mind.  It's normal in Jamaica.

      "Well, you bedda da-yam well never bee ever poke-in me in me butt, mothafucker!!!"

      "DID-YOU-KILL-Madame Bushel!!!!???"

      "Wha? NO!!!"

      "LIAR!!"

      "OH SHIT MON!!!!!!!!"  Jammamon screamed, looking at his chest, "am I growing breast!?!"

      I took a quick peek, "Um, yes I beleive you are.  Now tell me!  Did you kill...."

      Wait mon!  We can't carry on this interrogation.  These are some big knockers!   They require immediate attention!"

      "ya -da-yam rite day do!!! HOTCHAMOMMA!!! Dose are bigger den OJ's!!!"

      "Yes they are big knockers.  But they're your big knockers and your big knockers alone.  Now I have a HUGE big knocker.  I have this murder on my hands, and unless you do your part in helping me solve this knocker, Wuzzum here is going to take pleasure in eating your tounge!!!"

      "Mmmmmm, Wuzzum rubbed his tummy, "nuttin sez luvin like srumdidley umtous toungue!"

      "Ahhh I didn't do it! I didn't doooowwii-hit," Jammamon threw his gave into the pillow and started crying.

      "Dat da way you kinda peeple think of it, " Wuzzum said, pacing in front of the broken down man, "ya think dat you kan show a lil cleave-age, show a lil teers and dat will get you out of trubble with da law.  You tank dat dat will let ya get away wid anything.  You tank dat will keep da giant hoooting owl of justice from swooooop-ane down and pooping in ya no good, low down filty, mothafucking bitch ass slingin EYES!  WELL YOU RONG!!!"   Just then, Wuzzum pulled out a stuffed, feather leaking owl from his inside coat pocket and started beating the hell out of Jammamon until I stepped in to stop him, (adter heading over to Dunkin Donuts and getting Wuzzum and I a cup of coffee.  Well, I stank a cup and then I drank one in Wuzzums honor.) I told Wuzzum to cool down and take a breather.

      "Ushoonga," even Wuzzum's grunts off exaustion sound fucking retarded, "sorrie bout dat.  Iya wud aim-ane to hurt da owl moor den Jammamon.  It wud a gift from ma father but Iya really hate it.  It spooks me out.  Gives ma bad mim or reeze of da time a big gie-ant hooting own swooped down an pooped in ma eye."

      "Knowing what Wuzzums whiclhood was like, I have him a compassionate pat on the shoulder.  "Why don't you go fetch this man a braw," I said quietly.   I know Wuzzum very well.  And I know he needs a break, and  a few minutes to search throug Bushel's underwear dwarer..that was his way of dealing with stress...

* * * * *

-----Thats all I'mc gona throw in for this batch, look for the continuing case worked by jimBO and Wuzz.  Find out who done it, why Wuzz is so fat, and why in the hell Bushel was straddling her mailbox...thats all for now though