“Uh-oh, kids! Guess what time it is?”
“Time to get a watch!” they shouted in unison.
“Okay, fine.” Grant moped, contorting his lips in a humorous way as he rolled his eyes in mock anger. “But until I can get a new watch, I need you all to bear with me.”
“Grrrrr!” they growled. It all part of the show’s choreography. Every time Grant said “bear with me,” the kids would roar like bears and hold up their hands with their fingers clenched, resembling a bear paw.
“Oh no!” Grant held up his left hand. A pair of eyes were drawn on the base of his index finger, and a beard was drawn onto his thumb. Bending his hand in a certain way produced-
“Mr. Handigan!” the kids cheered. This was one of the best parts of the show.
“Mr. Handigan, did you hear a bear in the audience?”
“I sure did, Grant, old buddy, old pal!”
Having mastered the art of ventriloquism, Grant was able to project his voice directly to his hand without moving his lips at all. The effect was spellbinding. It was also cost effective, as the show was on a public access channel and props weren’t in the budget.
“Hey, Mr. Handigan, can you-”
“Freeze! Police!”
Panic broke out amid the children as four uniformed police officers ran onto the stage and threw Grant to the floor.
“Ow! Hey! What’re you-”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will-”
“But I didn’t do anything! Ow! Hey, kids!”
“Yeah!” came a somewhat scattered reply from the children as ushers moved in to wave them out of the studio.
“Don’t try this at home!”
***
“Look man, just make it easy on yourself. Tell us where you hid the money.”
“But I didn’t hide any money,” Grant sobbed. He had been in the interrogation room for four hours now, and it was hot as the Fourth of July in there. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say you don’t know what you’re talking aboot? Eh, comrade?”
Grant looked at the detective like he had lost his mind. Reaching into a manila folder, the man pulled out a stack of photos. He passed them across the table to Grant.
“Fleet International. The First Bank of Manitoba. Crestwood. And twelve others, all over Canada. Each one of them is missing millions of dollars in assets.”
Grant looked at the photos, each one showcasing an empty vault. “I’ve never been to Canad-”
“Don’t lie to me, son!”
“But I had nothing to do with any bank robbery!”
“Oh. So who told you there had been a robbery?”
“You just said...”
“Look, mister... Jacobs, is it? Mr. Jacobs, each one of these bank robberies was done late at night, after the bank had closed. We know you were involved. The floor of each empty vault was coated with a layer of fliers for your public access show.”
“That still doesn’t-”
“And your fingerprints were on every flier.”
“I... don’t...” Grant paused to gather his thoughts. How could this happen? How where his fingerprints on those fliers? It didn’t make any sense.
There was a knock on the door.
“Detective Hollings?”
“Yes,” answered the heavyset man who had just accused Grant of staging over a dozen counts of banditry.
“Your wife is on line 2.”
“I’m very busy. Tell her to call me back.”
“She says your plan to paint the house cheaply by putting dynamite in open buckets of paint ended badly.”
“Well, you can’t win ’em all, eh?” he grinned at Grant, who didn’t return the favor. “Yeah, you get it? You can’t- you know what, just shut up.”
He turned to the door. “I’d better take this. You stay here,” he pointed at Grant.
Slam.
How did it come to this? thought Grant, his mind trying to piece together the last two weeks. Maybe one of the kids had something to do with this...
“Or maybe not, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal,” came an bubbly laugh from just under the table.
“Gah!” Grant screamed, jumping up to see who was hiding beneath the mahogany. But there was no one...
“You’re sure jumpy today, Skippy.”
Grant turned his head, bringing him face to face with...
“Mr. Handigan!”
Grant’s left hand and lower arm seemed to be bobbing about completely independent of his own volition. What in the name of high school football?!
“Who are you?!”
“Mr. Handigan, you prince of panache.”
“No. Way.”
“Yes way, ya big lemming.”
It was a very disconcerting experience, Grant talking to his own self-conscious hand. I wonder if this is how Nietzsche lost his mind, Grant thought to himself.
“No. It’s not. And I can hear your thoughts,” said the sockless sock puppet. “We’re connected at the hip, so to speak.”
“What do you want?!” Grant shouted as loudly as he could at his own hand.
“Well, as a manifestation of your psyche, I want what you want: to help children. That’s why you started that low budget snore-fest, isn’t it, Bubba?”
“I don’t see how grand larceny helps the kids.” It would be entertaining to see how an alleged manifestation of Grant’s inner mind would respond to its own logical flaw.
“I’ve been funneling the money into a slush fund to anonymously pay for a computer-based charity. It’s called ‘AJAX for Orphans’ and it keeps urchins off the street by using binary and hexadecimals to teach ’em.”
Grant felt queasy. His stomach turned over in its grave.
“Then all those times I woke up on the Canadian border...”
“Subterfuge. Now, if that’s all cleared up, we have something else to discuss.”
Handigan bent over so that his poorly drawn, inked eyes were parallel to Grant’s.
“You know too much.”
***
“Mr. Hollings, the purpose of this panel is to determine whether or not you violated protocol when investigating the case of a Mr. Grant Jacobs. Have you anything to say before the proceedings begin?”
Detective Hollings stood up, a grave look on his stony face.
“I have served faithfully and in good conscience for over 15 years. In all the time I have worked for the Bureau of Deletions, I have never committed an act of brutality against a suspect greater than the required limit.”
“Mr. Hollings,” the chairwoman held up a photo. Several of the board members forced themselves to look; others turned from the horror. “This man, Grant Jacobs, was in your charge. He was found beaten beyond recognition, over sixty broken bones, his entire left arm missing. He is also in a permanent comatose state.”
“Our leading theory is that Jacobs was angering the Ottawan Syndicate by going after banks in their territory. His prints were at every crime scene-”
“This doesn’t fit the Syndicate’s profile. They go right for the jugular.”
A breeze wafted through the stuffy chamber. Outside, the panel members could hear the familiar tune of a Good Humor truck as it rolled on by. Hollings sat back in his chair, thinking about how good it would feel to run barefoot though the grass right about now...
“Motion for adjournment?” asked a bald, middle aged man next to the chairwoman. The other members looked eagerly at the chair.
“Seconded?”
“Aye!” the entire board cried, racing each other to the chamber door.
“Hey, let’s go kite flying!” Hollings called to the others as he skipped through the open door.
“Time to get a watch!” they shouted in unison.
“Okay, fine.” Grant moped, contorting his lips in a humorous way as he rolled his eyes in mock anger. “But until I can get a new watch, I need you all to bear with me.”
“Grrrrr!” they growled. It all part of the show’s choreography. Every time Grant said “bear with me,” the kids would roar like bears and hold up their hands with their fingers clenched, resembling a bear paw.
“Oh no!” Grant held up his left hand. A pair of eyes were drawn on the base of his index finger, and a beard was drawn onto his thumb. Bending his hand in a certain way produced-
“Mr. Handigan!” the kids cheered. This was one of the best parts of the show.
“Mr. Handigan, did you hear a bear in the audience?”
“I sure did, Grant, old buddy, old pal!”
Having mastered the art of ventriloquism, Grant was able to project his voice directly to his hand without moving his lips at all. The effect was spellbinding. It was also cost effective, as the show was on a public access channel and props weren’t in the budget.
“Hey, Mr. Handigan, can you-”
“Freeze! Police!”
Panic broke out amid the children as four uniformed police officers ran onto the stage and threw Grant to the floor.
“Ow! Hey! What’re you-”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will-”
“But I didn’t do anything! Ow! Hey, kids!”
“Yeah!” came a somewhat scattered reply from the children as ushers moved in to wave them out of the studio.
“Don’t try this at home!”
“Look man, just make it easy on yourself. Tell us where you hid the money.”
“But I didn’t hide any money,” Grant sobbed. He had been in the interrogation room for four hours now, and it was hot as the Fourth of July in there. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say you don’t know what you’re talking aboot? Eh, comrade?”
Grant looked at the detective like he had lost his mind. Reaching into a manila folder, the man pulled out a stack of photos. He passed them across the table to Grant.
“Fleet International. The First Bank of Manitoba. Crestwood. And twelve others, all over Canada. Each one of them is missing millions of dollars in assets.”
Grant looked at the photos, each one showcasing an empty vault. “I’ve never been to Canad-”
“Don’t lie to me, son!”
“But I had nothing to do with any bank robbery!”
“Oh. So who told you there had been a robbery?”
“You just said...”
“Look, mister... Jacobs, is it? Mr. Jacobs, each one of these bank robberies was done late at night, after the bank had closed. We know you were involved. The floor of each empty vault was coated with a layer of fliers for your public access show.”
“That still doesn’t-”
“And your fingerprints were on every flier.”
“I... don’t...” Grant paused to gather his thoughts. How could this happen? How where his fingerprints on those fliers? It didn’t make any sense.
There was a knock on the door.
“Detective Hollings?”
“Yes,” answered the heavyset man who had just accused Grant of staging over a dozen counts of banditry.
“Your wife is on line 2.”
“I’m very busy. Tell her to call me back.”
“She says your plan to paint the house cheaply by putting dynamite in open buckets of paint ended badly.”
“Well, you can’t win ’em all, eh?” he grinned at Grant, who didn’t return the favor. “Yeah, you get it? You can’t- you know what, just shut up.”
He turned to the door. “I’d better take this. You stay here,” he pointed at Grant.
Slam.
How did it come to this? thought Grant, his mind trying to piece together the last two weeks. Maybe one of the kids had something to do with this...
“Or maybe not, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal,” came an bubbly laugh from just under the table.
“Gah!” Grant screamed, jumping up to see who was hiding beneath the mahogany. But there was no one...
“You’re sure jumpy today, Skippy.”
Grant turned his head, bringing him face to face with...
“Mr. Handigan!”
Grant’s left hand and lower arm seemed to be bobbing about completely independent of his own volition. What in the name of high school football?!
“Who are you?!”
“Mr. Handigan, you prince of panache.”
“No. Way.”
“Yes way, ya big lemming.”
It was a very disconcerting experience, Grant talking to his own self-conscious hand. I wonder if this is how Nietzsche lost his mind, Grant thought to himself.
“No. It’s not. And I can hear your thoughts,” said the sockless sock puppet. “We’re connected at the hip, so to speak.”
“What do you want?!” Grant shouted as loudly as he could at his own hand.
“Well, as a manifestation of your psyche, I want what you want: to help children. That’s why you started that low budget snore-fest, isn’t it, Bubba?”
“I don’t see how grand larceny helps the kids.” It would be entertaining to see how an alleged manifestation of Grant’s inner mind would respond to its own logical flaw.
“I’ve been funneling the money into a slush fund to anonymously pay for a computer-based charity. It’s called ‘AJAX for Orphans’ and it keeps urchins off the street by using binary and hexadecimals to teach ’em.”
Grant felt queasy. His stomach turned over in its grave.
“Then all those times I woke up on the Canadian border...”
“Subterfuge. Now, if that’s all cleared up, we have something else to discuss.”
Handigan bent over so that his poorly drawn, inked eyes were parallel to Grant’s.
“You know too much.”
“Mr. Hollings, the purpose of this panel is to determine whether or not you violated protocol when investigating the case of a Mr. Grant Jacobs. Have you anything to say before the proceedings begin?”
Detective Hollings stood up, a grave look on his stony face.
“I have served faithfully and in good conscience for over 15 years. In all the time I have worked for the Bureau of Deletions, I have never committed an act of brutality against a suspect greater than the required limit.”
“Mr. Hollings,” the chairwoman held up a photo. Several of the board members forced themselves to look; others turned from the horror. “This man, Grant Jacobs, was in your charge. He was found beaten beyond recognition, over sixty broken bones, his entire left arm missing. He is also in a permanent comatose state.”
“Our leading theory is that Jacobs was angering the Ottawan Syndicate by going after banks in their territory. His prints were at every crime scene-”
“This doesn’t fit the Syndicate’s profile. They go right for the jugular.”
A breeze wafted through the stuffy chamber. Outside, the panel members could hear the familiar tune of a Good Humor truck as it rolled on by. Hollings sat back in his chair, thinking about how good it would feel to run barefoot though the grass right about now...
“Motion for adjournment?” asked a bald, middle aged man next to the chairwoman. The other members looked eagerly at the chair.
“Seconded?”
“Aye!” the entire board cried, racing each other to the chamber door.
“Hey, let’s go kite flying!” Hollings called to the others as he skipped through the open door.
Phew, Hollings is lucky that it's kite flying season.
O.K. I'm at the part where handiman comes up from under the table...
F**king cops, I'm hot under the cooler<---ha ha collar.
I thought that for a change of pace, I'd make a story that starts nice, turns ugly, gets worse, and ends as nicely as it started.
I do love a happy ending.
Edgar Allen Poe eat your heart out!
No! Ed! It was just a turn of phrase! Stop it before you puncture a....
*blood everywhere*
Aw, kite fyling. Isn't that sweet. Maybe they can hold hands as they run through the tulip littered field.
I love that commercial.
gyro; you are just an old softy.
underneath all that hardness, is... softness.
'prince of panache' you have such a way with words Mr. Gyro Bo Diddely Bo, makes me want to rock 'n' ro!
You should see me at birthday parties and funerals.
That 2nd Act has inspired me. I'm thinking of doing a movie about a guy who meets his alter ego and starts an underground fight club where he teaches men to fight and become men again and then fight and overthrow the established order of the world whilst coming to terms with the brutality of his alter ego which he'll deal with by shooting himself in the head allowing him to taking control of his 'self' again.
I'll call it 'Tyler Durden does the naked sock puppet Hoochie Coochie'.
It'll be a Western!
Hey Robo, I hope you robots have a fun and safe Fourth of July!
Must photocopy a fight club based in 1776!
rich is just freak'n wierd, isn't he?
He's a perfect Roboshrub fit.
My posts are becoming so dangerously long that they begin to merge! Seriously!
"Must photocopy a fight club based in 1776!"
Was "Gangs of New York" sorta close?