Friday, December 21, 2012
The return of Daisy Duke: "The Case of the Shoebox Corpse!"
This is Daisy Duke reporting live from KPOS. I'm standing in front of the home of Mr. Fanard T. Clegs, the famous multi-millionaire shoe magnate whose body was found crammed in a shoebox the size of a small galley kitchen. Preliminary reports indicate COD to be suffocation. There was also a shallow, rectangular indentation on Mr. Clegs face, as if the lid of a shoebox the size of a ballet slipper had been held down with great force. But, of course, the police haven't released that detail to the public. Back to you Nick and Nora."
"Do the police suspect homicide in the death of Mr. Clegs?"
"Yes, they do. In fact, they believe he was murdered. But they aren't saying anything publicly until they get the official word from the coroner. Back to you Nick and Nora."
"Are there any suspects at this time?"
"Well, there is an interesting side-note to this mystery, Nora. Apparently, the last person to see Mr. Clegs alive was the self-acclaimed author, WitLiz Yada. As you may or may not know, I have a long history of dealing with this woman, and to say she's a bit dotty is an understatement. I'll certainly be investigating this angle. Meantime, back to you Nick and Nora."
* * *
"Say Tranny, does our Daisy seem a little off to you? Like . . . she's not all there or something. Brain-wise, I mean."
"Yep. Must be all the network job-hopping she's done. I mean, she's been fired so much, I'm surprised she has any nuts left in the ol' squirrel barn."
"Think she'll break the story of who murdered Mr. Clegs before we do?"
"Doubt it. She's slipping, Dave. On the other hand, our own mild-mannered field reporter is two shot glasses shy of a full bottle. What was I thinking when I hired that shatwad?"
"Tranny . . . I know I shouldn't say this but . . . I almost wish we had Daisy back. She sure was tenacious when she got her bitch claws into a story. And her pursuit of WitLiz Yada was priceless. Ah, those were the fun days."
"Yeah . . . . . . . . . Say, Dave, you thinking what I'm thinking."
"You mean, our idiot reporter just got assigned to the mystery of the dog-poop terrorist bombs plaguing our affluent community?"
"Daisy might not go for it, Tranny."
"Ha! Have money, will travel. That woman would screw a lightbulb into her mother's left eye for moolah, Dave."
* * *
"So, you two dipshits think you can come crawling back to me, ass in hand, with an offer do you?"
"See, it's like this, Daisy. Dave and I miss you. Really."
"Ratings down, are they? . . . Ok, come clean, douche dick, you're about to get fired, aren't you?"
(You wish, bitch). "No, not at all. It's just the shoe magnate murder story is way too big to assign to our snoozer of a field reporter. But you could handle it easily, Dais. Especially with your experience tracking down the Yada woman. After all, she was the last person to see Mr. Clegs alive, right?"
(tick, tock, tick tock, the mouse ran up the clock)
"Get on your knees!!! . . . Both of you."
"I'-m not sure . . . what?"
"You heard me, Transy pansy."
(furious whisper to Dave) What the hell sound is that coming from Daisy's throat?"
"Oh shit, Tranny, she's purring. We're in major trouble!"