Wednesday, May 29, 2013

"The Return of Daisy Duke: The Case of the Shoebox Corpse!" Part 2

This is Daisy Duke, reporting live from KHEL. I'm standing outside the Cicada Seasons Hotel waiting to interview one of ten ex-wives of the late shoe magnet, Mr. Fanard T. Clegs. As our TV audience may or may not remember, five months ago Mr. Clegs' body was found in a shoe box the size of a small galley kitchen. The cause of death was suffocation due to being crushed. In fact, a great number of cardboard pieces were found embedded in the man's mouth, nose, eyes, forehead and brain. What was left of them, that is. The shoe box lid, of course, was totally destroyed. Interestingly enough, forensic examiners also discovered epithelial cells belonging to a pachyderm type animal on Mr. Cleg's body, leading me to believe that it was probably an elephant who was coaxed, or trained to step on the shoe box while Mr. Clegs was inside. And possibly still alive. This is certainly the most bizarre murder I have ever encountered.

I've always been curious as to why it took police so long to find out who actually commissioned the shoe box to be built. Which brings us back to the Cicada Seasons Hotel. It was actually Mr. Cleg's seventh wife, Rhonda Tugs, who put in the order. The police questioned Mrs. Tugs extensively last night, but she walked out of the police station with her attorney this morning, a free woman. I did some checking on Mrs. Tugs, and she is now the wife of the wealthy fantasy broker, Minnow G. Tugs. Stay tuned for my interview with Mrs. Tugs after the station break. Back to you, Bonnie and Clyde.

"Ok, PEOPLE, where is makeup. I'm literally melting out here! And my face itches like hell!"

"Daisy, we don't know where makeup is. Did you bring your own?"

"Did I WHAT? Screw you, Dave. GO FIND MAKEUP! NOW."

"Ok, ok, Daisy. Calm down. I sent Roland to find the girl. He'll be back any minute."

"I don't have a minute, shithea— "Yoohoo, oh Mrs. Tugs? . . . Mrs. Tugs? I am Daisy Duke with—"

"I know who you are, Ms. Duke, and I have no comment. Please leave me the hell alone!"

"Mrs. Tugs is it true you hired a shoe salesman to build the shoe box that ultimately killed your ex-husband? You were also spotted at the circus two days before your husband was killed. What do you have to say about all this? . . . . Please Mrs. Tugs, the people want to know—" OH MY GO—N-!!!"

* * *

"Tranny, what does OH MY GO—N- mean?"

"I think it means we just lost our star reporter again . . . at least for awhile."

"Well, she did say she was melting, Tranny. And I really meant to send Roland out to find the makeup gal. I just forgot."

"Yeah, wasn't your fault, Dave. If she hadn't been so determined Mrs. Tugs was the murderer, she wouldn't have melted like Frosty the Snowman sunbathing in the Bahamas. I also think she would've seen all the cables strewn pretty much everywhere."

"Ah well, don't think she'll need makeup for a long time, Tranny. What do we do, now? I'm thinking she can still do field work even if she has to undergo facial reconstruction."

"Who'd a thunk a fall like that would be so devastating, Dave."

"Face plants can be downright scary."

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you, Dave? Did the memo about WitLiz Yada's impending arrest for the murder of Clegs get to Daisy?"

"They're arresting WitLiz Yada? Are you sure about that, Tranny? I thought she had an alibi."

"She did, until the police discovered she checked herself out AMA from Green Acres Happy Farm the day of the murder. And her fingerprints are all over what's left of the box."

"Oh wow! Yes, Daisy read the memo, Tranny. I was at her desk when she got it . . . You know she did sort get this mustardy tint to her face before she snorted and crushed the memo. But I didn't say a word because she would've clawed my eyes out and used them to play bingo! She loves that damn game."

"Yep. Well, let's get on over to the hospital, Dave. Tell her she still has a job, because I have a hunch WitLiz Yada didn't commit this murder. She's way too nutzo balls. Added to the fact she never knew the guy."

"How do you think her fingerprints got all over the box then, Tranny?"

"Don't know. But if Daisy ever thought WitLiz Yada had committed the murder she'd a been all over that. Daisy hates that woman with a passion!"

"Uh huh. You know Tranny, I think it's kinda sexxxxy when Daisy hates something!"

"If you like your ass being slashed apart by verbal razors on a daily basis, then yeah, a case could be made for kinky! "

"Wellll, appears her mouth won't be a problem anymore, Tranny."

"Says who? The woman has remarkable healing powers. Remember the time she fell into that toxic waste swamp? And the time her body gave new meaning to the words, skin peel?"

"Holy cow I'd forgotten all about that, Tranny . . . Uh oh, my phone's vibrating. Better take this call . . . it's from the hospital. "Yeah . . .  No shit!. . . I'll tell him . . . Thanks." Ok, Daisy is MIA. But it turns out most of the damage to her face was caused by some kind of toxin in the makeup. She went bonkers when she found out. Got to find that make up girl or else—"

"We need to get on the first plane to anywhere, Dave."

"And hope it crashes!"

Friday, May 10, 2013

"Sucks, Doesn't it?" A Memoir, Entry 23

Chapter 23 

Silver Spring, MD

B and I are zipping off to the second therapy session. I’m lying down in the back seat holding on for dear life. My senses are overloaded again, so I can’t look out the window, or listen to the radio. Every little decibel of sound is magnified to a painful degree. I can tune into only one station right now, and it's currently located inside my head.
As I walk into the outer office, I park B inside the waiting room. I’m going it alone. Taking a seat next to Pen's desk, I'm pleasantly surprised to learn that, not only are my senses back to normal, I'm riding the confidence train. Confident with a capital C, as in no anxiety, and therefore no panic. In fact, you could say, I’m almost cocky.
 I take a quick time out to study the newest version of Pen more closely. She hasn’t changed much. Still rather dowdy looking and quiet, but her aura screams competency. I look closely at her credentials displayed on the wall; something I hadn’t done before. She's a pastoral counselor? What the heck is that? Suddenly, I have this picture of me and Pen decked out in puffy blouses, embroidered skirts, white silk aprons, and straw hats with ribbon hanging from the brim, t'walking, (pronounced tawalking, [therapy + walking]) about the Swiss Alps, trailed by nanny goats, bluebirds, and Julie Andrews singing, "The hills are alive with the sound of music!"
        Pen asks me what I did during the break. I relax a bit and bring out my journal to show her the family circle I’d done.
She peruses it over very quickly, and asks me point blank to tell her about my childhood. I opt for the short version.
“I was born in Virginia, moved to Texas at two, in foster care by five, out of foster care by twelve, out of the mater house by eighteen, back in the mater house by twenty something, work and college for seven years, married by twenty-eight, three children by thirty-six. I’m forty now and living in Baltimore, Maryland. Boring, Pen.”
“How many siblings do you have, Liz?”
“What number are you?”
“Tell me what it was like growing up.”
I shrug. “Not much to tell. Apart from what I already said.”
“How was the relationship with your mother.”
“What I can remember, seemed fine. Had the normal spats, of course.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“I don’t remember him at all. My parents split when I was real young.”
“So the relationship between your mother and father was—”
“Rocky, obviously. But I never had any feelings of resentment toward either parent for the divorce. And I never wasted time fantasizing about having a father when I was a child, like so many people do. Which is probably why it seems to be a common trope in writing and movies. Bor  . . .  ing. Not to mention what a colossal waste of time to dwell on stuff like that.”
Pen nods and shifts position. “Is there any history of psychiatric illness in your family that you know of?”
“No. Mater has mentioned in passing that our family line on both sides was healthy, mentally and physically. Goes back many generations, too. We’re from strong stock.”
“And did you know your grandparents?”
“No. Both sets long dead. I do remember that my maternal grandmother used to send me five dollars every birthday and holiday. And I think I even remember meeting Grandmother once when I was eight or so. But that’s sketchy. Now my cousin, who is my age, had the honor, or the bad luck depending on your viewpoint, of Grandmother moving in with them for about a year when she was four. Said Grandmother scared her so much, she went mute. Eventually, my cousin recovered, but it took a year or so.”
Did your cousin ever explain why your Grandmother scared her so much?" 
"Basically said that Grandmother didn’t like her being so shy. Sounds like Grandmother used the wrong kind of psychology to bring my cousin out of her shell. She was from an era where mental illness was not only a stigma, but horribly misunderstood. Mantra back then was “buck up,” and “mind over matter.”
I stand up abruptly, tired, and cranky. Without any farewell fanfare, I make another appointment and leave. And breathe a sigh of relief. 
“And whistlin’ a happy tune. Don’t forget about little ol’ me, Lizzie.”