Article Noir Casefiles: "I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
I'm used to dames coming into my office. All kinds of dames, but mostly the well-built, blonde ingenue types. That's just in the job description when you're Liar Lasciviously, Private Eye. So when my secretary, Effie, buzzed another one in--well, let's just say I wasn't especially surprised. Until she walked in.
Oddest looking dame I'd ever seen. Tall, thin, and--how can I describe it? High resolution. Highest resolution I've ever seen on a dame, if you catch my drift. "Haven't seen you around here," says I.
"Haven't been around here."
"What's a lady like you doing around Fourside, this time a'night?"
And then she starts talking things I've never heard before. Something about a cowboy and his kid, and a dog--I was more confused than Anne Heche's psychologist. "Whaddya mean by all this babble, lady? You're crazier than Scott Fitzgerald's wife, and about half as attractive."
"It's... it's from Mother 3, Mr. Lasciviously. But I thought you'd know that already. I heard you kept abreast of things."
"That's just a double entendre, ma'am." Mother 3? I decided to place a call to my writers. "Operator? Get me Outsourced Articles of Malaysia, quick."
"Hello?" The accent was thicker than Andre the Giant's calves, but I could make the words out: "Please hold."
Three hours passed; their hold music was Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something, over and over. It was awkward. "There's a bird in my office. Claims to be from Mother 3."
Panic on the other end. "We're going to have to put you through to the author."
At least they had some Sinatra this time. Finally some kid picked up, sounding as awkward as Michael Jackson's marriages. "Hey, Starmen.Net Articles Dept., Dan here."
"Dan? Some dame in my office claims to be from Mother 3. Also, I think I'm saying dame too much now, if you could--"
"Mother 3? I can't hear you."
"Don't play games here, buddy, or I'll fill you so full of lead they'll attach an eraser to your skull."
"Send her back. I'm not playing Mother 3. Heck, I'm not calling it Mother 3. EarthBound 2 isn't out yet. Send her back." More elusive than David Schwimmer's masculinity, this one.
"You know better than to tell me to send a blonde back. Especially this one. You should see the frames of animation on this one."
"La, la, la. Can't hear you. Don't even know what you're talking about, honestly. What girl?"
I turned around, and the dame was gone. "That's bush league, mack. Bush league."
"Don't worry, I'll send you somebody else."
There was a knock, and in walked the shortest, plainest-looking girl I'd ever seen. Plainer than generic soda. Plainer than Calvin Coolidge's manner of speaking. Plainer than--
"Liar, Sir? I need help finding a... finding a man named Ninten."
"Ah, Christ." I hung up the phone.
Metafictional interludes--all in a day's work, when you're Liar Lasciviously, Private Eye.
I'm used to dames coming into my office. All kinds of dames, but mostly the well-built, blonde ingenue types. That's just in the job description when you're Liar Lasciviously, Private Eye. So when my secretary, Effie, buzzed another one in--well, let's just say I wasn't especially surprised. Until she walked in.
Oddest looking dame I'd ever seen. Tall, thin, and--how can I describe it? High resolution. Highest resolution I've ever seen on a dame, if you catch my drift. "Haven't seen you around here," says I.
"Haven't been around here."
"What's a lady like you doing around Fourside, this time a'night?"
And then she starts talking things I've never heard before. Something about a cowboy and his kid, and a dog--I was more confused than Anne Heche's psychologist. "Whaddya mean by all this babble, lady? You're crazier than Scott Fitzgerald's wife, and about half as attractive."
"It's... it's from Mother 3, Mr. Lasciviously. But I thought you'd know that already. I heard you kept abreast of things."
"That's just a double entendre, ma'am." Mother 3? I decided to place a call to my writers. "Operator? Get me Outsourced Articles of Malaysia, quick."
"Hello?" The accent was thicker than Andre the Giant's calves, but I could make the words out: "Please hold."
Three hours passed; their hold music was Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something, over and over. It was awkward. "There's a bird in my office. Claims to be from Mother 3."
Panic on the other end. "We're going to have to put you through to the author."
At least they had some Sinatra this time. Finally some kid picked up, sounding as awkward as Michael Jackson's marriages. "Hey, Starmen.Net Articles Dept., Dan here."
"Dan? Some dame in my office claims to be from Mother 3. Also, I think I'm saying dame too much now, if you could--"
"Mother 3? I can't hear you."
"Don't play games here, buddy, or I'll fill you so full of lead they'll attach an eraser to your skull."
"Send her back. I'm not playing Mother 3. Heck, I'm not calling it Mother 3. EarthBound 2 isn't out yet. Send her back." More elusive than David Schwimmer's masculinity, this one.
"You know better than to tell me to send a blonde back. Especially this one. You should see the frames of animation on this one."
"La, la, la. Can't hear you. Don't even know what you're talking about, honestly. What girl?"
I turned around, and the dame was gone. "That's bush league, mack. Bush league."
"Don't worry, I'll send you somebody else."
There was a knock, and in walked the shortest, plainest-looking girl I'd ever seen. Plainer than generic soda. Plainer than Calvin Coolidge's manner of speaking. Plainer than--
"Liar, Sir? I need help finding a... finding a man named Ninten."
"Ah, Christ." I hung up the phone.
Metafictional interludes--all in a day's work, when you're Liar Lasciviously, Private Eye.
