And thus continues the story started in Got Ghand 15. This episode is best read in the worst private eye / detective impression you can manage.
He/She who unlocks the secrets of the two puzzling e-mails presented in this installment will receive a minor prize...
Send mail!
:Begin Transmission:
I could smell it.
Smell it like the thick scent of baby oil boiling in the back of a Ford pickup truck coasting down the street at a speed equivalent to that of the downfall of the Starbucks Dynasty, which, of course, is an event of the future, another tangle of dark webs, something I’d play no part in. No, sir, my job was here, in front of me, and it reeked. Its reek was so thick it made my neck sweat under the pressure of my head, because when the smells get bad, the head gets heavy.
It was the smell of crime.
This rag-tag group of dwarves in front of me were a bunch of troublesome monkeys. I knew there was something suspicious about them the moment I met them. It was those beady eyes, see. The ones that stare at you like piercing knives cutting through a ham-and-cheese sandwich buttered up with the creamy sauce of corruption. All my senses drowned in the sudden realization of this mix-up.
These dwarves weren’t here to save me. They were here to kill me. They’d hunted me down from the whence they came, the essence of bad things, the back of the fridge where no man dare look, because he’s afraid, see, afraid of the mold that’s growing there, growing like a chimpanzee’s anger when he’s realized his favorite banana tree no longer sports his fruit of goodness.
I couldn’t let it happen, of course. I was smarter than them, quicker, too, and I could double-cross a double-crossing double-crosser. I am...
GHANDAIAH... DETECTIVE OF BAD MOJO, AND OTHER SUCH SHENANEGANS.
The kind of guy who likes his clues intricate, his life adventurous, and his coffee strong.
...Perhaps sometimes too strong...
Here’s my story, and I’ll make it blunt. I was about to question the short questionable fellows in front of me when a strange vending machine approached from behind. I could’ve sworn it was the same one I’d seen on that burning summer night of ’83, when an egg wouldn’t just fry on a sidewalk, but burst into flaming giblets, seriously burning those within a general radius. Yessir, I’d seen this machine before. I recognized him. Dispenser of spoiled, pre-opened candy. He had grown a bad reputation in that base, where MJ12 dwelled, and located my cell seeking help.
Normally guys like me don’t help vending machine with such bad reps. But he begged me all pretty, said that his “sandwiches had gone stale,” and some other rubbish.
My first reaction was to cleverly bludgeon him about the proverbial feet and ankles with an iron mallet... Not just any iron mallet, but that big, omnipotent mallet of Justice.
That’s when he finally got to the bottom of things, straight to the point, the point of no return, the point of a sharp knife, or maybe big pointy teeth, with other points on them, just for the sake of being super-pointy, with a side of... well, point. He reached out and gave me a mayonnaise-soaked letter, dripping with the thick ooze of confused thought and secrecy.
Here’s a copy of that letter, if you dare delve within its dangerous nooks and crannies. They’re nooks and crannies where men go and never come out unless foaming furiously about the mouth, I tell you!
Haqa'iq: The Truth about the Moist Towelette [Eastern Hemisphere Version]
For My Master, The Great Ghandaiah, the one who I have given all the toenails on my left foot and a great deal of imitation gold fillings; I deliver this message that I have torn from the facist pages of the unholy American TV guide..... (Interception//Correspondence.Contra\banned)
Hey Sami, Here’s the specifics that you asked about. I know it’s just a transcripted soundbyte, but it should keep you and the wife on the run from the government for months.
-Hassan-
(The Requested Excerpt from the infamous Ghand/Liederkranz Tapes)
Archive: 4
Colors: Yellow//Aquamarine
Tape: 14
Organs: SolarPlexus//Throat
Volume: 1
Serial#: 8 7 20 15 8 19 15 8 23
(Raclette Ghand and Ashcroft Liederkranz intimately address a rubber Spleen [with concealed microphone] whom they have [for the purposes of rehearsal] whimsically named Klaus Manipura III.) "'The act of anointing,' he wrote upon his largely autobiographical 100 dosage units of LSD, replicated the practice of 'the ancient kings of soul, David and Saul,' who’ Ashcroft said 'were beheaded the moment they undertook their administrative duties.'"
(Voracious Applause from the FBI agents, in janitorial disguises)
Ashcroft cleared his throat and, with renewed emotion, continued to read. “My dearest Klaus, thy perfumed lips graze my pert bunions with a thrusting gentleness that doth electrify....”
(High-pitched, girlish screams and gunfire obscure the final, incriminating portion of the recording).
..........FocusDHANAURASANA{F-O-C-U-S}DHANAURASANAFocus............
---->On May 3rd, while Ghand's body was lying in state in the Capitol Rotunda, Assistant Attorney General L. Patrick Vishudda V appeared at FBI headquarters and asked to see a ‘fun cartoon’. FBI officials refused, insisting that there were no such documents, and after a nasty face-off Vishudda left. A few hours later Vishudda was appointed by the Federal Entertainment Management Agency to be the FBI's acting director. Soon after, loud and annoying cartoons were blasted at maximum volume 24 hours a day at the FBI’s main training facility in Quantico.
Ghand and his aides had many reasons for wanting to appoint an outsider to head the FBI -- his expensive designer hair conditioner it cleans conditions then it gets outta there it doesn’t hang around to weigh hair down no waxy residue no build-up none of those listless slacker follicles it’s water-based so hair rinses clean suddenly hair is shining and lively-looking dare I say it’s billowy yes wave after wave of sensual hair flowing like the tide coming in by the lake the clear blue waters of lake eerie i can still smell the freshness like the highway after a million automobile accidents away far so far away.............MATSYASANA[CloseYourEyesAndRelax]MATSYASANA.............
So, in the end, you should only have one question left........
[P.S. Grateful I could render my meager services oh radiant one, and I (and what remains of my body) shall always be eagerly awaiting your slightest whim.
-Erogenous Joe- DDS, MBA, POW.]
I knew the style the minute I set eyes on it! It was Erogenous Joe, AKA The Idler of Garfunkle, AKA PETE THE PIGEON!
Ye Old Vending Machine began to explain to me the facts of the nature of the essence of the situation. The letter scared him, see, scared him silly like a school girl jumping a jump rope fabricated from the bowels of the pit-demon of criminal thought. He wanted me to decipher it, and soon became frantic with fear. I sent him on an errand to retrieve my daily oblong slat of tea and turnips so as to concentrate on the matters at hand.
I never got around to it, though, because of the BEADY EYES! I had forgotten all about the dwarves, and their, so-help-me-Lord, BEADY LITTLE EYES! THE CONSTANT STARING! I couldn’t take their probing glances any longer!
I proceeded to slaughter them with the nearest shoe-tree, and immediately change the money currency of the United States to the goat.
The resulting bloody mess, however, broke any attempted concentration on the puzzle at my fingertips. Obviously a mind like mine, dazzled by shiny objects, retaining an attention span similar to that of a goldfish with brain cancer and a bad lung, that is, if goldfish had lungs, could not unscramble such an unusual note. But even then, it wasn’t long after I had just begun staring blankly at the letter before me with a slight bit of dribble running down my toothpaste-crested chin when ANOTHER letter came, this time by some unknown carrier, to my own cell!
It read as follows:
-The SPACE Lounge Incident-
(TroikaChainLetterandSoMuchMore)
[Title]:\\The Wash Room of Forbidden Desires
!Hey Ghand, I caught one of your flyers, they looked a little strange. Are you sure these are the ones you ordered?!
Caseation||dheigh-erie||dejeuner;
\kasjusThapimp: Forgot >his teeth< AGAIN./
[Non](Un)|Re|Topic{s}: Ghandaiah’s Space Lounge: The Rumpus Room.
Hey all you Eugenics-addicted singles out there gotta try out the place where the cover charge is low but if you fall within the same species as your date or you can’t use the bar>>>>[meta]cannibalism and semi-competitive-food||chain climbing for private parties---the perfect treat for the holidays--(((I just saw Tertiary Kasjus wandering around >waving a bloody steaknife&{blender?}< looking for a guy named Chaource~~~Ghand goes by that name sometimes but I didn’t say anything~~~the guy asked about +Irrelevant’ModelReasoning’Irrelevant+ do you think he know what Ghand knows? )))---[FilterSkills VS NOISE]---and seniors get in free with any valid{stolen}StudentID. Hell, the G-HNAD will wheel you in PERSONALLY---whattaguy!lovehimlikeabr[m]other!---and maybe[if your traffic tickets have remained unpaid]if you’re good you’ll get something >EXTRA SPECIAL<...-hehehehe- I’m sure viewer imAginAtion can supply a far better reward than any [//deviated random scenario program\\ ] can generate so we leave it....to -YoU-....Wait a minute! What’s that ringing? |Green Phone rings The Salad Bar. Dial:112-1149|
[Title]:\\Yellow Rubber Gloves
!OH MY GOD! READING THIS IS MENTAL TORTURE! Is that the kind of message you want to send to your clientele?!
Coagulation||deigja||postprandial;
\TheAtomicElbowBrotha: Kasjus makes a profound declaration./
[Non](Un)|Re|Topic{s}: Ghandaiah’s Space Lounge: The Salad Bar. OooOooOoOOh saddle up to the salad bar of unbridled romance. |Sample the salad bar only with previous experience| You with the sweaty heart and the throbbing palms GET YOUR HAND OUT OF THE CROUTON DISH! Try the fresh cherries! Mountains of fruit! Oceans of lettuce! If you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all! Grazing times from 9:00 to 12:00! Same time! Same place! Always!
TheyWERETheyARETheyALWAYSWILLBE! It’s in the rule book! You and your date are the primary consumers; and we treat you with nothing but the best!
YOULOOKALIKEANDACTALIKEANDTALKALIKEANDSOUNDALIKEANDEATALIKE!
(Who had the recipe for that drink Mr. Boursault ? That crazed groupie stabbed him in the lower thigh with that electric pink elephant tusk and he definitely should NOT go home sober. Not that he ever does, mind you.) |Blue phone rings the Microbiotic Fission Booth. Dial:(1913)151-8919| Differentiation with alphanumeric labels as marks of individuality is fruitless down by the cantaloupe wagon! Just throw the rinds at the heavily-armed security clowns as they do their magic paramilitary tricks! Watch for the slight of hand! The tricky INDUCTIVE method! |Only do this if you’ve seen it done before| (((The security cameras spotted Kasjus trying to spook the horses. I think he’s fallen down a link or two. “Postulation and theory become fact and law the moment they cannot be FREEEZE-DRIED BAYBEEEEEE! [disproven?]” He screamed, hay and oats falling out of his mouth on to the floor. That spooked them horses plenty good. We decided to remove a few more links for the sake of safety and planted him where he wouldn’t offend anybody.))) That’s right! We work from experience here! Even if your hard-shelled honeybun is in the mood for a dry Pericarp....we can facilitate!
What a succulent evening...guaranteed by the trustworthy G-HAND(camorristi) himself...the fruits of which will last you a lifetime! +++Just ask Shiro!+++
(Average Shelf-Life: 23 Hours, 10 minutes, 12 seconds.)
[Shiro attacks the remaining patrons with a harvest-grain pie. All expire in screams of fulfillment and delight.]
[Title]:\\Generic Brand Pro-Bacteriel Re-Infectant
!This kind of craZy talk is going to get the place condemned. Just you wait. The authentic thatch roofing will come crashing around your feet sooner than you think!
Congeal||(d[=a]"r[y^])||Tiffin;
\A-YouKnowWhat: Kasjus throws himself under the unmerciful wheels of a passing golf cart./
[Non](Un)|Re|Topic{s}: Ghandaiah’s Space Lounge: The Microbiotic Fission Booth.
[NIL]This advertisement does not exist. |NADA|But more importantly, any sentiment attached to the establishment it means to promote(logical)cannot andwillnot(positivism)exist. NOT EVER. |||Maybe(but no evidence exists)it does exist. But not on the scale that we would expect.||| But does that matter? NOOOO! Only the call of the biological! Thrash wildly on the dance floor (in septum formation) with your {in}significant other(s)! Sample the cuisine from the (dubious-in-nature) Microbiotic booth! (((Kasjus and his crew just tried to bum rush the bartender. If only we could throw him out. He’s a slippery little devil. Oh, his wife just called over on the red phone. |Red Phone rings the Rumpus Room. Dial:(1)952-0205| She wanted to know what time the big division was going to take place. We told her it already started and he was swarming the bar. She said she’d be over with some rubbing alcohol in an hour. Man, what a lady...polygamy is a necessary evil for such a classy fissilinguia, especially now since Kasjus has nearly unraveled. How low can you go? I think tonight’s the night we find out.))) +Nucleotide comes in, choppy waves under the microscope+
...............DimTheHouseLights................
(((....[A]Kasjus [G]Kasjus [C]Kasjus [T]Kasjus....)))---Recipe for Kasjus on the Rocks?
(((Kasjus1 through Kasjus45,325 are now soaking in the filth beneath the bar. Closing time fast approaches. So does an insanely-colored golf cart. Right through the west wall and piles into the counter with a tremendous crash. Who was driving that thing? H-DANG? Never heard of him. Excellent driver, though. Excellent driver.....)))
====Last rounds ladies and gentlemen.====
----Now all your questions should be answered.----
--Please RSVP Ghandaiah’s SPACE Lounge if you cannot attend the party on Friday.--
-Thank you for your patronage/and/or/ultimate demise in the SPACE Lounge.-
Yours In Utter Clarity,
Attila Hwrosthada Shinglepants III, Esq. (A Vagrant Fan).
Pete the Pigeon had STRUCK AGAIN!
At this point, I began to become to begin to be VERY worried about such riddles [selddirinthespaceloungetongue]! While professional detectives like me are not commonly know to ENTER A STATE OF MASS-MURDERING BLOODY PANIC, I felt on the bridge of doing so. What I needed was a large binge of coffee, twelve marmosets, some loose pocket change, and an organ-grinder chimpanzee. I had NONE of these things, however, so once again I was left to what supplies I had: I turned to the never-ending, always-brimming depths of the mailbag for comfort and clarity of the mind and SOUL [luosinthespaceloungetoungue].
Ghand!
Oh god man! What have you done! That thing had beady eyes!! But to be serious.....
Nevermind, i was seeing those eyes again. They're in my dreams!!! Heres a list of thoughts on your new format:
1. You didn't seem like yourself. You were somehow, more coherent. I really don't like that.
2. OH GOD!!! THE DWARF WITH THE SQUINTY, BEADY EYES!!
3. It takes a while to load on some computers (like the crap ones we're stuck with up here in the mountains).
4. Whenever I close my eyes I see HIS!!!
5. While the pictures were great, I've seen way better some from you. I really enjoy the contradictory ones (You say one thing about how your so brilliant, but the surveilance photo shows how much of an idiot you are....I MEAN to say how deceiving M-12 really is... yeah, that's it)
6. Haunting, torturing, around every corner I go I cannot escape, the eyes will follow...
Overall it was fun, and a good change of pace, but I liked the old format a lot better. Things like this would be good for specials tho. Keep trying, maybe you'll find a format that's better than the comic one and the old one combined. And, DEATH TO THE BEADY EYED DWARF! MAY HE NEVER HAUNT ANOTHER'S DREAMS AGAIN!
Death to palm trees!!!
|........._______________________
|_____|| ' ' ' | ' ' ' | ' ' ' | ' ' ' | ' ' ' | \
|_____|.....CYRONIC.....................|----------->
|........|_______________________/
|
Yes! YES! I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN! THE EYES! THOSE BEADY LITT-...
...Quickly recovering from my panicked state, I brushed off my vinyl overcoat with the nearest poorly-designed hairpiece, and returned to my everlasting train of thought. A rusty syringe was drawn on the fan mail before me, poorly inscribed with a lethally sharpened pastel crayon. On its shell was written “Cyronic.” I immediately began to wonder about this omen: Was it code? Did it mean something... deeper? Was “Cyronic” the name of a drug that makes you taste the flesh of fallen angels?
I decided on the latter, and promptly tore the said syringe from the paper before me, fabricating it into a ready-to-use, kiddy baker set. With this set I baked a pie... A CYRONIC pie... and gobbled it up with, of course, my hourly oblong slat of tea and turnips.
The drug was... more or less confusing. Though I did see quite a lot of binary code at first. I thought, could this be the center of my soul? The roots of my being? Have I met my maker? But then there they appeared... visions of pigeons across the globe!
There was Marcus, the pigeon of the underground Poop Arena, and Jimmy, the head pigeon of the Walk-N-Bob-Yer-Hed casino. And then I saw him... the master of masks himself. The creator of mischief, the pigeon that cars feared and phone lines trembled over... I could smell him from a mile away. It was Pete the Pigeon, emitting an odor unlike any other had ever seeped into the very endless canals of my nasal passage. He reeked of brewing trouble.
This, however, is where our story ends! I can’t make out the mysterious pigeon letters myself! You readers must help me, if Pete the Pigeon shall ever be found! See if you can decipher the puzzles! Mail your solutions to the usual address. The fate of the moist towelettes is in your hands!
:End Transmission:
Trystero has a twisted mind, no?
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