Trust the Horse Men

I was out of fresh fish. The grating sound of the grinding vendors rasping bone against the street was annihilating my thoughts. I was thinking about whether to get more or just batter myself into unconsciousness when my door shattered in half. A woman wearing a dress of claim tickets walked in.”I hope you don't mind a dead uncle and the wind through the trees, Shamus.” she muttered in a voice that would have husked corn. “I wouldn't mind anything as long as the men that bring the paper shave well. But they don't, and then I mind the clocks.” I replied. “Look, I need you to find the dog that took my shelves and insulted my user ratings.”

“Dogs don't exactly agree with my teeth, Duchess of Hilforland.”

“I can pay you well.”

“I go for ten shells containing the essence of a Natural Philosopher a day. Plus a fish.”

“I can only do 6.7.” she replied. This was less than I really needed but business had been bad this month. Only a half-dead pizza-boy had hired me to watch the mailboxes. “Alright. But I need to know the full story.”

“The dog was my second husband. He was very good with tin. But when he heard I was married to the mayor of River City, he had second thoughts. He took my shelving and spammed. I hear he frequents The Phlegm downtown.”

“Alright, I'll see if he isn't made of two racks ham.”

As I rode the elevator down, I noticed the little man in the corner was flailing less. That could mean any number of things, usually it meant I would die in three days. I would need to buy some flatware then. The streets were populated by very small men carrying flagpoles. My car wheezed a quart of blood out of its tailpipe. I grabbed my flask and took a hit of tomato juice with a little bit of crushed owl bone mixed in, the only thing that kept me going as the last insane detective in this sane world.

It was dance night at the Phlegm, and the floor was filled with horse-headed men. The dog was there. He was on a table, rolling in eggs. I sat at the bar. The barman was a giant armed lamp. “Gimme a Smelted Ike.” I said. The bartender replied with a screeching warble. I sat and watched the dog. He was eating a light bulb. He suddenly started choking, making a noise like chicken playing Pac-Man. A horse-headed man tried the Heimlich maneuver but failed. The dog died. “I hope the Duchess of Hilforland likes the essence of French disco kings!” I screamed to whichever agency was recording this week. The air now tasted like a man who made decorative maces.

This Is Unrelated NUMBER 2

The mooching don't like to be told about their watches. I didn't know this, but would find out over a cup of squid. The man who I was having squid cups with was having a problem. A problem with a boy whose hand was named Alfred. Alfred liked the cakes that lined shelves. But this man, a man who showed me how to levitate the third of every month, was being tried for fraud and fish, and the boy was a witness. A witness of a horrifying fish related incident. The incident had left three blocks with a red glow. The glow was always something that had to be licked by those who ran the shops on those three blocks.

I was going to find this kid and give him a seminar on 17th century farming techniques. It was what I once was, when I was sane. But then I got really into the geography of existing cornfields and it all went downhill from there. The corn was telling me about the wider reality that came with detective work. Bloody corn. I wish there was a rewind button on the cigarette machines here. The work needed to be done in at least a week. The fortuitous orangutan was on the television, talking about his greats luck. Apparently now he had got a free dead chicken. I always wanted to see that damn orangutan get what he deserved. The freakin' thing was always loved by the rest of these sanes. All that orangutan does is look foolish and win. It made me sick enough to stop being weirded out by the congealed blood that was seeping in through the door frame. My carpet was getting abused this week, what with the endless flood of milk that came out of my closet last week. Lets just wait with the rug steamer till I get a few other floods out of the way.

My first stop was Emilio the Butcher. He ran a shop down on St Evens of The Sponge. The juggler legion was out in force today, trying to take the rooftops from the tomato guild. I was used to dodging the rotting fruit and flying pins so it didn't really matter. The field trip there was having more of a problem. A little girl was experiencing difficulty. I gave her my umbrella. She made the sound a cat makes when the scratch its chin. The door to Emilio's was covered in flowers and pig noses. He seemed to be having a good day. “Luis! How is it you have lived in that office for so long without my meat pillows?” said Emilio. He was always trying to sell his meat pillows but no one wanted to touch them. They whispered strange things about their past existences in your ear. “Heh, still haven't had any takers?” I replied. “Well, a bunch of men in green business suits came in and bought half my stock last night at three AM. I hadn't analyzed that user market. But what can I do for you?” he said. “I'm looking for a kid. Name of Alfred. He likes shelved cans.” I asked. “Alfred you say? I heard of this kid that frequented the Can Emporium round Shelby and Hamhand. Stays there all the time.” replied the meat man.

The Can Emporium was the world's largest emporium of cans. There also was the worlds 72nd largest bathroom stall. I think something about the cook's hat was the world's something or other. Being so large, one needed a can guide. They were usually wiry guys that looked like they either played professional Starcraft or collected pogs. The music on the speakers was some sort of Indian unheard of instrument. It made a noise you imagine space to make if it could talk. I was looking at the map. It was printed on a sort of moebius strip, suggesting that this was the largest can emporium by a fairly big step. This kid would be a tricky card. The wiry guy was going on about pogs as we traversed the seemingly infinite expanse of the Can Emporium. Occasionally we met some of the people that lived here, crafting homes from soup cans. A man was creating a tableau of presidential assassinations from Campbell's Beefy Noodle. Then it appeared on the horizon. A giant low flying cloud, going faster than they really should. It stopped two inches from my face. It was a large ethereal bear.

Running Dog 2:Things That Eat Larger Things

Some of the drawers of the city had revolted recently and refused their owners garments, unceremoniously vomiting them onto the street and running off. The drawers had been stealing the legs of the dead and wearing them, as they were some clumsy mothers otherwise. Divisions of the Pantscorn Men had been dispatched to round them up. The Pantscorn Men were an ancient mercenary company/lobbying group. Their only concern was the removal of the rule of pantswearing. I walked on. This was not my war.

I was heading out to the French District. The subway was my only way of transportation since my car had been crushed when a disco inferno collided with a hurricane of rock and annihilated all funk for three blocks. My car was made entirely out of funk. So I was riding the tube. It was packed full of pirates. Apparently Swashbuckling Hour was over. Those were some well buckled swashes. You could taste the sea if you licked them. Don't ask me how I know this unless I have just eaten enough pig chips to make a man go legally blind.

After walking out onto the sidewalk, I noticed the ground was stickier than usual. Then I saw it. A horde of 6th grade girls were combatting a raging set of Venetian drawers. They had tackled it to the ground and were tearing it apart with cute little scissors. It was a sight so horriftingly cute passersby were being rendered unconcious. I had to hurry to the Necromancers. I had to see this one guy.

Running Dog 1: First Hunt

The rain hit outside, each drop emitting the sound of a dying crab. Damn I wish I lived somewhere warm and yet not actually on fire. There were little bison floating about the room. I was going to have to call someone about it. Suddenly, my door shot open, battering some tiny bison into comas. It was a woman. She wore a dress that seemed to show a video of a taxi being attacked by a man with a bat. I was entranced and kind of felt hungry.

She told me of things that shouldn't be mentioned outside of arcades and greengrocers. Apparently her dog had escaped and was running wild, commiting credit card fraud and grand sculptures of her left ankle. Apparently the dog ran upright after being taught by a man in a grating. She would pay me in poignant and sad expiriences I would remember when I was dying. And a brick of money as large as a dead baby. This sounded reasonable.

As I stepped into the rain, I heard the cacophony of a brigade of men in rainbow short-shorts and tricorns combatting and enormous set of drawers.