feedback on my WIP short story, please

[Anonymous No.1897428]

Five-Thousand Pants and Zero Underwear: Super-Detectives Extreme

The name’s Pants. Five-Thousand Pants. And this is my sidekick, brother-in-law, and personal organ farm, Zero Underwear. We’re super-detectives. Super-detectives extreme.

Each day is like an egg: you crack it open in the morning and most of the time you get breakfast, but every once in a while you get a dead chick. Yesterday was one of those eggs you don’t want to get. Yesterday started with a dead chick. I mean, I had breakfast too; when the first egg has a dead chick you don’t give up, you crack open another egg and get to scrambling. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, it starts your metabolism or something.

Yesterday began with a ringing phone cracking the day open and spilling dead chick all over my skillet. My day was once again starting earlier than I would have preferred. You know what they say: there’s no rest for the wicked, or for super-detectives. The last time that I got eight hours of sleep was when I was in a coma for two weeks after my car exploded because some mob boss wanted me dead. Well apparently God or Satan or some other fictional being wants me alive because I’m still here with no plans to check out anytime soon.
So the phone rang until I woke up and then it kept ringing until I picked it up. There was a voice on the other end. It was a woman, and she had a problem. What a surprise. She was in tears; I was in my pajamas. That’s how it goes, being a super-detective. If any of you are considering “super-detective” as a possible career choice, know that this is what you have to look forward to. Being woken up early in the morning by phone calls from women with problems. Now earlier I said “what a surprise”, but the real surprise came when she told me who she was. Chello Bamtanarino.

[Anonymous No.1897432]

Chello and I had a history. We were something of an item, back in the day. Middle-school sweethearts. But in high-school that sweetheart romance turned into a sour patch. And now with this phone call she was back in my life, which made me quite the jolly rancher. Only now was not the most opportune moment for rekindling lost love because, like I said, she had a problem. My ear was having a problem keeping up with the velocity of her problems as they came barreling through the phone line. Words were flying out of her talkhole like spaghetti from a spaghetti-cannon: hot, fast, and saucy. Chello cracked open my day’s egg: there was a dead chick. Apparently somebody had cracked open the girl’s skull. Suspect number one was the girl’s boyfriend, who also happened to be Chello’s brother, Dan.

Dan Bamtanarino was a real piece of work. Only he was out of work more often than he was in it , so perhaps he would more accurately be described as a piece of something else. I’ll let you fill in the blanks; I’ll just say that I know how to work a piece and I don’t use blanks. He and I also had a history, but not in the same way that his sister and I had a history. Although we did have History together third period freshman year, but that’s besides the point.

[Anonymous No.1897435]

Dan was as neurotic as a Chihuahua and just as likely to piss on your rug. Also likely to hump your leg. Not really though, unless by “leg” you mean “ass” and by “hump” you mean “rape”. He’s got more problems than a math book, more issues than a magazine rack, and more dead hookers in his basement then three. Haven’t been able to prove that last one yet, but he just seems like the type. I can smell it on him. Not literally, I’m not saying he actually smells like dead hookers. He smells guilty. Guilty as sin and twice as ugly. Cute sister though. Chello had an ass that could move mountains. Or at least pitch a tent. Got to second base with her in eighth grade. Was going for third but her dad was playing shortstop and he’s got a mean throwing arm. Quite a wicked right hook as well. Anyway, enough about her, she’s not the one that’s dead. Well not yet. That’s not foreshadowing or anything, I’m just saying, we’re all mortal, you know? Dan’s girlfriend knew that all too well. Or she would, if she wasn’t dead.

The police think Dan’s the one who did it; Chello argues otherwise. For some reason I believe her. Listening to her on phone, I picture her face as she tells me he’s innocent and I can’t imagine anything but truth coming out of that beautiful mouth. I’m not ruling out the possibility that Dan might be guilty of killing some chicks, but he didn’t kill this one. Something in my gut tells me that. Or maybe something in my pants. One of the two.

[Anonymous No.1897440]

I next say to Zero the words that have begun many dangerous adventures of mystery and intrigue for the two of us: “Meet me at the Place.” He knew what place. You don’t need to know about the Place. Undisclosed location. I arrived at the Place to find Zero waiting for me. Zero is a tall thin man with a face made for danger. Teeth like a Bowie knife and eyes that could cut glass. It was in those glass-cutting eyes that I could see his hunger and eagerness to embark upon a new thrilling escapade. Mystery was afoot and Zero had a foot fetish like you wouldn’t believe. Adrenaline was like crack to him and crack was like chewing gum. Or it used to be, anyway. He’s clean now. Now Zero only gets high on life, although he does seem to be building up a tolerance.

Zero had already begun researching and gathering evidence. He had mapped out chains of events with branches of possibilities and had determined that the first piece needed to begin this puzzle would most likely be found by questioning Dan’s roommate. When I saw on Zero’s diagrams who the roommate was, a shudder ran down my spine and butterflies committed seppuku in my stomach. I had never met the man but, from what I’d heard about him, that was something to be thankful for. Dan Bamtanarino’s roommate was a disgusting, vulgar, perverted son-of-a-bitch who made Dan look like a saint by comparison. Dan’s roommate was Yertle the Turtle.

[Anonymous No.1897436]

Chello was in need of my extreme super-detective skills to detect the real killer and clear her brother’s name. Well, clear it of this accusation at least; Dan’s name was already quite tarnished and there’s not enough soap in the world to clean it completely. Chello was spouting words about a frame-job, a conspiracy, corrupt cops. Don’t know if I’m buying any of those theories but I guess I could take them for a test-drive. The police in this town are just as dirty as Dan’s name but, unlike his reputation, police corruption is something I think I can clean. My Smith & Wesson is a mighty powerful brand of detergent and I’m feeling the need to put it to use as a stain remover. It’s time to machine wash cold, tumble dry low.

First: breakfast. Second: call Zero. Zero Underpants is my super-detective sidekick, I introduced him in the first paragraph, remember? I crack open his daily egg: dead chick. Zero’s no stranger to dead chicks and neither am I; it comes with the territory. My sister is dead, and Zero married my sister (before she died). I’m the one that killed her. Alien parasites in her brain, long story, I’ll tell you some other time. The dead chick we’re focusing on now is Swan. Oh that’s the name of Dan’s recently murdered girlfriend, I guess I didn’t mention that before. But I did to Zero. On the phone. When I called him.

[Sherlock Holmes Guy No.1897445]

>She was in tears; I was in my pajamas. That’s how it goes, being a super-detective.
>My ear was having a problem keeping up with the velocity of her problems as they came barreling through the phone line. Words were flying out of her talkhole like spaghetti from a spaghetti-cannon: hot, fast, and saucy.

[Anonymous No.1897446]

That was part one. I'll post part two if anyone is interested. I plan for there to be six "parts" total and am currently in the middle of part three.

[Sherlock Holmes Guy No.1897467]

>>1897446
I really like it OP

[FB Mama No.1897469]

MOAR, PLEASE

[Anonymous No.1897492]

Shit, I'm about to got to work. This damn thing better be here when I get back, OP.

[Anonymous No.1897501]

POST MOAR PRETTY ANON!

[Anonymous No.1897518]

The apartment building looked like a severed limb removed from the torso of another building to prevent the gangrene from spreading to the body. Didn’t smell much better either. As I examined the exterior I noted that Dan and Yertle’s apartment didn’t have a basement. Wonder where he keeps the dead hookers. Speaking of prostitutes, Yertle the Turtle was in the process of banging one when we arrived. The intense sounds of frenzied booze-fueled copulation echoed the dingy halls of the stanky complex.

"What's my name? ... And where's my dick? ... I said, where's my dick, bitch?! ... Damn right it's in your ass, I'm Yertle the Turtle." The voice shouting this passionate pillowtalk resembled a cross between Beavis from Beavis and Butthead and Woody Allen. Just as I was about to suggest to Zero that we revisit this lead at another time, we hear the ear-splitting and unmistakable wail of a drunken turtle achieving orgasm in a prostitute’s bootyhole. This was followed shortly by an “Alright, you’re done, get the fuck out” and a woman opening the door and exiting into the hallway.
She had the mean and hungry look of a streetwalker who would trade fellatio for food stamps and offer anal passage in exchange for crystal meth. The sore poor whore exited the building with a waddling gait common to those who have recently finalized a hard deal in their south end business district. She left the apartment door ajar and I indicated to Zero that he should perhaps knock on it. He was a better door-knocker than I was.

[Anonymous No.1897528]

anon, you're good
got a blog?

[Anonymous No.1897529]

“The fuck is it?” came the reply following Zero’s three firm knocks. I looked at Zero, figuring he should probably be the one to answer as he had been the one who started the conversation with his superb knockings. Plus, he was a better door-shouter than I was. Zero gave me a half-shrug, unsure of himself. I could tell that the gears were rapidly spinning in his mind, searching through possible replies and attempting to craft the most suitable response. Usually he is quick to calculate optimal verbal exchanges, but I suspect that the lack of air-conditioning in the building had caused his mental processor to underclock itself to avoid overheating. I came up with a passable response, and attempted to communicate it to Zero by staring deep into his eyes and concentrating on the phrase, before remembering that neither of us were telepathic and that such an effort would likely be futile.

Moving on to my communication Plan B, I silently mouthed to Zero the words “We’re here about Dan”.

“We’re here about Dan,” Zero said, audibly.

“You cops?”

“No,” Zero replied instantly, true to form as he had obviously overcome any psychological barriers that were previously impeding his ability to create his renowned genius responses. The wordsmith was back in action, and it was clear to me that we would be having no more mental miscarriages. Zero would be pushing nothing but fully formed masterpiece word-babies out of his beautiful mind-vagina.

A pause. Then, from the turtle: “Well come in then.” I pushed the door open and entered the apartment, which I can describe with no words other than “shithole”. Yertle the Turtle studied the two of us intently, with a drunken look on his face that said “I just fucked a hooker in the ass.” And then he opened his mouth with drunken words that said “I just fucked a hooker in the ass.”

[Anonymous No.1897537]

>>1897467
>>1897469
>>1897492
>>1897501
Thanks

>>1897528 got a blog?
No. I don't have a lot of other writings. I kind of build a mental repository of different ideas and jokes and then suddenly I'm struck with inspiration and it all comes together. It's only like once a year when I get into a writing mood like this.

[Anonymous No.1897541]

>>1897537
good enough if your stuff's always like this
I was asking because it would be nice to follow you from time to time

[Anonymous No.1897546]

I did not respond to this statement. Zero gave him a thumbs up.

Apparently this was not the reaction that Yertle’s whisky-soaked brain was hoping for. It was with slight disappointment in his voice that he slurred at us the words, “So who the tits are you fags?”

I considered that to be my cue to introduce myself.

“The name’s Pants. Five-Thousand Pants. And this is my sidekick, brother-in-law, and personal organ farm, Zero Underwear. We’re super-detectives. Super-detectives extreme.”

“What the shit?”

Introductions now out of the way, Zero took over the talking. “Dan’s sister hired us to investigate.”

“His sister Chello? Mmm she's got an ass like a twelve-year-old. And hey, I would know, I'm Yertle the Turtle.” He ranted drunkenly, “Apparently I’m so sexy, it’s a registered offense. I’m not allowed within 100 yards of twelve-year-olds anymore. Not allowed to own binoculars anymore either… court order. As if! I don't care what the judicial system has to say... about anything! They’re always taking me to courts to tell me what to do. Judges don’t rule me, I’m a sovereign nation, I’m Yertle the fucking Turtle. Yertle the Turtle don't pay no child support. I don't even know if the kid's mine! So what if he's green? I know that bitch gets around. She's been with three out of four of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The only one she didn't bang was Donatello, and that's cuz he's a fag!”

[Anonymous No.1897550]

That last sentence was punctuated with an exclamation point made out of vomit, with the dot of the glyph consisting of a small round turd that simultaneously dropped from his backside. Without missing a beat or even acknowledging that items had been discharged from his body, he launched into a lengthy profanity-filled tirade about how the Ninja Turtles’ sensei Splinter was a “Jew-rat”. This was followed by a claim that the Jews (or maybe the rats, I had trouble following his train of thought) controlled the banks and he blamed them for repossessing his van. Yertle the Turtle then explained to us the significance of his now-impounded “ass van”, which was essential for “scoring ass”, and that he was “Assmaster, the master of ass”. When this segued into a complaint about how his roommate Dan owed him fifty bucks, Zero expertly intervened.

“We were actually hoping you could tell us a bit about Dan.”

Yertle the Turtle blinked rapidly and squinted at Zero, startled. It seemed that at some point during his babbling diatribe he had forgotten that we were in the room with him.

“Did he kill his girlfriend?” Zero prompted.

“Oh, that?” Yertle replied, “No, he didn’t kill that one. He wasn’t anywhere around when it happened. He was out buying pot. Cuntbag owes me fifty bucks. Or fifty bucks worth of pot. Never came back, pigs arrested him after he bought it.”

Zero continued his brilliant line of questioning. “Did you tell this to the police?”

“Nah, but he did. They didn’t ask me nothing.”

Zero turned to me, his mind sorting the new information like Tetris blocks. It was as if the story required an “L” shaped piece to clear the line but Yertle just threw him a bunch of “Z’s”.

“The police report didn’t say anything about marijuana possession. Murder was the only charge. And they didn’t even question the roommate?” Zero rotated these new pieces, trying to make them fit.

[Anonymous No.1897555]

“If we can prove that he was buying drugs at the time of her death,” I suggest, “it would give him an alibi that proves his innocence. Well, innocent of murder. Of this girl.”

Zero realizes where he can get his “L” piece. “We need to talk to the dealer. Do you know who he buys from?”

“Well.. hmm.” Yertle the Turtle ponders, “Not sure which guy it was that time, you see there’s a couple he could’ve went to. But I do know where to go to find out.”
“Yeah? Where’s that?” Zero investigatively questions.

“The Church.”

“The Church?” I repeat, attempting to contribute to the conversation so Zero doesn’t get all the credit.

“Yeah bitches. Come with me. We gonna see the Pope. The Pope of Dope.” Yertle stands tall with the pride of a man who feels marginally useful for the first time in his life.

“You uh, going to put pants on?” I ask, indicating the flaccid turtledick dangling between his stubby legs.

“No,” he replied bluntly. Before I could protest further, his tiny green flag retreated into his shell. Well that solves that.

> [end of part two]

[Anonymous No.1897562]

I hate to be a wet blanket, but this story is fucking stupid. Writing it was a waste of your time, and reading is a waste of time.

[Anonymous No.1897570]

>>1897562

*reading it

[Anonymous No.1897578]

>>1897562

>nofunallowed.jpg

[Anonymous No.1897585]

>>1897562
Ha ha, "stupid" was kind of what i was going for. But yeah, I imagine the people that enjoy this type of humor are a minority. Sometimes while writing it I found myself wondering "does anyone else thinks this kind of stuff is funny or is it just me?"

Pleasantly surprised that at least a couple people here like it. I had posted Part One on facebook, looking for feedback and encouragement but didn't get much. So I got a bit discouraged and the story stalled at part three for a few months but now I think I'm going to try to get back into it.

[Anonymous No.1897592]

>>1897578
>noshitallowed.jpg

ftfy

[Anonymous No.1897593]

I thought this was hilarious man, you could work on the descriptions a little bit, some of the metaphors were slightly odd at first reading, but it grew on me.
Made me laugh, that's all you can really ask for.
Thanks for the post, OP!

[Anonymous No.1897600]

[i like it]

[Anonymous No.1897602]

Man, so much samefagging in this thread. Every "compliment" is just OP stroking himself.

[Anonymous No.1897620]

>>1897602
well i was >>1897592 but then I read part of the story and posted >>1897600.

so there's op and me.

[Anonymous No.1897625]

For the record though no one would ever be arrested for "50 bucksworth" of marijuana. If you want that part to sound legitimate.
Maybe it turns out he wasn't arrested in the first place and that's how they find out though? Who knows where you're going, just thought I'd mention that.
50 bucks is less than an eighth.

[satan !OW9DVqIqy6 No.1897635]

this is shit

regarding the samefaggotry you've unleashed: you are only lying to yourself.
you will never ever be a writer. STOP IMMEDIATELY.

[Anonymous No.1897657]

>>1897625
He was arrested for murder, there was no drug charge. Also he could have been buying more, but $50 of it was for Yertle and bought with Yertle's money.

He is being framed for murder by corrupt cops, his girlfriend was killed by Buzz Aldrin and Buzz owns the police.

[Anonymous No.1897678]

I usually stop within the first two or three sentences when people post their stuff on here but I read this to the end.
That's your compliment

[Anonymous No.1897682]

this is all I have of part three so far:

The Church did not appear to be an actual church. It appeared to be the basement of an abandoned movie theater. Perhaps this was where Dan kept the dead hookers. There were several “worshipers” in the Church, in various states of altered mind, but it was obvious which one was the “Pope” to which the turtle had referred. In a leather recliner that had been spray-painted gold sat a portly middle-aged black man. He resembled a fatter version of the rapper “Snoop Dogg” but that might just be because I think most black people look like Snoop Dogg. I think Barack Obama kind of looks like Snoop Dogg.

Fat Snoop Dogg was wearing a nun’s habit that appeared to have been tie-dyed, although it was difficult to tell as the colors didn’t show well on the black habit. On top of his bald head sat a tall pope-hat made out of newspapers. Yertle the Turtle made the introductions. “Dicks, this is Saint Bitches-Be-Wack. Saint B., this is Fag One and Fag Two.”

Yertle pointed to indicate that I was Fag One and Zero was Fag Two. I considered it a small victory that I got top billing. Saint Bitches-Be-Wack stood and raised his arms slightly.

“I am Saint Bitches-Be-Wack, the patron saint of Fuck You, and Pope of the Church of Shut Your Goddamn Mouth,” he intoned, in falsetto. He did not make eye contact with us or Yertle, his eyes seemed affixed to some point beyond us, perhaps studying something in a dimension we could not comprehend. Then he sat, looked at us, and spoke in a slightly more normal voice. “What the fuck do you turkeys want?”

“It’s an honor to meet Your Holiness,” I began, “My name is Pants.”

“And I’m his sidekick, Zero”

“We’re super-detectives.”

Zero and I, in unison: “Super-detectives, extreme.” We had rehearsed that on the way over. I thought it went pretty well, but Saint Bitches-Be-Wack was not impressed.

[Anonymous No.1897701]

This is better than 80% of the "serious" wreiting on /lit/. Really enjoyed it so far, thanks op. You have a great knack for finding humour in crimefic tropes. Also, those similes are fucking excellent.

[Anonymous No.1897703]

had me smiling

[Anonymous No.1897708]

I thought that a couple of the jokes were funny. Honestly though, I doubt I could read over 6 pages of this shit, because you barely focus on the actual plot at all, and focus way to much on jumping into unrelated shit (which wasn't funny, the similes were the only moderately funny part but the jumping off track into unrelated bs instead of focusing on the story was annoying)

Like for instance. The entire time the guy is on the phone with the chick he is talking about her history and a bunch of other crap and she never has any dialog at all! I can barely tell what the hell she was asking the guy to do because you spent to much time on other shit and not enough time elaborating on the current case. Which was annoying as fuck.


(also, saying you had a thing in 8th grade makes it obvious that you are an underage writer, just sayin)

[Anonymous No.1897712]

wtf are people complaining about? This story is awsome! "more problems than a math-book". Look, I´m a bit of an author myself but I couldn´t think of something this brilliant in a million years.
I swear to whomever; all the complaints and whining is comming from the same jealous samefag who´s telling himsellf he´s some kind of mastertroll.

[Anonymous No.1897720]

archive this

[Anonymous No.1897721]

>>1897712
You're dumb. It's obvious the kid has a book of similes, if you have never read one you're missing out, they are as handy as books of rhymes, dictionaries of slang, ect.

[Anonymous No.1897725]

>>1897720

NOW I KNOW YOU ARE SAMEFAGGING. STOP.

[Anonymous No.1897731]

>>1897712

You couldn't think of "more problems than a math book" in a million years? I really hope like hell you are OP samefagging if not you are a sad sad person, and probably a very bad writer.

[Anonymous No.1897741]

>mfw OP doesn't realize that there are usually only 5 people on /lit/ at once, and there are about 30 imaginary people ITT claiming to like his shit, while none of the other threads are moving anywhere near as fast.

As your character would say, "The jig is up OP just leave quietly and nobody will get hurt"

[Anonymous No.1897749]

>>1897635 you will never ever be a writer.
Eh, I have no hopes to be professional or make any money off of writing. This is just for fun and if I made a couple people laugh then it was a success.

>>1897708
Thank you for the feedback.
> (also, saying you had a thing in 8th grade makes it obvious that you are an underage writer, just sayin)
I'm 23.

>>1897678
>>1897701
>>1897703
Thanks, glad you liked it.

>>1897712
>>1897721
>>1897731
The math book one actually came from a joke I'd heard, like "what did the math book say to the other textbook? I've got a lot of problems", I came up with the the magazine / issues pun based on that, and added the hooker line to it. Some of this stuff, I came up with the joke a while ago and now I'm fitting them into the story.

>>1897720 archive this
/lit/ threads are automatically archived at green-oval.net

[Anonymous No.1897839]

>>1897749

I hate people like you OP, if you wanted honest critique why the hell do you samefag?

[Anonymous No.1897868]

I do not generally take off my pants when masturbating. Usually it's a quick, stealth operation. When it's lengthy or drawn out I may take off my pants, but then I am lounging in bed- my bed, not some weird community bed or whatever- so there is no issue there.

[Anonymous No.1897907]

I actually masturbate through my pants because I have a phobia of directly touching my penis. I think I may be the only person on the planet with this retarded life-ruining phobia.

[Anonymous No.1897948]

>>1897907

Do you miss the toilet all the time? WAIT, how do you wash it? That is disgusting.

[Anonymous No.1897954]

“We were wondering,” Zero cautiously began, “if you knew anything about Dan Bamtanarino buying marijuana yesterday.”

“The douche that got arrested for breaking his bitch?” replied Saint Bitches-Be-Wack, “Why are you asking?”

“Well if he was buying drugs at the time that the murder took place,” explained Zero, “then it would mean that he’s innocent.”

“Of the murder. Of that girl.” I interjected helpfully.

Saint Bitches-Be-Wack pondered. “I will tell you this: things are not what they seem. To say any more would be… unwise.”

“Unwise?” I repeated, as a question.

Saint Bitches-Be-Wack glanced around his Church, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This shit runs deep. Deep down to the bottom, and all the way to the top. Oh yes, this conspiracy goes all the way to the very top, it goes all the way to the fucking moon.”

I was about to repeat the words “the moon?” as a question, but then realized that there was a more interesting repeatable word in the Saint’s last sentence. “Conspiracy?”

Saint Bitches-Be-Wack shot me a look that said “shut your goddamn mouth” and my goddamn mouth proceeded to shut. “I’ve said too much. You turkeys better leave. I would advise you to look no further into Bamtanarino if you are fans of having your goddamn heads attached to your fucking necks. Shit be dangerous.”

I was very much a fan of having my head attached to my neck, yet it was my sworn duty as a super-detective to persevere in the face of dangerous shit. “Danger is my middle name,” I declared. That was a lie. My middle name is Clarence.

Saint Bitches-Be-Wack lifted one eyebrow as his bloodshot eyes examined me, he was obviously impressed by my ballitude (balls and attitude). “I will tell you this: examine the scene of the crime. Now get the fuck out of my Church before you turkeys get my shit ruined.”

[Anonymous No.1898042]

>>1897948

>Do you miss the toilet all the time?

I hold the base through my shirt. I usually spill a bit, though. (I scrub it up of course)

>how do you wash it?

Other than letting water run over it in the shower, nothing.

[Anonymous No.1898069]

With no desire to ruin the shit of the good Saint, Zero and I promptly exited the Church. Yertle the Turtle stayed behind to conduct some business. It appeared that there actually was some kind of conspiracy, just as Chello had suggested. A lesser man would have gone soft when confronted with a conspiracy that may cause beheadings, but I had a hard-on for danger that was only matched by my hard-on for Chello. If Saint Bitches-Be-Wack says the answers can be found at the scene of the crime, then we were going to the scene of the crime. I may not believe in God anymore but if I learned anything from Sunday school, it was that saints are not to be fucked with.
The scene of the crime was Swan’s apartment. Swan is the name of the dead girl, pay attention. Swan’s apartment was quite nice compared to Dan and Yertle’s apartment, but kind of shitty compared to almost any other apartment. The door was not locked and there were no police or even police tape in sight. As we entered we had to be careful to avoid stepping in blood and brain matter. It appeared to my super-detectively trained eyes that no investigative work had been performed on the crime scene, the body had been hauled away and that was it.

[Anonymous No.1898071]

Zero noticed something cloth hanging out of one of the drawers in the kitchen. Opening the drawer revealed a black uncapped Sharpie marker and a crumpled “Denny’s” t-shirt. I remembered from Zero’s research that Swan had worked at the local Denny’s. The marker had been used to write a series of numbers across the shirt: “2 3 5 7 11 101 131 151”. Then, under these numbers in sloppy capitals read “MATPLACE”. Zero instantly deduced the meaning of the numbers.
“One eighty-one,” he said, “Those numbers are all palindromic primes, the next one in the sequence is 181.”
“Oh of course,” I reply, “they’re obviously pal… paldominic, uh…”
“Palindromic primes. A prime number that is a palindrome, it’s the same backwards and forwards.”
“Right right right.” I didn’t ask what he meant by “prime number”. Math was not my strong suit, the only prime that I knew about was named Optimus.
“And ‘matplace’,” he continued, “is most likely an anagram of some sort. But for what?” His brain whirled in a computational frenzy. “Maple… cat? Camel tap?”
“Camel toe?” I suggested.
“No, no, doesn’t fit… perhaps the shirt itself is a clue. Denny’s. What could have something to do with Denny’s with the letters in ‘matplace’? Argh damn it! Why couldn’t they have both been number puzzles, I’m good with the numbers.”
It pained me to see Zero like this. Stumped was definitely not a good look for him. “Maybe we should go to the Denny’s,” I proposed, “someone there may know what it means.” Also I was hungry. Zero agreed, and we ventured forth towards the Denny’s.

> [end of part three]

[Anonymous No.1898077]

It's kinda annoying to read. Maybe try putting in some longer sentences once in a while. I mean the start was good because it was fast paced but reading paragraphs of 10 word sentences isn't fun.

[Anonymous No.1898089]

>>1898077

Agreed, it's kind of like what some dude said earlier. It is a nice little joke story to write when you are bored in class but when it turns into over 5 pages it gets really annoying really fast. This story is like a doodle someone draws instead of studying, while it is fine as a little joke drawing, if you start doing it constantly and trying to pass it off as something you are serious about it goes downhill really quick.

[Anonymous No.1898105]

Less form more content.

If you can get these witticisms in less-often and make them more cynical/dark you might have a character worth looking at again.

Keep trying, read and reread - cut lots of things out, let the plot be the driving force and not the characters neurosis/personality.

[Anonymous No.1898161]

It's sort of funny, I actually laughed at some bits. OP, have you ever read Anthony Horowitz' South By SouthWest? Because the style is very similar, though this might be funnier. It's a kid's book anyway, so I don't know what market this is aimed at

[Anonymous No.1898163]

>>1898105
Also, do the opposite of what this guy says. You've got acharcter that's actually Yertle the Turtle; style is your main thang. You should maybe get rid of the mildly racist allusions to Obama/Monsieur Dogg

[Anonymous No.1898176]

We arrived at the Denny’s and were instantly assaulted by the smell: old people. We were just in time for the early bird special and a gaggle of old birds had flocked to the feeding. Eventually a table opened for us, and as we ordered we questioned the waitress as to the possible meaning of “matplace”.

“Uh, do you mean a placemat?” she dimly attempted.

“No, not a placemat,” I began to explain, “See, it’s called an anagram, the letters are-” At this point I looked over at Zero, for help explaining this concept. The look on his face was as if an epiphany had an orgasm.

“Placemat.” Zero sprang out of the booth. “It is placemat!” He then sprang back into the booth and furiously examined his placemat. It did not provide him with a suitable answer. “We need more placemats. Where do you keep the placemats?”

“Um, well, there’s some behind the counter, and then in the backroom…” the waitress answered.

Zero shot back out of the booth and over to the placements by the counter. He leafed through them desperately. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he felt that he would know when he found it. Zero threw the disappointing placemats to the floor in disgust and stormed into the back stockroom as I apologized to the employees and followed. I found Zero staring at a box on a shelf, frozen in awe.

“One eighty-one.” He was staring at a series of placemat-shaped boxes, one of which bore the order number “0181”. Inside that box we found activity placemats for children, the one on the top had been written on with a green crayon. There was a word find, a connect-the-dots picture, and a maze. No words were circled in the word find, only individual letters. Zero went through and jotted down each circled letter:

BUZZALDRINISGOINGTOKILLME

“Fuck! Another anagram!” Zero cursed. “Let’s see… sodomizing… klutzier alba- no, no. Sodomizing klutzier balling?”

[Anonymous No.1898611]

That didn’t seem to be correct. Looking at the string of letters, I noticed the word “going” formed amongst them.

“Maybe it’s not scrambled,” I try to help, “maybe we just need spaces, see here’s ‘going’, and then…”

“ ‘Buzzal Drinis going to kill me’. Buzzal Drinis! Whoever that is, he’s the real murderer!”

“Wait, what if that’s ‘is’?” I question, careful not to insult Zero’s genius.

“Buzzal Drin? Bu Zzaldrin? Bu Zzaldrin is going to kill me? Hmm, I dunno.”

Just then, a male Denny’s employee in his thirties, perhaps a manager of some sort, enters the stockroom with a face of confusion and repressed anger. “Uh hi, can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. “Is there a ‘Buzz Aldrin’ that works here?”

“Or a ‘Buzzal Drinis?” asks Zero.

The Denny’s-man became slightly less angry and slightly more confused, with a hint of fear. “Buzz Aldrin? Like the astronaut? Yes, well, no, he doesn’t work here of course, but he’s a frequent customer, comes in here three times a day for waffles. Only he calls them ‘moon biscuits’, and the syrup, ah, he calls syrup ‘space gravy’.” The man laughed awkwardly and nervously. “Actually, um, let me see, oh yes, he’s here right now actually, sitting over there at the counter. That seat is his ‘command center’… we don’t let anyone else sit there, he’s… insisted.”

I peered over to the customers sitting at the counter. “Which one is he?”

Zero quickly answered before the Denny’s man was able. “I would guess that he would be the one in the spacesuit.”

[Anonymous No.1898718]

It turns out that Zero’s guess would be correct. Buzz Aldrin, dressed in a full spacesuit, sat at the counter finishing a plate of waffles and flirting with the young waitress. On the stool next to him was his space helmet. He had a brown cigar perched between his fingers and blew smoke rings at the waitress, followed by crude innuendo comparing the smoke rings to the rings of Uranus, telling the waitress that he “would really like to see Uranus”. On the wall behind him was a sign that read “No Smoking”. This angered me greatly. If we don’t respect the words on a sign, then we are no better than the animals, or blind people.

“He’s smoking.” I told the Denny’s man, in case he didn’t realize.

“Oh well um,” came the stilted reply, “we make an exception for Mr. Aldrin. You see, he’s good friends with the Mayor, actually they have meetings here quite often, sometimes Mr. Aldrin gets angry and makes the Mayor cry… but anyway last year there was this bill passed, um I believe it was called the ‘Astronauts Can Smoke Wherever They Goddamn Please Act’. Mr. Aldrin is very… powerful.”

I moved closer to eavesdrop on the spaceman’s conversation. “You see, really, the rocket ship is a phallic symbol, representing man’s desire to fuck the sky. What the space race was really all about, pay attention now honey, it was a race to bust that celestial hymen before the goddamn commies, I mean, nobody likes sloppy seconds. So yeah, if you look at it that way, I guess you could say that I fucked the sky with my giant metal rocket-propelled dick. I fucked the shit outta that sky.” The waitress nodded politely with the look of a caged animal resigned to the fact that escape is impossible. Aldrin tapped his coffee cup and flashed the waitress a wide smile, “More rocket fuel please, sweetie.”

[Anonymous No.1898735]

It's funny, OP, but too much repetition and overkill.

For example, your third paragraph. Everything after "Yesterday started with a dead chick" is lame schtick, and ruins what could a great story beat / joke.

[Anonymous No.1898783]

>>1897428
>Each day is like an egg: you crack it open in the morning and most of the time you get breakfast, but every once in a while you get a dead chick

>Mystery was afoot and Zero had a foot fetish like you wouldn’t believe.

Honestly made me groan. You are really trying way way too hard...

[Anonymous No.1898861]

Zero pulled me aside and pointed excitedly at the placemat. He had found something that was more exciting to him than watching a retired astronaut spout metaphors in an attempt to enter a young woman’s pants. “It’s a map!”

“What’s a map?”

“See on the placemat, it was a maze, but Swan drew on top of it, this here in the center represents this Denny’s. And then she drew lines connecting these paths, those would be the streets, and now the maze would lead to this that she marked with the star, which would be the library. That’s where we have to go next, it’s all here on the placemat. This placemat is the key to proving Dan Bamtanarino didn’t murder Swan!”

“Oh okay.” I was actually enjoying listening to Buzz, but I guess we had a case to solve first. I studied the placemat, hoping it would divulge more secrets. “What’s all this about?” I asked, indicating the connect-the-dots picture.

“I’m not sure yet.” Zero answered. I wasn’t sure what the connect-the-dots picture was originally supposed to be, and I didn’t have time to sit around and figure it out, but the dots had been connected in a way to form four letters. In the center was a large “T”, and smaller underneath were the letters “K J V”. It was a mystery that would have to be put on hold for now, because Zero was eager to get to the library as soon as possible.

We exited the Denny’s and my ears were suddenly attacked with a terrible mind-numbing sound. It was Zero’s ringing cell phone. Nickelback was the ringtone. Sometimes I hate Zero. He looked at the phone’s screen, then at me, then back at the phone.

Zero was puzzled. “It says that the call is from you.”

I reached into my pocket for my phone, and found that my phone was not in my pocket.

“Hello?” Zero said, into his phone, which had finally stopped playing Nickelback. “Oh, hi Yertle… okay… but how did- ah. Oh. Um, why? … Well. Hold on.”

[Anonymous No.1898864]

The call was from Yertle the Turtle. Apparently he had stolen my cell phone at some point. He was calling now to ask for our help, he wouldn’t say with what, only that he was in trouble, he had been investigating Swan’s murder, and that he had found a clue to solve our case. I suggested that we ignore him, and get my phone back later, but Zero insisted that we help. It was decided that we would split up, Zero would go with Yertle and then meet me at the library.

The library was closed because it was Sunday but I have the extreme super-detective skills that no unlocked library window can withstand. I slid into the book-filled building as swiftly and as deftly as a leopard that had been trained to enter through windows. T, K J V. Those were the clues that I was working with. I started in the fiction section, looking for an author with a last name beginning with T and a book with the initials “KJV”. No luck. If only Zero were here, I thought, he’d figure this one out.
“T, KJV.” I said aloud, trying to imagine Zero’s reply, “Okay so the T, the T is bigger than the other letters, so that would mean that-” I heard footsteps. I wasn’t alone.

“Zero?” I asked. No reply. “Who’s there?” Shuffling feet, a metal clank. Whoever it was was getting closer. “What’s going on?” In retrospect, calling out loudly might not have been the smartest move on my part.

Movement behind me. Someone was running towards me. I ducked just in time to avoid a slab of metal aimed for my skull. I fell to the ground. Something hard and fast slammed against my leg. I jumped to my feet, yelped in pain as my left leg almost collapsed when I put weight on it, and ran limpingly across the library. Then when I felt I had put a suitable distance between my attacker and myself, I turned around.

[Anonymous No.1898867]

Buzz Aldrin stood there in his spacesuit, helmet on his head, a blood-stained metal baseball bat in his right hand, and the Denny’s placemat in his left. I must have dropped it when he swung at me.

He studied the placemat. “It’s a cross, not a T! It’s obviously behind the King James Version of the Bible, you Godless heathen!” Aldrin sneered at me. I looked down at my leg to see that my knee now bent the other direction. Seeing this almost made me faint, but I didn’t faint, although I did collapse to the ground. I reached for my gun. Buzz Aldrin dropped the placemat. He raised the metal bat over his shoulder, gripping with both hands. Aldrin took one small step towards me. I fired three shots. One of them missed and two of them bounced off harmlessly. Bulletproof spacesuit. Of course.

Buzz Aldrin took his time crossing the library. I couldn’t run and he knew it. The evening sun cast a long shadow as Aldrin slowly stepped in front of a large picture-window. “It’s time for you to dance with the stars, motherfucker!” he taunted. Then, the sky exploded.

Well that’s how it seemed to me. What actually exploded was the large library window behind Aldrin. The cause of this explosion was the babyshit brown Volkswagen van driven through the window, into the library, and on top of the former astronaut. It was the Ass Van. A crazed Yertle the Turtle sat in the driver seat, with Zero Underwear as the passenger. A shard of glass was lodged in Zero’s forehead but he did not care. The van’s front left tire was on top of what was left of Buzz Aldrin’s forehead.

“What… how?” I stammer, unable to form words.

“The help Yertle needed,” Zero explained, “was stealing his Ass Van from the impound lot. We came to meet you here and heard gunshots, then saw Buzz Aldrin. He must have followed you from Denny’s, I saw his car parked outside, the one with the SKYFCKR license plate.”

[Anonymous No.1898870]

“Find the bible, the King James Version, there’s something hidden there.” I tell Zero.

Zero quickly locates the book. Behind it was a DVD with a cover that read “The Making of the Moon Landing Hoax: Behind the Scenes”. Buzz Aldrin must have accidentally left it at Denny’s and Swan found it. Then he killed her. Mystery solved. I hoped that explanation would make sense to the police, because their sirens could be heard quickly approaching the library.

Actually, it did make sense to the police. They knew about it the whole time. The police are the ones that framed Dan, in order to protect Buzz Aldrin. Not because they wanted to, though. Buzz Aldrin had forced the Mayor to pass a law that had the police force legally classified as Aldrin’s personal slaves. By killing Aldrin, we had set the police free, so I guess that Zero and I are kind of like Abe Lincoln, if Abe Lincoln had freed the slaves by running over an astronaut with a van. We deserved a medal, or a parade or something. But we didn’t get any of that. I didn’t even get a blowjob from Chello for saving her brother. Most detectives would quit after going through what we went through, and not getting the proper recognition. But we’re not most detectives. We’re super-detectives. Super-detectives extreme.


Look for “Five-Thousand Pants and Zero Underwear: Super-Detectives Extreme: The Movie”, starring Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray, coming to theaters Summer 1984. [Editor’s note: “Five-Thousand Pants and Zero Underwear: Super-Detectives Extreme: The Movie” has since been renamed “Ghostbusters”]

[Anonymous No.1898880]

You are still posting this shit? God damn. Nobody is reading this entire thing, Just pastebin it or upload the textfile to mediafire.

I HATE reading these in the threads, it is so much better to just read it as a normal textfile.