Random! Random! Random! Random! Purple Monkey Dishwasher!

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OMG

As confusing as it was worded..It makes sense, and can be applied to the Universe in general.

There are some things about the Universe we do know.
There are also some things about the Universe we know that we don't know.
And, there are things about the Universe we don't know that we don't know...

Part I: Murder Most Fowl

It was a dark and stormy night. As the cliché sunk into my thick noir skull under the influence of a heavily malted scotch, I began to wonder what my life had really meant up until that point. My real name is Ezekial but in all the gin joints in the entire world, the people know me as Zeke Feebel: Private Dick. That meant I was licensed to carry a gun: a big one. My job was solving puzzles mostly, piecing together pieces of potential portents that would aid in my eventual closing of a case. And that night I had been drinking a lot because my most recently conundrum had me stumped like a beaver caught in a bear trap trying to eat its own foot off. Yeah, it was a corker all right.

It all started on a Monday. Normally I didn’t come into the office on a Monday due to constant hangovers from weekend benders and the fact that I’m quite lazy and unmotivated. However on this occasion, I had left the keys to my apartment sitting on my desk. When I open the door to my humble little workspace, I found an attractive blonde sprawled out all over my sofa. Five foot nine, soft lips and blue eyes: his name was Carl. The first thing that came out of my mouth was a bit of spit followed by the words: ‘Who the hell let you in my office?’ He turned around, stunned, like a deer about to be run over by a couple of tanked up hunters in an RV.
“Are you Zeke Feebel?” he asked nervously.
“I am,” I replied downing another belt of fine old whiskey, “Who the hell are you?”
Carl arose silently. There was something graceful about the way he moved: almost like some kind of a ballet dancer.
“My name is Carl Wang, I’m a ballet dancer with the Fungmore Dance Society.”
Dance society. I had killed seventeen communists for Senator McCarthy the previous year, yet a freak like Carl Wang was free to walk to streets, even dancing so.
“Who let you in here?” I asked, pointing my rather extended gun in his face.
Carl shuddered at the size of my throbbing membership to the International Private Detective School, the certificate of which was hanging on the wall of my office.
“The janitor. The Latino man.”
“Latino? Oh, yeah… O’Flanagan.”
“Um… yes I think so.”
I offered Carl a drink. He said no thanks.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
“No thanks.” Carl replied.
Carl looked at the artefacts that cluttered my small dusty office. Ancient coins from Mesopotamia, Peruvian ceremonial masks and Nigerian arrowheads were just some of the crap my ex had taken from me in the divorce that I had ‘taken’ back after our house accidentally burnt down. Now they were like relics of some old and forgotten civilisation, locked up for none to see.
“Is that a Maltese falcon?” Carl enquired.
“No, I don’t hold the copyright on that one. But this piece you might enjoy…” I replied, handing Carl a small clump of brownish dirt.
“What is it?”
“It’s petrified dinosaur droppings.”
Carl dropped the droppings suddenly onto the floor. Apologetic, he pulled out the pooper-scooper, picked them up and bagged them. As he did, I sat in my old Lazy Boy reclining lounge, pouring a nightcap.
“So what can I do for you Mr Wang?” I asked, as I downed the old brown water into my funnel.
“Well as I said I’m a ballet dancer-“
“What kind of a name is Wang anyhow?” I interrupted annoyingly.
“It’s Chinese.”
“You have blonde hair and blue eyes.” I retorted.
“So do my parents.”
“I see,” I said as connect the intravenous alcohol drip to the vein in my arm, “Please continue.”
“Well Mr Feebel, I’m a dancer you see and… well, I suspect my instructor of being a murderous wretch.”
“Why a wretch? Why not a slut or a mole or a ninety-nine cent special whore?”
Carl sat pondering. As he did, I downed two ekkies, completely spacing.
“Hmm… I don’t know really.”
It was at that time, as I began to transcend space and time, that a little red monkey appeared on Carl’s shoulder. It began talking to me in Chinese. Although I don’t speak Chinese, so I didn’t understand a word of what it was saying. But I knew its intent. It was… EVIL.
So I chased that monkey down into the elevator shaft and through the Norway maelstrom and through perditions flames before the sweet scent of smelling salts awoke me. Carl was hovering over me.
“Are you all right Mr Feebel? You passed out there…”
I sat up in the chair, trying to regain my composure.
“Yeah I’m fine… just another unexpected blackout, nothing to worry about.”
As I turned around, standing next to the doorway was the figure of a beautiful woman. Next to that playboy calendar on the wall entering the room was Miss Elmira Pussley. At once I knew I was in love. My heart rate soared, I grinded my teeth and passed out again.

When I awoke again, Miss Pussley was above me looking down. Carl, the gay ballet dancer boy, was next to her.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Carl Wang. I came to you about the murderous wretch?”
“Not you!” I shouted back angrily, spit flying out of my mouth, “Who is that?”
As Elmira slowly went to speak, her bottom lip trembled, like a dog left outside by a careless family during a snowstorm. She sounded like an angel.
“I’m #*!&ing Elmira Pussley, I’m here for the $#!+ mother #$#@ing secretary job.”
Her words were like something from a Marvin Gaye or the Artist Formerly Known As The Artist Formerly Known As Prince song.
“You’re hired.” I yelled as I arose with a new spring in my step.
Elmira grabbed my arm willingly walking me back to my desk.
“Here you #%#ing go you $%!$ licker.” Elmira said softly.
I sat there, entranced by her beauty. Her soft smooth silky skin. Her tight velvety fingers. Her short polyester hair. Her… chubby ankles.
“Um, Mr Feebel? What about my case?” Carl asked, butting in on my fantasy.
“What?” I replied entranced.
“My case… the murderous wretch?”
“Oh yeah, call the police… I’m in love.”
As I showed Carl to the door, “There’s the door.” I pointed, spellbound by Miss Pussley’s beauty.
“Some private dick you are!” Carl screamed in a hissy-fit as he stormed out of the room. Suddenly, a burst of gunfire from the street outside sprayed through the room. I leapt over onto Miss Pussley. As I hear the sound of the car outside speed off, I looked to see if Elmira was okay.
“Are you okay?” I said feeling her pulse.
“I’m $!##$ing okay you $%@#$@Q#$6@%^! !!”
As rolled off from atop of her, I noticed Carl was dead, with a chicken poking out through his chest.
“My god… he’s… dead.” I said quite dramatically, all in all enhancing the power of this vitally crucial scene.
I pulled the chicken out of his stomach, examining it.
“It’s a chicken,” I said, striking a dominant pose for the camera, “Only one person is a mad enough to use a chicken gun…”
Elmira screamed out hysterically.
“Forget it Zeke… It’s #@!ing Chickentown.”

Who is at the centre of the plot to assassinate the sissy ballet dancer? Is it the murderous wretch? Quite likely as there only seems to be four characters in this story so far…
but stay tuned for the next exciting episode of…
ZEKE FEEBEL: PRIVATE DICK in THE LADY WITH THE CHUBBY ANKLES