by Ira Nayman
“Perhaps you’re making it all up,” Noomi angrily pointed out.
“Perhaps I am,” Marceline pleasantly agreed. “Or, perhaps I’ve wired a series of explosives to go off around the entire neighbourhood. Who knows what I will do when cornered? So, before I count to three, you will hand me your tasers and put all of your other weapons on my kitchen counter.”
“She has a file?” Sergeant Marinara loudly complained. “Why didn’t anybody tell me she has a –”
A hard edge steeled into her voice as Marceline said, “One…”
Charlemagne tensed to pounce, like a lion that had been stalking a wildebeest that had strayed from the herd, or a stock promoter that had been stalking a little old lady from Muncie, Indiana who had strayed from the home. Noomi laid a restraining hand on his shoulder and gently, barely perceptibly, shook her head. Noomi didn’t believe that Marceline had wired up anything to anything else to accomplish anything. However, having been trained by the Arcane Sisterhood, Marceline did know 236 ways to kill a Charlemagne with chopsticks and chopstick-like objects. And, while letting him die would be one way to resolve certain tensions between them, it seemed unnecessarily drastic and permanent. In the report she would later file on the events of that afternoon, Noomi would claim that she allowed Marceline to believe that she had the upper hand in the hope that she would talk about the case. However, her primary motivation was keeping Charlemagne alive long enough for her to do the mature thing and talk things out with him. Ooh, that smi –
“Two,” Marceline impatiently counted.
With reluctant haste, the three peace officers handed Marceline their tasers, then put their batons, guns and a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum on the kitchen counter. “Spearmint,” Marceline nodded approvingly as she put the tasers in the pocket of her apron, “a deadly flavour.” (four stars out of four from Chewer’s Monthly, which raved, “This flavour is the most likely to start a revolution!”)
“I should warn you,” Sergeant Marinara warned her, “that we have the place surrounded. And, not in an ‘I’m saying we have the place surrounded but we’re really lone wolves or too impatient to wait for backup or otherwise are bluffing because we don’t have the place surrounded’ kind of way. We really do have the place surrounded.”
“I believe you,” Marceline told him. “And, while I’m not sure if I have enough ingredients to make pies for all of you, let’s deal with first things first. And, first, you’re going to have some pie. Gentlemen, if you will kindly have a seat at the table, I’d like you to serve, Clarice.”
Six eyes looked at her blankly. “Don’t you hate when nobody gets your clever cultural references?” Marceline mused. “Noomi will serve. Plates are in the cupboard to the left of the sink. I think I’ll get the cutlery myself.”
The men sat down as they were told. As Marceline cut the pie and Noomi plated the pieces, Charlemagne asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions…while we’re having our pie?”
“Not at all,” Marceline answered. “You’re guests in my house. Feel free. Only – and, I hope you will pardon my rudeness for pointing this out, Crash, but I found your investigation to be profoundly sexist.”
“Sexist?”
“Absolutely,” Marceline lectured. “Throughout, you referred to the suspect in the masculine – as him or as he – even though you had no basis for such a judgment and, as it turns out, you were completely wrong. Tsk, I say. Tsk.”
“It…it’s a deficiency in the language,” Charlemagne weakly stated. His defense rang hollow even to his own ears, so he added: “Sorry. I’ll try to be more conscious of my perceptual biases in the future.”
Noomi put the plates down on the table, then sat in front of one. Marceline gave them forks (plastic) and watched them eat from behind the counter.
“So,” Charlemagne asked, “you broke out of prison 16 years ago…in order to get married and raise a family?”
“You’ve seen my file, Investigator,” Marceline haughtily replied. “Did I strike you as the domestic type?”
“Mmmm,” Marinara interjected, “this is damn fine pie!”
Marceline blushed. “Aww, I would be good at anything I put my mind to,” she crowed. “But, no, to answer your question, I broke out of prison because I was bored. I have an IQ of 180 – I get bored easily.”
“How did you do it?” Noomi asked. “Did you build some high tech laser out of spoons, electrical wiring and chewing gum (Razzle Dazzle Berry – two and a half stars from Chewer’s Monthly, which wasn’t impressed with its “smoky tarmac” flavour) that allowed you to burn through the fence?”
“No,” Marceline told her. “I walked out of the gym and climbed through a hole in the fence. Nobody noticed, or, if they did, they didn’t lift a finger to stop me. Ferking McPrisons!”
“Oh,” Noomi said, disappointed.
“You were bored,” Charlemagne prompted.
“That’s right.”
“And, you thought starting a family in the suburbs would be exciting?” Charlemagne, disbelief dripping from his voice like the icing on the cake from “MacArthur Park,” asked.
“You have to understand,” Marceline defensively responded, “I needed to lie low for a few months, maybe a year – just long enough for the investigation of my disappearance to peter out. I took a job at Harry’s Haberdashery in Yorkdale. That’s where I met Mark Gibberlets –”
“Honey?” Dad – sorry, Mark Gibberlets, shouted from the stairs. “Have you seen my Mood Swing Ring™?”
The Mood Swing Ring™ – as seen on TV! – kept track of the wearer’s vital statistics. If they went above or below certain parameters set for the individual when s/he bought the ring, electronic pulses were sent to the wearer’s brain to alter his or her mental state. Too much excitement, and the ring would calm you down – too much lethargy, and the ring would perk you up. Perfect for race car drivers and corporate executives! This was definitely not your parents’ fad jewellery!
“Have you checked behind the radiator in the bathroom?” Marceline shouted back. Sooner or later, everything Mark lost ended up behind the radiator in the bathroom.
“It’s not there!”
“I’m busy, honey! Look again, and if you still can’t find it, I’ll help you look for it later!”
Mark appeared at the door to the kitchen. “Honey,” he whined, “You know I have the Chamber of Commerce Anti-government Pep Rally and Barbecue to go to tonight! I couldn’t possibly go without my Mood Swing Ring™ – I’d be a mess!”
“Dear,” Marceline responded, “this is Senior Investigator Crash Chumley and Junior Investigator Noomi Rapier. They’re with the Transdimensional Authority. And, this – I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name…”
“Detective Joey Marinara,” he introduced himself through a forkful of pie. “Metro police.”
“They’re here to arrest me,” Marceline told her husband. “I’m a master criminal, you know. It’s true! It’s true! I’m on the most wanted list of several realities.”
“How you entertain your friends is none of my concern,” Mark replied. “I need my Mood Swing Ring™! You know how I am with people. If I don’t have it, all hell could break loose. All hell, I tell y –”
Marceline whipped one of the tasers out of the pocket of her apron and “applied” the device to him.
“BLEEEEAAAAAARGH!” Mark shrieked as he fell to the ground, spasming.
“I’ve wanted to do that to that selfish prick for years,” Marceline confided.
A few seconds passed. Finally, Marinara asked, “Hey, can I have another piece of pie?”
“Sure,” Marceline answered. “Pass me your plate!”
After she had handed him a new piece of pie, Charlemagne asked, “So…would you say that you loved your husband?”
“Have you ever worked at a Harry’s Haberdashery, Investigator Chumley?” she replied. “When Mark came in looking for a hat that would make him feel like Rick Deckard, I knew he was my ticket o
ut of there.”
“Rick Deckard?” Noomi giggled.
Marceline shrugged. “You’d be surprised how many male fantasies can be satisfied by the right hat!” she mumbled.
“So, you married him,” Charlemagne tried to nudge her back to the programme.
“Like I said,” Marceline, annoyed that she had to repeat herself, said, annoyedly, “I needed to lay low until the uproar over my escape from prison subsided. Only, there was no uproar! I waited a month – two months – six months – a year – a year and two months – a year and three months – a year and nine months – two years – nothing. As you might imagine, I was very confused by this. In the meantime, Jessica Cornflake appeared. She –”
All eyes turned towards Jessica Cornflake Gibberlets as she appeared in the door to the kitchen. She gave them a bland look, then, stepping over the body of her unconscious father, went to the fridge and took out a cartoon of milk. Getting a cup from a cupboard, she poured herself a glass. She put the carton back in the fridge, walked over her father’s body and was heading out the door when she turned back towards her mother.
“Okay,” she asked in her most long-suffering voice, “I’ll bite. Why is dad lying unconscious on the floor?”
“I tasered your father, dear,” Marceline explained in a not especially explanatory way. She pulled out a taser to show her daughter.
Jessica Cornflake looked at her for a couple of seconds, then nodded.
“Cool,” she coolly said, and walked out of the kitchen.
“So, after a couple of years,” Charlemagne queried, “you should have realized that there would be no investigation. You were free. What kept you here then?”
“Two things,” Marceline responded. “I was pregnant with a second child…”
All eyes expectantly turned to the door of the kitchen.
“Yes, well,” Marceline commented, “Bart Finkleheimer – my son – has always been something of a slacker.” Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she added: “I was in labour for over 30 hours!”
Charlemagne made a TMI face. Noomi nodded sympathetically. Marinara continued to happily eat his pie.
“Anyway,” Marceline continued, “that kept me around for an additional nine months. But, the thing that really kept me here was that we were finally able to afford a Home Universe Generator™. I could finally continue my experiments! Yay! That was the happiest day of my life – or, it would have been if not for the whole 30 hours of labour thing. So, I got myself some copper wiring, a couple of soldering irons and chewing gum (Smoky Tarmac: three out of four stars from Chewer’s Monthly, which wrote: “You would have expected it to last a long time, but who could have imagined that pavement would taste so good?”), and worked on the Home Universe Generator™ in my spare time. Because I didn’t have my original plans, I had to work from memory – that took several years. But, not only was I able to recreate my plans, I actually managed to develop a working prototype. It just goes to show you what hard work and perseverance can accomplish – I am the embodiment of the Reagan/Thatcher dream!”
Noomi thought she could make out “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” in the background, but it seemed non-diegetic, so she ignored it.
“So,” she said when the others seemed reluctant to spoil the moment, “when you were finally able to modify the Home Universe Generator™ so that you could control the minds of people in other dimensions, you used it to kill Gauguin di Presto.”
“No, silly goose,” Marceline responded, “I –”
Bart Finkleheimer Gibberlets slouched into the kitchen.
“Mom,” he said, “can I…” he trailed off when he saw the weapons. Bart Finkleheimer rushed to the kitchen counter, eyes wide. “Wow!” he exclaimed, “can I try some of that stuff?”
“Now, son,” Marceline sternly told him, “Officially sanctioned police handguns are not toys!”
“I promise I’ll give it right back!” Bart Finkleheimer wheedled.
“I said: no,” Marceline insisted.
“But, moooom!” Bart Finkleheimer whined.
“Don’t make me repeat myself young man,” Marceline warned him.
“You never let me have any fun!” Bart Finkleheimer muttered. Just then, Mark moaned. As impossible as it may seem, Bart Finkleheimer’s eyes got even wider; so wide, in fact, that he was beginning to look like a manga character. Only for a moment, though, as he quickly brought the window pane of indifference down on the fingers of fascination. “What’d you do to dad?”
Marceline’s attitude softened. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand it now,” she said. “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.”
Bart Finkleheimer rolled his eyes in the transuniversal adolescent gesture of “I can’t believe you still treat me like a child – I’m practically an adult!” Before Marceline could scold him, he asked, “So, can I meet Jeff and the guys at the Blind Elephant in Get a Life?”
Ordinarily, this would be the point at which Marceline would pretend to care about the company Bart Finkleheimer kept. However, she realized that, given the current circumstances, that really wasn’t important any more. “Sure,” she said.
“But, Moooo –!” Bart Finkleheimer started, but stopped up short. “Really?”
“Really,” she assured him.
“No lectures?”
“Have fun.”
“Wow,” Bart Finkleheimer marvelled. “You should have strangers with cool weapons over to the house more often!” He bounced out of the room before Marceline could respond.
“I didn’t mean to kill Gauguin,” Marceline said after he was gone. “I just hadn’t properly integrated the Goldberg Variables into the Kreutzenberger differential enthusometer. It was a rookie mistake, but it had been a long time since I had played with a Home Universe Generator™, and I was a little rusty.”
Mark moaned.
“You see what I have to put up with?” Marceline complained. “Even when he’s barely conscious and completely unaware of my criminal life, ‘my husband’ is still critical of my work!”
Feeling the weight of the scare quotes, everybody in the room shared a moment of silence. Then, Charlemagne asked, “What about the wild goose chases you sent us on?”
“I was still working out the bugs,” Marceline answered, “but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun. I read about the investigation into Gauguin’s death, connected Investigator Chumley with Noomi Rapier and, well... The signals I sent into your counterparts in other dimensions didn’t control them – I hadn’t quite worked out how to do that safely, yet – but they did give me hours of priceless entertainment. Then, of course, I did perfect –”
“This was great,” Marinara said, wiping the last crumbs off his plate. “Any chance I could get the recipe?”
Marceline smiled indulgently at him. “If any of you get out of this alive,” she cheerfully stated, “which you won’t, please tell Barbara Brundtland-Govanni that I said hello.”
Well! That certainly cast a pall on the afternoon!
“Okay,” Charlemagne stated, “that would appear to bring us up to speed.”
“You don’t know about the Prime Mini –?” Marceline started, but stopped herself. Why should she give them any help?
“Why?” Noomi asked. “What was the point of all of this?”
“Hello!” Marceline mocked her. “180 points of IQ here! Haven’t you been paying attention? I WAS BORED! Can’t a housewife have a hob –”
Seeing that she was distracted by her self-inflated opinion of the value of her time, Noomi leapt at Marceline, knocking the taser out of her hand. What ensued was an epic battle involving many slow motion, explosion and leaf blowing in the wind CGI effects. We wish we had the budget to show you the whole thing, but you know how it is with first novels. Let’s just say that, although Marceline had both killer moves that Noomi didn’t have and the ruthlessness to use them, she hadn’t been in hand-to-hand combat since she was dating when she first got out of prison, so she wa
s a bit out of shape, and it was that bit of out of shapeness that allowed Noomi to beat her. When the battle is over, we find Marceline sitting on her knees in the middle of the den, her hands cuffed behind her back. The kitchen, the dining room and most of the den look like rooms in a post-apocalyptic nightmare with a big enough budget for really great set design.
As Marceline was hauled into the police van outside the house, Bart Finkleheimer, Jessica Cornflake and a woozy Mark watched from the doorway, a Gibberlets family portrait.
“Coo-el,” Bart Finkleheimer said. “I can’t wait to tweet this – it’s way better than the time Frankie Intransigent tricked his dad into chewing a spider wrapped in bubble gum!” (Ranch-style Barbecued Apple and Strawberry Cluster – one star from Chewer’s Monthly, which wrote: “This flavour is so vile you could wrap it around a spider and give it to your dad and he wouldn’t even notice!”)
“He-ey kids,” Mark shakily said, “You…wouldn’t happen to know where my…my Mood Swing Ring™ is, would you? I…I could really use it right about now…”
* * *
Nyuk Nyuk Nyuckleheads On The World Stage
by DIMSUM AGGLOMERATIZATONALISTICALISM, Alternate Reality News Service International Writer
Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper caused a bit of an international kerfuffle when he poked Bouzan Teken, a spokesman for the Kurdistan Workers Party, in the eyes with his fingers at the G87 Summit in Toronto.
“The Prime Minister regrets his error,” a literary press opportunity from the PMO released minutes after the incident stated. “He had assumed that KWP spokesman Teken was up to date on Stooges Diplomacy and would use the finger in front of the eyes response to block the two fingers to the eye dialogue initiation.”
“This is an issue only people in K1A 0A6 would be interested in,” said Canadian Minister of Industry Tony Clement, cleverly making reference to Ottawa’s postal code – his postal code, actually. “Members of the government of Kurdistan approved of the action. Only three people have complained about it. And, anyway, anybody who does complain is just a freeloader relying on the government to give them their violent yuks when they could be out making their own comedy!”
