Banana Hammock

by Jack Kilborn

  “Did I?” I was on my second lard-finger, sucking up the health benefits.

  “The worry is, Brother McGlade, we’ve been having some trouble lately. A construction company keeps trying to buy our land. They’ve sent in their heavies to beat us, day and night. Our children, too. Little Amos there has two freshly broken legs.”

  I glanced at some child on crutches, his eyes red from crying.

  “Yeah, that’s a real tragedy,” I said. “Now hobble over to the cupboard for me, Little Amos, and get Brother Harry that pound of butter.”

  Like a good little Ahmlet, he listened to his elder.

  “And keep the moaning down,” I said. “I’m eating here.”

  “We’ve even gone to the local authorities,” Amos continued, apparently thinking I cared. “But the construction company paid them off. They dragged old Amos out into the field the other day, and kicked him between the legs so many times his procreation parts swelled up to the size of a suckling piglet.”

  I dipped my finger in the butter, then the sugar, then the lard, and took a big lick. Downhome goodness. “I don’t care about your quaint local customs, Amos. I’m here to find out who Lulu’s husband is screwing.”

  “Please, Brother McGlade.” Amos’s wife clasped her hands over Little Amos’s ears, so hard she knocked away his crutches. “Language.”

  “Oops. My bad. Let me rephrase it for the sensitive viewers. All I care about is finding the… lady… that Amos is… making babies with.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Amos said.

  I nodded. “Of course, it isn’t really making babies if they’re sucking each other off, or if he’s drilling her up the shit chute.”

  “Mother, you and Little Amos go into the bedroom,” Amos told them. They hurried away, as fast as his painful little broken legs could carry him.

  “Brother McGlade, I don’t mean to be hospitable…”

  “Then don’t,” I grinned, giving him a friendly tug on his beard.

  “Brother McGlade…”

  “Look,” I said, sticking the jar of lard under my arm. “I’m very busy, and you plainly aren’t helping. Get it? Plainly?”

  “Brother McGlade…”

  “How many of you moronites are in this little settlement?”

  “It’s Mennonites.”

  “Aren’t those the things in the ocean, like coral?”

  “You’re thinking of anemones.”

  “So how many of you anemones are in this little settlement?”

  “Our settlement has two hundred and eighteen folk here.”

  “Holy shit! That many? How many families is that?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Damn! And your women are so damn plain!”

  Amos nodded humbly. “The Lord said to multiply.”

  “Maybe he was talking about being good at math. Man, haven’t any of you heard of condoms? Maybe you should grow those, instead of corn. I’ll be leaving now.”

  I took the pot of sugar under my other arm, then left.

  But where was I to go next?

  Should Harry interview other Amish in town? If so, click here.

  Should Harry try to find Lulu? If so, click here.

  Should Harry quit this case and take another one about assassination? If so, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  There I was, surrounded by Amish. But I wasn’t going to allow myself to get intimidated by a bunch of tolerant, God-fearing pacifists. Not in my America, the land of Chuck Norris, who is so tough that he wipes his ass with Arnold Schwartzenegger.

  I moved in on the nearest one, the old guy I’d been slapping around, and hit him so hard it knocked out his entire family’s teeth. Then I spun around, kicking another Amos in the chest, knocking him back into the corn where no doubt some creepy Stephen King children would sacrifice him to an unholy monster, maybe.

  The Amish knew the best offense was a good defense, so they fled into the field, hoping to overpower me by retreating. I followed, pushing corn out of my way, coming to a round clearing in the middle of the field. All of the crops were neatly broken, in a giant circle.

  How odd. One might even call it alien.

  “Hey! Anyone there?”

  Whoever wasn’t there didn’t answer.

  I shivered. It was getting dark out. Dark and spooky. I realized that a lot of nocturnal animals came out at night. Some were very scary, like panthers. And piranha.

  Then I saw a bright flash of eerie, green light from above. I squinted up at it. Was it God? Or just some asshole in a helicopter with a search light?

  But I didn’t hear helicopter propellers. Just a strange, otherworldly humming sound.

  Was I having a religious experience in the middle of this cornfield? Maybe God was mad because I’d broken all of his commandments, except that false idol one, but only because I had no idea what it meant. Did people in old times actual pray to idols? What morons. Didn’t they know it was much smarter to pray to an imaginary, ethereal being?

  Then, somehow, through some supernatural miracle, God beamed me up and I was suddenly in heaven, surrounded by angels. Except that heaven looked a lot like a high tech space laboratory, and the angles were little green people with big, bald heads and ray guns.

  “So,” I said, “which one of you ugly guys is Jesus?”

  Then one of the angels zapped me with some sort of heavenly stun laser, paralyzing me.

  “Puny earth human,” he said, “we are Reptiloids from the planet Reptilon in the Reptilish Galaxy. We will first probe you with our uncomfortable butt devices, then force you to fight in intergalactic gladiator games for the amusement of a live, television audience.”

  I squinted at him. “Look, I know I missed church on a few Sundays. Like all of them. But there’s no need to be a dick about it.”

  The little green angels surrounded me, strapped me face-first to a table, and then violated me in ways that I normally paid $39.95 for at my local massage parlor. But there was no happy ending this time. Instead, I was dressed in some sort of cheap, plastic armor and dropped in the middle of a stainless steel coliseum, the rafters filled with thousands of ugly green dudes waving banners that said, “Death to Earthlings” and “This Isn’t Heaven You Dumb Ass.”

  “Enough!” I yelled, my voice all echoey in the arena. “I demand to speak to St. Peter. First of all, I don’t even remember dying. Second of all, I actually don’t believe in God. The whole Intelligent Design argument is moronic. An intelligent designer would have eliminated the need for flossing. And toilet paper. And what’s with kidney stones? What kind of all knowing, all powerful being would…”

  My words trailed off when I saw a gate open and a tyrannosaurus rex stomp out.

  A tyrannosaurus rex ridden by a zombie.

  Acting quickly, I panicked. Panic soon became frantic running around in tight circles while screaming and waving my hands.

  Suddenly, by the power of grayskull, two items materialized in the sand right in front of me.

  One was a steel broadsword, of the King Arthur type.

  The other was a book of matches and a can of aerosol hairspray.

  Should Harry take the sword? If so, click here.

  Should Harry take the matches and can of hairspray? If so, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  I knew the only way to get to the bottom of things was to actually do some work. This was unfortunate, as I preferred to take the easy way out. But since I was getting paid, I figured I might as well make at least a token effort.

  Unfortunately, Lulu was nowhere to be found. I should have gotten her cell phone number. I also should have gotten her address, having absolutely no idea where she lived. Planning ahead was one of those skills I hadn’t mastered yet.

  So I walked down the quaint dirt road to another plain house. I stepped onto the quant, plain porch and knocked on the quaint, plain door. A bearded man entered.

  “Are you Amos Co
leslaw?”

  “No, I’m Amos Johannsen. What can I help you with, Brother?”

  “I’m looking for Coleslaw.”

  “I wish I could help you. How about potato salad instead?”

  “Not the food. The person. Where does Amos Coleslaw live?”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m sorry. There’s no one in Plaintown named Coleslaw. I’d be surprised if there is anyone in the country named Coleslaw. It sounds made up.”

  And then it hit me. It was so obvious I should have realized it sooner.

  This guy was obviously Amos Coleslaw, and lying about it.

  I shoved him backward and shut the door behind me. I was sick of all this Amish treachery. I swore I’d get the truth out of this man even if I had to beat him so hard he automatically confessed to everything I accused him of.

  “It’s all over, Coleslaw. I know everything. And I’m willing to smack you around until you admit to my outlandish whims. Tell me about Lulu.”

  “Who?”

  “Wrong answer. You had your chance. Now we do it my way.”

  If Harry should beat him into confessing, click here.

  If Harry should use reason and common sense, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  I had to find Lulu. But there had to be seventeen houses in this Amish settlement, which could take me the better part of the night.

  Of course, it’s easy to dwell on the negative. That’s why I do it, because it’s easy. I deal with so many negatives, I oughta go into photography.

  Hey, don’t get mad at me. You’re the one who paid $2.99 for this.

  Frankly, I was getting pretty sick of this adventure. And since this is an ebook, I saw no reason why I had to stay in this story, when there are other perfectly good stories available on Nook.

  In fact, you and I could go check one out, if you prefer. Or, we can keep schlepping through this one and hope it ends soon. It’s your choice.

  To continue with this adventure, click here.

  To skip into another ebook, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  Harry’s List of Bad Stripper Names

  We all know strippers named Candi and Princess and Chesty. Here are a few with unfortunate nicknames:

  Beans

  Clitorectomy

  Bulemia

  Iron Lung

  Wife

  Fisty

  Dingle Berry

  Melanoma

  Barbara Bush

  Queefmaster

  Sloppy Eighths

  Tranny

  Mom

  The Yeaster Bunny

  Open Sore

  Jesus

  Red Stain

  OD

  Crying Mail Order Bride

  Third Trimester

  Molested By Daddy

  Earl

  Spastic Colon

  Son

  Skid Marks

  Leaky

  Gramps

  To return to Harry’s Amish adventure, click here.

  To read another Harry adventure, where he battles zombies, click here.

  Bored with people named Amos, I went back to my office and took another case.

  Chapter 1

  “It’s my husband, Mr. McGlade. He thinks he can raise the dead.”

  The woman sitting in front of my desk was named Norma Cauldridge. She had the figure of a Barlett pear and so many freckles that she was more beige than Caucasian. She also came equipped with a severe overbite, a lazy eye, and a mole on her cheek. Not a Cindy Crawford type of mole, either. This one looked like she glued the end of a hotdog to her face. A hairy hotdog.

  Plus, she smelled like sweaty feet.

  Any man married to her would certainly have to raise the dead every time she wanted sex. But I didn’t become a private investigator to meet femme fatales. Well, actually I did. But mostly I did it for the money. And hers was green just like anyone else’s.

  I took a can of Lysol aerosol deodorizer from my desk and gave the air a spritz. Now it smelled like sweaty feet and pine trees. With a hint of lavender.

  “I get four hundred a day, plus expenses,” I told her.

  I put away the air freshener and tried to sneak a look behind her large round Charlie Brownish head. When she walked into my office a minute ago, I’d been watching the National Cheerleading Finals on cable. The TV was still on, but I had muted the sound to be polite.

  “I didn’t tell you what I want you to do yet.”

  She was a whiner too. Nasally and high-pitched. It’s like God took a dare to make the most unattractive woman possible.

  “You want me to take pictures of him acting crazy, so you can use them in the divorce.”

  On television a group of nubile young twenty-somethings did synchronized cartwheels and landed in splits. I love cable.

  “How did you know?” Norma asked.

  I glanced at Norma. The only splits she ever did were banana.

  “It’s my job to know, ma’am. I’ll need your address, his place of work, and the first three days’ pay in advance.”

  Norma’s face pinched.

  “I still love him, Mr. McGlade. But he’s not the same man I married. He’s…obsessed.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and the tears came. I nudged over the box of Kleenex I kept on the desk for when I surfed certain internet sites.

  “It’s not your fault, Mrs. Drawbridge.”

  “Cauldridge.”

  “A man is talking, sweetie. Don’t interrupt.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The fact is, Nora, some men aren’t meant to marry. They feel trapped, tied down, so they seek out different venues.”

  She sniffled. “Necromancy?”

  “I’ve seen all sorts of perversions in my business. One day he’s a good husband. The next day, he’s a card-carrying necrosexual. Happens all the time.”

  More tears. I made a mental note to look up “necromancy” in the dictionary. Then I made another mental note to buy a dictionary. Then I made a third mental note to buy a pencil, because I always forgot my mental notes. Then I watched the cheerleaders do high kicks.

  When Norma finally calmed down, she asked, “Do you take Visa?”

  I nodded, wondering if I could buy used cheerleading floormats on eBay. Preferably ones with stains.

  Chapter 2

  Ebay didn’t have any.

  Instead I bid on a set of used pom-pons and a coach’s whistle. I also bid on some old Doobie Brothers records. That led to placing a bid on a record player, since mine was busted. Then I bid on a carton of copier toner, because it was so cheap, and then I had to bid on a copier because I didn’t have one. But after thinking about it a bit, I realized I didn’t really need a copier, and those Doobie Brothers albums were probably available on CD for less than the cost of a record player.

  I tried to cancel my bids, but those eBay jerks wouldn’t let me. The jerks.

  I buried my anger in online pornography. Three minutes later, I headed out the door, slightly winded and ready to get some work done.

  Chapter 3

  This chapter is even shorter than the last one.

  Chapter 4

  George Drawbridge worked as a teller for Oak Tree Bank. At a branch office. It was only three o’clock, and his wife told me he normally stayed until five, so I had plenty of time to grab a few beers first. Chicago is famous for its stuffed crust pizza, and I indulged in a small pie at a nearby joint and entertained myself by asking everyone who worked there if they made a lot of dough.

  An hour later, after they asked me to leave, I sat on the sidewalk across the street from the bank, hiding in plain sight by pretending I was homeless. This involved untucking my shirt and pockets, messing up my hair, and holding up a sign that said “I’m homeless” written on the back of the pizza box.

  Other possibilities had been, “Will do your taxes for food” and “I’m just plain lazy” and my favorite “this is a piece of
cardboard.” But I went with brevity because I still didn’t have a pencil and had to write it in sauce.

  I sat there for a little over and hour before George Drawbridge appeared.

  He looked like the picture his wife gave me, which wasn’t a surprise because it was a picture of him. Balding, thin, pinkish complexion, with a nose so big it probably caused back problems. After exiting the bank he immediately went right, moving like he was in a huge hurry. I almost lost him, because it took over a minute to pick up the eighty-nine cents people had thrown onto the sidewalk next to me. But I managed to catch up just as he boarded a northbound bus to Wrigleyville.

  Unfortunately, the only seat left on the bus was next to George. So that’s where I parked my butt, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand if I didn’t have to.

  I gave him a small nod as I sat down.

  “I’m not following you,” I told him.

  George didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. His eyes were distant, out there. And up close I noticed his rosy skin tone wasn’t natural—he was sunburned. Only on the left side of his face too, like Richard Dreyfuss in that Spielberg movie about aliens. The one where he got sunburned on only the left side of his face. I think it was Star Wars.

  Unlike his wife, George didn’t smell like sweaty feet. He smelled more like ham. Honey baked ham. So much so that I wondered if he had any ham on him. I’ve been known to stuff my pockets with ham whenever I visited an all-you-can-eat buffet. After all, ham is pricey.

  I restrained myself from asking if he indeed had any pocket ham, but couldn’t help humming the Elton John song “Rocketman” and changing the lyrics in my head.

  “Pocket ham… And I think I’m gonna eat a long, long time…”

  I didn’t know the rest of the song, so I kept think-singing that line over and over. After a few stops George stood up and left the bus. I followed him, keeping my distance so I didn’t make him nervous. But after walking for a block I realized I could stand on the guy’s shoulders and piss on his head and he still wouldn’t notice me. George Drawbridge was seriously preoccupied.

  We went into an Ace Hardware Store, and George bought twenty feet of nylon clothesline He also bought something called a magnetron. I knew that there was something I needed to buy, but I couldn’t remember what it was, and I hadn’t written it down because I needed to buy a pencil. So I got one of those super large cans of mega energy drink. It contained three times the recommended daily allowance of taurine, whatever the hell taurine was.