Banana Hammock (23 page)

“That’s spy gear?” Herb said, pointing at the pink dildo.

“It’s got a listening device in it. I swapped it with a woman’s vibrator and put it in her desk drawer, trying to catch her cheating on her husband.”

“Did it work?” Phin asked.

I frowned. “I got the switches mixed up. All I recorded was three hours of
bzzzz-zzzz…oh god…bzzzz…oh my god…bzzzz
. I should have put a camera in it, too.”

“You’re an idiot,” Herb said.

“And you’re a miracle of evolution,” I replied. “Somehow a sea cow grew limbs and learned how to talk.”

Phin stepped between us. “Harry, put away the dildo microphone. Herb, unclench your fists. Do either of you have any idea who could have Jack?”

Herb let out a slow breath, then shook his head. “Not so far. We normally get alerts when someone we put away gets out. All the major ones are still in there. Got a few baddies who were up for parole recently, but they were all denied.”

“Were there any cases Jack was working on before she quit? Any open cases?”

Herb’s brow crinkled. “Only one. But it couldn’t be him.”

“Harry? Were you and Jack working on anything?”

“Nothing big.” I picked up a slim black case with an antenna sticking out of it. “Bug detector,” I said. Then I held it next to Herb, said, “Beep beep beep! Crab lice alert!”

Herb shoved the device away, then got behind me and roughly pressed me up against the wall. “You keep it up, and the next thing your magic dildo is going to record is you going
pbbthhhh
when I shove it up your—”

“Enough,” Phin said, pulling Herb off of me. “I will personally kick both your asses if you don’t cut this shit out and focus. Harry, have you noticed anything weird lately? Strange phone calls? Emails?”

“There is the one guy, keeps emailing me, telling me I won the Nigerian lottery. I’m thirty percent sure it isn’t legit.”

“Seen anyone hanging around the office? Anyone following you or Jack?”

I had a flash of memory. “Actually, there was this one guy. A few days ago. Spooky looking mother. Black, greasy hair. Pale as the sickly, white underbelly of a morbidly obese sea cow.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Outside the office. Just standing on the corner, staring up at our window.”

“Did Jack see him?” Phin asked.

I closed my eyes, thinking. “No. She was on the phone with a client. I was playing
Farmville
—I just earned enough from my turnip patch to buy a tractor—and I noticed him down there. Checked again a few minutes later, and he was still there.”

“What did you do then?”

“I plowed my field in like one tenth of the time. That tractor is epic.”

Farmville was fun, but it wasn’t as cool as Combville.

“Did you go down and talk to him?” Phin asked me.

“Naw. When I checked again, he was gone. Hey, how come we aren’t
Facebook
friends?”

“Because I’m not on
Facebook
,” Phin said. “I actually have a life.”

“You should get on there, and friend me, and then send me fuel for my new tractor.”

Phin backed me up against the wall, much like Herb had a moment ago.

Hey, easy buddy,” I said.

“If you kill him,” Herb said, “I’ll call it suicide in the police report.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, McGlade.” Phin spoke softly. “Someone has Jack. We need to stop screwing around.”

“Relax, Phin. How many times have we been in this situation? So many times, we already know how it’s going to end. It’ll be a close call, but me, or you, or Tubby the Talking Manatee here will save her at the last possible second. That’s what always happens.”

“Strangle him,” Herb said. “We’ll make it look like auto-erotic asphyxiation.”

“Check the house for bugs, Harry,” Phin ordered. “And don’t say another goddamn word.”

Phin released me. I smoothed out my rumpled suit and said, “When I win the Nigerian lottery, I’m not giving either of you a penny.” Then I turned on his bug detector and walked into the bedroom.

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Ninnie-the-Poop Visits His Friend Jiglet by J. Andrew Haknort

(with apologies to Milne)

One fine day, Ninnie-the-Poop, or Poop for short, was walking through the Thirty-Eight Acre Wood to visit his friend Jiglet, who lived beneath the Big Ash Tree. Poop was singing a song to himself that went like this:

Oh how nice to be a bear!

Without a worry or a care!

The sun is out, the sky is blue!

So little time, so much to do!

Poop sang this song to himself, over and over and over again, when all of the sudden he realized he’d walked much farther than he’d intended.

“Oh bother,” said Poop. “I really fucked up this time.”

So he (he being Poop) sat down under a small elm tree to contemplate his position while he smoked some crack cocaine.

That shit fucked him up, but good.

He was about to light another rock when he saw his good friend Eyesore, the old gray donkey, walk by.

“Hallo, Eyesore,” said Poop.

“Blow it out your ass, faggot,” was Eyesore’s reply.

Poop frowned.

“Did you lose your tail again, Eyesore?” asked Poop.

“No,” said Eyesore. “I just found out I have prostate cancer.”

Poop laughed and laughed at his silly friend.

“Don’t worry, Eyesore. I can fix you.”

Eyesore spit out a big loogie and gave Poop the finger.

“That rock has fucked up your very small brain, Poop,” said Eyesore. “You can’t fix me. I’ve got a tumor up my ass the size of a casaba melon.”

So Poop pulled out his 9mm and shot the old gray donkey between the ears.

The back of Eyesore’s skull blew off, and a stream of blood flowed out of his forehead like a fountain.

Eyesore fell to the ground and convulsed.

“There!” said Poop. “I fixed your ass good!”

Then Poop got on his way again.

Poop wasn’t walking for very long when he ran into his friend, Winchester Probin.

“Hallo, Winchester Probin,” said Poop. “What are you doing there?”

Winchester Probin had a hammer and some nails.

“Hallo, Poop! I’m nailing Bunny’s ears to this tree.”

“Oh, hallo Bunny!” said Poop. “I didn’t know that was you under all that blood. How are you?”

Bunny didn’t answer. His mouth was stapled shut.

“So what are you up to, you silly old Bear?” asked Winchester Probin.

“I was going to Jiglet’s house, but I got lost. I’m so angry I could fuck broken glass.”

“That’s too bad.” Winchester Probin said. The small boy picked his nose. “Would you like to stay here and play with Bunny and me?”

“No thank you,” said Poop, rubbing his ass in recollection of the last time he had played with Winchester Probin.

“Can you watch Bunny for me while I go get my propane torch?” asked Winchester Probin.

“Sorry, no,” said Poop. “I must be going.”

“I never loved you, you fucked-up little cocksucker!” cried Winchester Probin, reaching out to grab Poop.

But Poop was faster. He pulled out his 9mm and shot the small boy four times in the chest.

Winchester Probin fell to the ground with a sucking chest wound. His belly looked like hamburger.

Finally, after puking up a lot of blood and part of his intestinal tract, Winchester Probin died.

Poop stopped playing with himself and turned his attention to Bunny.

“Would you like me to let you go, Bunny?” Poop asked.

Bunny nodded, his big eyes wet with tears.