Hank Conan Episode 1

Hank Conan Episode 2
Hank Conan Episode 3
Hank Conan Episode 5
Hank Conan Episode 6

(EPISODE FOUR - FOR THE SAKE OF OLD LAG STEIN.)

 

You could say I was feeling conVIVial this morning!

I was up (again). It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid July, with the sun shining and a look of soft dry air in the shimmering of the foothills. I was wearing my trenchcoat, homburg, pinstripe suit, with battleship grey shirt, tie and clean handkerchief, new spats, off-white wool socks with yaks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved, washed, powdered and sober. There was no hint of a latex aroma around my crotch and I didn’t care who knew it.

Yes, you’ve guessed. Hank Conan, Private Eye, curse of low-lives, sleaze-bags and sewer-sucking scum-buckets, has a steady. He and Viv appear to be an item!

The champagne had been flowing freely last night, I can tell you.

Viv had drank virtually none. She must be particularly susceptible to drink, though. When she woke up, her first words were, "Is that you, Hank?"

Then the drink must have hit her. She ran to the bathroom shouting, "Oh, My God!" and she’s been in there throwing up all morning.

Well, I say all morning. She tried playing a trick on the maid. She switched clothes with her, left her tied up in the bathroom, and tried to get down to breakfast before me. Adult sex games, eh?

I left Viv in the bathroom. She was still a bit hungover and nauseous and, even though I say so myself, probably still on a bit of a sexual high. When I pressed my ear to the door I could hear her moaning softly, still interspersed with "Oh, My God".

Still, Hank is now a significant other and ready to take on the world. Maybe even the ‘mob’.

Any road up, as I left the building a car hooted. My senses, honed by years of tai-chi exercises and the most taxing of martial arts’ regimes, detected that something was amiss: the sound didn’t belong to that exact make of car. The horn on a ‘67 Pontiac was 2.03 decibels lower than what I’d just heard. It might seem a picky difference to spot but what clinched it was it being 1.0005 kilohertz lower. Dead giveaway, huh?

The factory had set them that way after finding the frequency of the horns was identical to the mating tone of the lesser-crested Bilbao newt. It’s not something that just anyone knows, but then - I’m not anyone.

I sidled slowly up to the car, keeping my hand hovering near the piece nestled lovingly in the soft, leathery, embrace of the quickdraw holster under my jacket. Viv had kinda took a shine to it. She kept trying to grab it - just before her hangover kicked in.

I got the biggest surprise this side of the Mason-Dixon Line: Vinny ‘The Kumquat’ Stein!

Now Vinny ‘The Kumquat’ Stein was, to the public and majority of folks, a kind-hearted businessman and benefactor to countless local charities. I knew better. He was also a money-launderer and, as I’d found out whilst working another case, a ‘made man’ with the ‘mob’. He ran the biggest and most lucrative black market scam in recycled paper. He had all kinds of low-lives on his payroll. Next time you’re out on the street look down any alley and you’ll see his ‘lieutenants’ - disguised as down-and-outs - systematically pillaging the bins and hoppers for paper. They don’t fool me: there’s a fortune to be made out there!

Yeh, Stein was yet another one of the low-lives; one of the sleaze-bags and sewer-sucking scum-buckets that pollute this great country of ours and one of the many that I vowed, from an early age, I’d expunge from the streets so that innocent grannies and children could eat apple pie like momma used to make beneath an azure blue sky, with doves wheeling among the clouds, and crickets calling to one another across the fields of wheat that carpet the plains, and the National Anthem played on every street corner by buskers in suits and ties instead of crusty old army jackets and torn denims.

In fact, everybody would wear suits and ties and eat apple pie like momma used to make to show the world what a free and democratic country this is. And if people didn’t like wearing suits and ties and eating apple pie like momma used to make then they’d be put up against a wall and have their goddamned brains blown out by the loyal kids of the Thatcher/Reagan Youth Movement with their state-issue 44s, so they didn’t stink up this country with their putrescent, subversive, pinko, faggot, commie, apple pie-hating, bitchin’, cancerous presence. Rejoice at that news!! Re-JOICE AT THAT NEWS!!!.......

Excuse me a moment..............

 

 

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