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listen  jim guthrie read  the little prince laugh  ryan belleville
random © design and text by near-sighted 2001-2002 |
Agent Mitchell tossed her head nonchalantly in the direction of Earl's at the corner of 16th Ave and 10th Street. I, "They serve some damn good Tan Line High Teas over there," she muttered neutrally, as if it would not disturb her either way.
However, there was something foreboding in the patio air. The normal food smells weren't all that were emanating from the patio floor. We distinctly caught wind of cat urine and European man body odour. This had to be investigated. The drinks were consumed hastily but as calmly and coolly as possible to distract the general public from sensing the palpable fear and danger that loomed above our anxious heads.
"Nothing's ever free these days," I shrug and turn to Agent Mitchell, who is already plastering herself in the voluptuous hairy rolls of his apelike frame. "Oooh, you're the most special Earl's manager I've ever sat my tooshie on!" Pleased with her laply skills, Earl's manager directed us to the park across the street, where danger was rumoured to have taken place in the last few days. He had no more information. No more lap dances could save our assignment.
We were stunned. The voice was getting closer and closer. The wind grew more fierce. The crickets started having conniption fits so loud that I think they were giving birth to human babies. And then... then it happened.
Mission yet unsolved.
And I feel fine....... - 2004-02-23 |
skeptical of any standard family dining experience due to a mishap with a teabag at East Side Mario's at the Eaton Centre in Toronto (which will be unexplained lest it grab any more attention from the story than it already has), wasn't altogether convinced.
This had me. Agent Mitchell knew that my weakness was the Tan Line High Tea. A stirring concoction of rum, iced tea and mango puree. I was all over the Tan Line like monkeys fighting over a headful of lice. 
We made a short visit with the manager of Earl's, a poker-face type who often gives the impression of looking like a gorilla, and asked him a few pertinent questions about the cat urine and European body odour fumes that were penetrating the patio. As usual, he gave away nothing and instead demaned we offer him lap dances in exchange for the High Teas and possibly more information on the situation.
The park, in deed, was saturated in evil, and neither I nor Agent Mitchell were sure of how to react. I subtly reached under my trenchcoat and caressed my Kalashnikov - just in case. Agent Mitchell watched the back. Crickets chirped. Bottles rolled mysteriously from random bushes. A fierce wind rattled the loose planks of the park benches. In the distance, we could hear something that sounded like the old lady from the old Wendy's commercial, yelling out weak renditions of "Where's the Beef?". In one respect, I was concerned, yet in another, I reasoned "This is Alberta." Nevertheless, I had to take the situation seriously and Agent Mitchell and I both agreed that this was the closest to a scene from the last night on earth that we had ever witnessed. 