FRED DAFFODIL, PRIVATE EYE
April 22, 2014
Morning slapped me like a deranged walrus. My brain felt like it had been chopped and pureed by a band of angry aphids wielding barbed flails.
‘You’re an angel,’ I croaked when Wanda, my secretary, whose petals had seen the seedier side of the San Fernando Valley, poured a pitcher of gin down my face.
‘Freddy,’ she cooed, ‘you’re late for the stakeout.’
I nodded good-bye, almost losing my hammer deadened sense of balance and previous Tuesday’s lunch as I left the office.
The stakeout turned up nothing. And so, ever and alas, another day trampled into the vault of dusty uselessness here in the malevolent bowel I call home.
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