More On Richard Kershtinkle - Private Eye

The name's Richard Kershtinkle, I'm a private dick. My friends call me Dick, the dick. That's private dick. Being a private dick I get to see a lot of weird shit. There was one the other day by my front gate that looked like the previous evening's Bhuna, even down to the half naan and dill pickle.

The fridge had stared at me blankly when I'd enquired about milk. It's door wide, it's shelves bare. I was going to have to go out. I was going to have to get dressed. I was going to have to wear pants. I dragged my weary legs into the bedroom, kicking the future laundry in the general direction of the corner of the room where clothes that need washed and can no longer be Febreezed into acceptability go to fester. I found a reasonably flexible pair of green boxer shorts and a pair of now cream coloured sports socks. I sat on the end of the bed. Our bed. The bed she'd lay in. The bed I'd lay in. The bed we'd lay in. I was distracted, I needed to focus. I grabbed my jeans and my Han Solo “Don't Get Cocky!” Lego Star Wars T-shirt. I was going shopping in style. I picked up my keys and wallet from the dresser, her dresser, and headed for the door.

I sat in the mk3. With its red paint faded to the point where it looked like an albino with sun stroke, I was thankful for the spotlights retaining an air of cool about it. I turned the ignition key and she purred, coughed, fell over a cracked paving stone and spat out a small chicken bone to life. We headed off to the sweet soul sound of Smokey's Tears'.

I cruised to Motown and pulled into the supermarket carpark with an air of superstition delivered by Stevie. I resolved to kick anything blue I saw for the rest of the day. I parked in the carpark. It seemed the logical thing to do.

The automatic doors spread like the legs of a cheap hooker as I approached. An old man stood just inside, smiling at every face that wondered what the sweet Mother Mary he had to be so damn happy about as they passed. As I got level with him he told me it was a good morning. I stopped and turned to face him. I questioned his assertion. I demanded to know what was go good about it. Sure the sun was shining, but there were dark clouds approaching and the forecast was for showers. Life was a cruel mistress who promised love and romance and delivered sorrow and pain. Given his current position smiling at strangers in a supermarket doorway, what did he have to be so damn cheerful about that he could dictate to me whether this was any particular type of day? He told me peaches were just twenty pence per punnet. That was good. I went and picked one up.

I wandered past the organic vegetables, with their knobbly brown bits that cost twice as much as their shiny pesticide protected cousins, and as I did I could hear the sound of a three legged cat having it's lower jaw shaved with chicken wire. As I continued forward, towards the Entertainment area, the noise got louder. I realised that they were pushing the music of Whiny Alehouse. Their marketing ploy would have no effect on me, I was immune to such obvious and blatant sales tactics. Her depressing brand of audible self harm and chemical dependency was neither uplifting nor referential enough to influence my musical purchasing preferences. I headed for the alcohol aisle.

As I passed the biscuits that I could buy and receive an equal amount in addition for no extra charge, I turned to see a gallery of shimmering glass. I aimed for the Shiraz and paused, my arm reaching out like a baboon sending an elevator to the third floor when he meant to press for the fifth. Wine was the comfortable middle ground. A bottle of plonk to send me the way of the weary. Perhaps this was a time to fall back on my old friend beer.

Beer and I had parted company some years ago. It wasn't that we had fallen out or had any significant disagreement, she just never felt he was sophisticated enough, and certainly not the type of friend to bring out at dinner parties. We'd kept in touch, mostly meeting up at Harry's, but even now I felt I couldn't take him home. I couldn't go back.

Perhaps it was time to step up to the big leagues. Grab a single malt and get down to some serious brain rotting. I looked around, curious to see what the great and the good were buying. I saw a pair of Spider-Man pants picking up a large bottle of an exotic fruit based drink. As he brought it down from the shelf he nodded excitedly. The hyenas at his side systematically increasing the number of bottles they could consume and trying to define exactly how drunk they had been previously.

I tried to recall if I'd ever had Spider-Man pants. Then I tried to recall if I'd ever felt the need to wear my trousers low enough for people to see my pants. Then I remembered that incident after too many tequilas on the night bus with four drunken men, seven loud and obnoxious girls on a hen night, a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch, and two members of the local constabulary. Those cell cots are hard.

Once the pack had moved on, I followed the Spider-Man pants' wisdom and examined a bottle of the exotic fruit concoction. It was one of those drinks that combines any number of liquefied fruit, adds a dash of vodka, and suggests that by drinking it you'll be instantly more attractive and women will think you're sensitive. It's all bullshit, but it was a litre bottle of bullshit and cheap. I took three and headed for the tills.

Back in the car park the grey clouds were now overhead. As I climbed into the mk3 they started to weep for me. I threw an angry look up at them. It hit the windscreen and fell into the footwell by the clutch pedal. I stroked the ignition key, then grabbed hold and twisted it like it was Edward Ruttlinger's right nipple. Edward had sat by me in Maths classes back in school. He was a smart kid. A proper brain box. I displayed my superiority over him by inflicting pain regularly. The last time I bumped into him he said he was working in a bank and blathered on about bonuses. Loser.

The mk3 carried me home while Otis chilled out watching boats. As I pulled up outside the house the sky was now spitting its contempt at me, so I ran inside. Shaking off the rain I headed to the fridge to deposit my wares, and as I pulled open the door the hinges creaked and whispered 'milk'.

I bit a peach, unscrewed a bottle, and set a course for fruit based oblivion.

Richard Kershtinkle

The name's Richard Kershtinkle, I'm a private dick. My friends call me Dick, the dick. That's private dick. Being a private dick I get to see a lot of weird shit. There was one the other day at the side of the the burger stand, looked like a pigeon in a Stetson.

I was propping up the bar in Harry's. Why he couldn't have used a workbench or even a chair I don't know. I guess he just wanted that personal touch. Besides, it had been raining most of the day and he'd offered me free drinks while he fixed it in place, so I was glad to help. Harry wasn't accomplished when it came to DIY and was too cheap to get people in to do the refit. I was on my fifth J2O and had pushed the boat out and gone for the Orange & Pomegranate. It was a mistake.

Harry and I were old buddies. We'd knocked about in the same neighbourhood as kids, getting into fights, chasing the girls, getting the ever loving crap kicked out of us when we caught up with them. It was a tough neighbourhood. The compensation Harry got for the time Katie Guffnapper kicked him so hard in the juice box he was left permanently cross eyed had been invested wisely and he'd opened the bar a few years back on the returns. It was lucky he'd seen the ad for The Injury and Accident Lawyers 4 U Claim Group Direct. They offered a no win no fee guarantee to get compensation, or for a small fee knee cap the other party and take their dinner money. In my youthful exuberance I'd urged Harry to go for the knee capping. Katie had once pulled tongues at me, and that kind of pain never goes away.

Harry laboriously fixed the final screws into place so I could let go. Fair play to the old boy, it looked good and level. We tested it out by skimming shot glasses across it like you see in old Westerns. Harry slid down my Orange & Pomegranate. Seriously, don't. It's nasty. I held my breath and swallowed hard.

I bid farewell to Harry and turned to leave. That's when I saw her. Her auburn hair was pushed back behind her ears. Her ears where on the side of her head. Her hair brushed her shoulders as it flowed behind her back. The light caught the waves as they ran like rapids out of sight. I gazed at her as she removed her coat and shook off the precipitation she had collected outside. She stood before me in a cut off tee shirt, blue jeans and a pair of blue Adidas Samba's. Classy.

She walked up to the bar and gestured Harry. Harry looked at her. She gestured again, damn his eyes. She looked at me. I looked at her. We looked at each other. She looked back to Harry. I looked at Harry. Harry looked at us both, I think.

She said she was looking for someone to help her out. I told her I was always available to help a pretty dame, and truth be told I'd help the munters too. I'm not as young as I was and long since sold my principals down the river when I started accepting KFC Bargain Buckets as payment. I said I'd be glad to help her out, took her arm and headed for the door. She stopped me and said that's not what she meant. I told her to be more specific then, I was a busy man and time is chicken. She asked me who I was. I told her I'm Richard Kershtinkle and I'm a private dick. My friends call me Dick, the dick. That's private dick, and that being a private dick I see a lot of weird shit, like the other day there was one in the supermarket car park that with the tyre tread looked like a Semilarvatus Butterfly Fish.

She said she had no time for games. I put the Scrabble away. She said she needed a man. I was a man. She queried the past tense. I assured her the chest luggage was all man, as was the salami looking for flaws in my zip. She told me I was disgusting and ought to be ashamed of myself. I explained that ever since I found myself putting Britain's Got Talent on series link I've been beyond shame. I could see the pity in her eyes, mixing with contempt. She put her hand on my arm and whispered sympathy. I told her to take her sympathy and flush it with the other rotten goldfish. She looked shocked, like a beaver chewing a scaffold pole. I took a step back. She stepped forward. I took another step back. She took another step forward. I jumped to the left. She stepped to her right. I put my hands on my hips. She closed her legs, bringing her knees in tight. I told her that if her name was Janet I would be very likely to soil myself. She said it wasn't, that her name was Florence and that the Kit-Kat in her pocket was just coincidence. Florence. A beautiful name to match the beauty of the city. In her case the city of Sheffield. She opened her mouth, and from this range I could scent the mild garlic from the Kiev she had eaten within the hour. I know my chicken. She told me she'd recently moved into a flat above one of the shops down the street. I asked why I should care. She told me I shouldn't and that she was just trying to make small talk as our conversing seamed to have reached an impasse. I told her that small talk was like foreplay, unnecessary. I asked her if she was going to get to her point as I wasn't going to see her wasting any more of my time, not when there could be a Zinger Wrap worthy case just around the corner. She called me a dead beat and said she wished she hadn't bothered coming in. Thrusting her arms back into her coat and turning towards the door and said she didn't know who I thought I was. So as she stormed back out on to the cold wet streets I reminded her. I'm Richard Kershtinkle, and I'm a dick.