Crazy Davis Case Files – Episode IV

ANOTHER CASE FILE!

This one looks kind of like a script. Interesting. 

It was also vacuumed sealed in a bag that said “NAA” but I think a letter got scratched out. How curious.

I’m just kidding, who cares where it came from? Let’s get to reading it! I dubbed this little ditty “Roket Syence”.

A couple of scientists are tinkering away in a lab with a few benches and a whiteboard. Another scientist, Fred, walks on with a clipboard which he is studying.
FRED: Heya fellas, just been going over the monthly review and there are a few gaps…
One of the scientists, Dave, looks up.
DAVE: Such as?
FRED: We’ve completed all projects on schedule and the lab itself is running smoothly… but we may have left a project on the way side. Accidentally.
DAVE: Oh. Well that’s not a problem. We’ll just work on it now.
FRED: Yeah, that’s the thing…
DAVE: What?
FRED: I’ll let it speak for itself.Barry, load Project Gemini onto the whiteboard.
BARRY: Okay.
Barry, the other scientist, is handed the clipboard. He looks it over, nods and turns to the whiteboard, copying what’s on the clipboard onto it. As he finishes, he steps back to look at it in full.
DAVE: Well? What is it?
Fred breaks out in a sweat and breathes rapidly. He composes himself and looks at Dave.
FRED: Look closer .
Dave and Barry strain their eyes. Suddenly it hits them. Barry drops his pen and starts screaming as Dave’s eyes bulge. He scrambles behind Fred. Barry faints.
DAVE: (Terrified.) But-But-That’s—
FRED: (Very grave.) I know.
DAVE/FRED: It’s Rocket Science!
Cut to the ‘diagram’. It is a somewhat crude drawing of a rocket ship with various formulas on it, looking only vaguely scientific. Perhaps a dramatic flash of lightning and a crack of thunder too. Barry regains consciousness, looks at the whiteboard and starts screaming again.
BARRY: Oh god. Oh god! Help! Heeeeelp!
Dave goes over to him and slaps him.
DAVE: Make like a curtain and pull yourself together, man!
BARRY: But it’s Rocket Science, Dave! Rocket Science!
DAVE: I know, damn it, I know! But no matter how the saying goes, we’re gonna do this. We’re gonna pull through!
BARRY: How do you know? How could you know?!
DAVE: Because we’re scientists, Barry! This is what we do. And when it’s all said and done, Rrr… Rrrr… Rr—This thing is still a science! No matter how complex it’s supposed to be! So let’s tackle this sunnuva bitch head on, huh?
BARRY: Okay… Okay!
DAVE: Attaboy! (Slaps Barry again.) Fred! Get the boys in the ‘shop to whip up a car, a pair of wings and some sort of nose cone.
FRED: You got it!
Fred dahses off. Dave goes to follow.
DAVE: C’mon Barry!
BARRY: I’m scared.
DAVE: I know, but don’t be! It’s just… (Gulps.)... Rocket Science! Yeah, Rocket Science. Nothing to it. So come on.
He drags Barry off towards the workshop.
BARRY: I sure hope we can pull this off.
DAVE: Of course we can! I’m gonna get this project done even it kills me.
The lab is left unoccupied. Moments later, there are sounds of metal whirring and welding and general mechanical noise.
DAVE (V/O.): Okay! Start her up!
A massive explosion sounds which shakes the laboratory as it is engulfed in flame.

Hoo boy, I sure hope these aren’t the scientists aren’t in charge of making the latest Tesla. They probably just work for Mister Musk’s private labs.

Another episode of the Case Files of Crazy Davis done and dusted! Who knows what story will I find next?

We’re Blasting Off Again,
CD.

Crazy Davis Case Files – Episode III

HOW ABOUT THAT?  Smells like another episode of the Crazy Davis Case Files!

It’s either that or the dead possums in the roof. But since I’m petrified of enclosed spaces and zombie possums, how about I crack open another tale from the mysterious black box that showed up out of nowhere in my shop one day.

This one looked fun! It came in a shiny metal case with all sorts of flashing lights. Must be from the electrician’s next door. Well, if they want it back, they can come get it! Until then, give it a gander. I like to call it “Galactic Labor” because all the good Sci-Fi titles were taken.

An unsettling bang erupted from the back of the ship. The pilot flicked a nervous glance over his shoulder from the cockpit, before returning his attention to steering the ship. The laser gate separating the space station’s dock was becoming a little closer every second. You could probably chalk this up to the fact that the ship was moving with considerable speed. An unreasonable speed for docking. The pilot half grimaced and half grinned. He tapped a button to activate the ship’s intercom. Nothing happened. He pressed it a little more firmly. Sparks soared out of the console, singeing his finger. He swore and slammed a fist on the dashboard. The communications array woefully flickered on.
“Hey-Hey. It’s Visitor J  – 138 requesting an express landing here.”
The intercom spluttered out the station’s reply, impeded by heavy static.
“What? Look, never mind. Send your best firefighters. And maybe a blanket. Over and out!” As he said this, the intercom exploded.
“I think they got that. Do you think they got that?” he yelled, turning his head to shout at his passenger, a beautiful woman with a sea of aggravated veins on her face.
“I’m busy, honey!” she gurgled, then resumed her rapid breathing. The ship shuddered violently.
“Yeah I know! I’m just really pumped up! We’re having a kid! We’ll have our own little trifecta! Isn’t that great?”
“It would be—if we survive.”
“Oh ye of little faith. We’re practically the—” An explosion swallowed the sound of his voice as the ship was hurled off course, just to the left of the laser gate. He swore louder and tried to wrest control back. The ship lumbered like a drunken whale, but he managed to veer it back towards the dock.
“Vik! The flames are licking my elbows!” said the woman, clinging on to a rusty handrail jutting from the wall.
“I’m busy, honey!” said Vik. The laser gate was imminent now, and it flickered from red to green. Vik gunned it. The ship floundered into the dock with all the grace of an elephant on fire and smashed into a mountain of supply containers.
A few minutes later, the firefighters managed to extinguish the wreckage. Then they pried open the cockpit. Two exhausted parents and their bawling newborn infant were huddled up in the front seat.
“Mazel Tov.” said Vik.

Wasn’t that exciting? Maybe not as exciting as, say, Star Wars The Rise of Kylo Ren, but still a good enough crack at a Sci-Fi tale, I reckon.

Anyhoo, time to go buy some scented candles. Some strong ones.

Keep it fresh,
CD

Crazy Davis Case Files – Episode II

WELL WELL WELL, it’s that unspecific time of the month again where I take a peak at another tale that’s been bundled away in that jet black box.

I could have sworn it was glowing the other day, but that’s probably just another one of my regular hallucinations. Nothing to worry about there! 

This one was less faded and didn’t smell of mothballs at all. In fact, it smelt like it’d been dipped in some Dettol and left to dry on some sterilised metal plate.

I think I might use to open doorknobs when I’m done reading it. It just feels so clean! So, in lieu of it’s squeaky-clean disposition, I dub the story of this file’s contents: The Sanitiser!

The stench of excrement invades your nostrils as you wait, knees bent and arms poised, with your hand on your pistol.
The smell lingers on your person for quite some time. Years in fact. Yet that is merely an incidental effect of being a Sanitiser.
You recall the many duels you’ve had in latrines over the years, and a smile creeps onto your face. It is not exactly a profession held in high regard, but it pays handsomely. It is also a fantastic outlet for violence. It’s even legal. Mostly.
You let out a light chuckle. Then you hear footsteps coming from the opposite drain.
You point your pistol towards the steady patter. Someone emerges from the pipe. He is an older gentleman, with crisp silver hair and a moustache, wearing a regal black tunic with golden accents. He carries an elegant revolver. You recognise it as a vintage Toshman Magnum. Antique, but deadly. The gentleman looks at you oddly, most likely in response to your laughter. He asks in an unimpressed drawl if you’re the challenger.
You nod. He raises an eyebrow and states that this should not take long.
You flatly agree. He sneers, then strides to take up his opening duel position.
You walk up too and shake his hand. Then, mirroring him, slowly back away from each other.
In better parts of the land, there’s normally an adjudicator who starts the duel. But you take jobs in the worst parts instead. For one reason above all else.
Reputation.

The gentleman’s hand quivers.
You flick your gun to his chest and feign pulling the trigger. He aims and actually fires. Quicker than you expected, and his bullet catches you in the shoulder.
You grit your teeth through the pain as you instantly adjust your aim and fire right at his boutique peashooter. It spirals out of his withered hand. He gawks and stumbles.
You waste no time as you draw your serrated dagger and lunge at him. He blocks, parries and evades. But he’s slow. Disarmed. An outdated artefact, just like his revolver. So he takes the blade to the jugular in no time. He falls, causing a sizeable splash.
You smile, barely out of breath, as you pull out your vial of cleansing potion. You clean the dagger first, then pour the rest on the gentleman’s corpse, watching it dissolve in the flowing water beneath you. The latrine now belongs to your employer. Your compensation will be generous.

Dear oh dear, I remember a time when we were supposed to shy away from toilet talk. Now we’ve got blokes like this having shootouts in sewers right under our noses. Literally!

I think I might take a trip down my loo and see if I can catch any of these duels myself. Might be good for a laugh or two, could make a bundle putting footage of it on YouTube! I’ll add that to me list.

Anyway, hope you had blast readin’ that one, I’m off to wash my hands.

Fare thee well,
CD

Crazy Davis Case Files – Episode I

RUNNING A CARPET shop with no customers makes one prone to inactivity. But it also encourages one to think outside the box.

Or rather IN one!

That’s right, I found a box underneath overstock of some snakeskin carpets and I’m pretty sure that I have no idea what’s inside.

Well, I didn’t. Until I opened it and found a big stack of some yellow, faded and mothball smelling documents. Most of it was redacted and labelled “Highly Classified” but I figured it’d be good for a laugh.

And hey, the fact that the box is jet black, appeared out of nowhere and was really hard to open with the company crowbar seems like a good omen to me!

Let’s kick it off with this one. I call it “A Heated Exchange.” It’s got a fire in it! Right up my alley!

The Gilded Magnum wasn’t the only place in town where you could have your gun out. But it was the only place where it was encouraged. Everyone who went there paraded their pieces around like prized mutts at a dog show. The manager took extra care to prevent any shootouts. The bartenders wore Kevlar and knew how to disassemble the average handgun in five seconds. All the drinks were served in bulletproof glasses. And the tables were welded down so no one could flip ‘em over for cover. He really pulled out all the stops to prevent a gunfight. Probably should have fireproofed it, though…

So there I was, just another night at the Magnum. I was casin’ the joint waiting for an arms deal to go down. Go down, or go bad. Yeah, I’m a narc. But it pays the bills and I can handle myself when shit hits the fan. Anyway, I’m scanning the bar for shifty customers. Sure, it’s full of crooks, but no one was standin’ out in particular. Well, except the guy sitting in the furthest corner booth. One of the regulars. Always came in at the same time, ordered the same drink and sat in the same booth. If someone else sat there, they’d wind up on a stretcher. His gun was nice too. It was a gorgeous dark crimson, tucked away in a leather holster under his coat. He barely ever touched it. Every now and then some joker would take a pot shot at the light fixtures above him. The guy never moved an inch. He was waitin’ for someone and didn’t have time for trigger happy troublemakers. So I watched him a little longer.

At about a quarter to ten, some surly old-timer with slicked back hair and two Neanderthals in suits strolled up to the guy. He nodded. I spilled someone’s drink as I leaned over to hear ‘em. This was the deal I was looking for. ‘Cuz the second after I spilled that drink; two people were already dead. The old-timer copped two rounds in his chest and one of his walkin’ gorillas got another right between his eyes. The other guard went down too, shot by some lunatic in the opposite booth.
Just like that, the deal was closed.
The guy grinned and jumped on the table, knocking over a candle. He shouted, “Drinks are on me!”  and the bar went wild. Soon after that, the tablecloth went up in flames. The rest of the bar followed soon after.

What a cracker, huh? I really liked the part with the fire.

Tune in some time later for another musty case file! Wait ’til ya see what’s next!

Bang Bang Pew Pew,
CD