I was going to use Inspector Gadget pictures here, but the Bravestarr screen captures I found are much cooler.I came to in Eli's Tavern, an establishment that was conveniently owned by a man named Ted. I was no stranger to waking up here, but something was different this time. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth, and as I gingerly prodded with my tongue I realized that four of my teeth were missing. This was unacceptable. As a detective, I needed to use teeth all the time (shootouts, interrogations, birthday parties, etc.).
"Good morning, sleepyhead."
I wearily raised my head. Before me stood Ted, a mountain of a man. Ted glowered at me over a pair of crossed arms that were as big as hams and as deadly as really angry hams. I replied by presenting him with a blood-caked and mostly toothy grin.
"Ouch. That Yablonski fella roughed you up worse than I thought last night," he said. "Cliff gets crazy sometimes, but he nearly knocked out half your teeth!"
"It's no biggie. I was going to lose them anyway." I shrugged, then took out a pack of Chiclets, wincing as I pressed one into each cavity my teeth had once occupied.
Ted shook his head sadly at this. "Have you ever heard of dentistry?"
"I don't even have a kitchen! After all we've been through, you're trying to push kitchenware on me? I come here for convenient plot setups, Ted, not to listen to your lousy sales pitches. What is this, a business all of a sudden?"
"This is a business, you dumbfuck. Not that you'd know. You never even attempt to pay off your tab, and you're always getting into fights and scaring away the customers! If you stopped coming in here, I'd actually make money from it."
See what I mean?
"Yeah, well ifs are cheap, pal. If the Olsen twins ever turned eighteen, I wouldn't feel so bad about having those fantasies. But guess what? It's NEVER going to happen."
"Stalker, you do realize that they'll turn eighteen eventually, right?"
"Keep telling yourself that, you God-damned pedophile. You make me sick."
I came to in the alley behind Eli's, sprawled out in a pool of my own urine. That might sound bad, but in my experience it's much better than waking up in a pool of someone else's urine, or eating at the Olive Garden. My eyelids fluttered as the sunlight beat down on me like Ike Turner. Barely able to move, I cursed the heavens above. My last case had been a bust, I had no prospects or girlfriend, and my favorite castaway on Survivor had just been voted off the island. Things were looking bad. Real bad. Star Wars Christmas Special bad. If I didn't get a big fat case soon, I'd be forced to sell my cherished pog collection just to pay the bills.
A breeze kicked up, depositing the front page from that day's newspaper directly onto my face. Just in time too; I was beginning to run out of pop culture references.
Presumed raped to death by bears? That headline was bound to confuse a lot of people. It would also confuse a lot of bears, since they lack the ability to read. But that wasn't my main concern. I was fixated on the million dollars. With that sort of money, I wouldn't have to use square Chiclets as teeth. No sir, I'd be able to commission special teeth-shaped Chiclets! Sitting up, I scanned the story. The magnate in question was Brad Jacobson, and he was last seen in his car heading to a support group for people that are addicted to support groups. He had never made it to the group, and beyond that little else was known. Although there were barely any clues to work with, I almost had the case solved already. I arose and wandered into the street to hail a cab, my attention reverting to the newspaper's headline.
I came to in a hospital bed. Before I could count the number of pieces my hip had been shattered into, I was met with the voice of the missing magnate.
"Ah, detective! You've finally woken up!" Standing beside Brad was his wife, and the chief of police loomed in the doorway. "I'm sorry that you've been injured, but you actually saved my life by walking in front of my car like a complete moron. You see, my brakes mysteriously stopped working. I had been helplessly driving for twenty hours when your body brought my car to a safe stop. If it weren't for you I might have starved to death, or ran out of gas. Thank you!"
"No need for thanks," I replied. "Your million dollars will be reward enough. However, you're still in danger! You see, your wife cut the brakeline in your car in an attempt to kill you."
"That's impossible!" Even as Brad said this, he took a cautious step away from his wife.
"The paper specifically said that you were presumed raped to death by bears. Why bears, I wondered? Then it hit me: Your wife wanted you dead because she was secretly a bear, and your marriage was a disgrace to her family. Hence the subtle mention of bears in the headline. Also, look at her. She's a fucking bear in a dress."
Brad turned to his wife and let out a squeal as he realized the horrible truth. The police chief slapped a pair of handcuffs on the indifferent bear and began to lead her out of the room. Pausing, he turned and added a parting word.
"I've heard the phrase 'grin and bear it' before, but this is ridiculous!"
We all burst into uncontrollable laughter, even the bear.
The good old boys at State Og never mean no harm, but they been in trouble with the law since the day they was born. They're making their way the only way they know how, but that's just a little bit more than the law will allow.
Some people accuse us of showing little to no regard for the remains of those passed on. We murder those people slowly and feed the bodies to the pigs. However, they do raise a valid point, so maybe we shouldn't have made with the murder and swine.
Read the newest State Og here! Straightening the curves and flattening the hills; one day the mountain might get them, but the law never will.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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