SCHOOL DAZE
or Mr. Bebop and The Strange Case of The Dead Principle
A school teacher, Charlie wishes his principal dead. The principal is shoot and Charlie is the prime suspect. Learn about the other usual suspects in this fine who-done-it mystery.
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SCHOOL DAZE
-or-
MR. BEBOP
AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE DEAD PRINCIPLE
by
Thomas Joseph DiSalvio
(C) 2006 copyright Thomas Joseph DiSalvio
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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(A MYSTERY)
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tomdme@gmail.com
213 - 926 - 8940
The Mystery:
The usual suspects in the demise of
Principal Dasher
Charlie de Bearon
Narrator and owner of the .45 that shot Dr. Dasher
Baby Blue-Eyes de Bearon
Charlie's wife
Suzy Que
White, mastermind and precocious student
Oscar (Oinky) Pigman
Mexican-American student from Oklahoma,
convicted of attempted murder
Johnny Fire
Blue-Blooded-Brit student that likes to carry explosives.
Fria Ferral
Black student beauty queen, or so she thinks
Mary Ali Yousef
Iraqi-American electronics wizard and smartest boy on the block
Philip Cray
White, gay English teacher turned Postmaster
Sister Histerrect
Stern and staunch Catholic instruction teacher
-- works only on Wednesday
Rich SiFi
Alchemist & biology teacher & cloning enthusiast
J. A. Princess, Ed.D.
Associate psychologist
Tomasina Aristotle
Minority, assistant principal,
has the most to gain from Dr. DasherÕs death
might as well add my fantasy characters too:
Dr. Man-Daserty, villain
Nurse Susha Deel, villainÕs
assÕt
Mr. Harry Bebop, hero
Me, An Introduction
Call me Charlie.
As you can readily see by my ineptitude that IÕm not an English teacher.
I teach Economics.
- O K, I know dull, dull, dull.
Before I get to the lesson, let me Ōsplain how I
always get involved these kindÕa mysteries, first.
The only thing I
could remember from my high school days was some Latin phrase about bastards
and the way they get you down. Why should you let them get you down, anyway? My
family has a birthright.
The only problem is that we lost it in the third century -- but the guys
in the family are still barrons and the dolls
Anyway these ape men are
sorry pieces of excrement and aren't worth the the
price of an ounce of shinola since they are so
The muther-ruckers do everything to steal your
intelligence and take the credit for all the good things you do and blame you
for anything that goes wrong.
Nil
illegitimus carbarundum...
(DonÕt
let the bastards get you down...)
I can hear them now:
- Charlie said so. ItÕs all his fault.
- I swear I didnÕt do it!<
Well, all that has got to change, and thatÕs the reason I wrote the childrenÕs
book, MR. BEBOP VISITS THE DOC. It is a story about good and happy Harry
Bebop and the evil Dr. Man-Daserty.
It really is the story about my well-deserved hatred for the school principal
where I worked. His name was Dr. Danny Dasher, Ph.D. and he was the
meanest dick the world has
ever seen -- Ōsept for, maybe, Hitler.
And I could never get this poop-head off my back, so when I got fired, I
killed him... well, sortÕa
-- or at least figuratively speaking that iis -- by writing the Mr. Bebop book
where the nice guy gets even, defeats the bully, and finishes first.
Nil
illegitimus carbarundum...
Well, to make a long story short, after the doctor and the nurse medicate Bebop
with the Square Needle, and before the doctor tries to perform his famous
frontal lobotomy on our hero, Mr. Bebop electrocutes the doctor
And so, justice is done. Thank heaven! And all the inmates in the hospital can
live free in peace and harmony.
ThatÕs all well and good Ōcept for one thing. Writing
this book would eventually come to haunt me a week after its publication, and
would personally bite me in the ass.
Perhaps I should Ōsplain it to you:
My name is Charlie de Bearon and this is what
happened on Halloween, October 31, 1979 in Amarillo, Texas, the day of the
Annual Witches Coven:
- First of all, it was a dark and stormy niight when...
Mr. Bebop came home...
My high school
Everything that happens this night seemed perfectly normal -- Ō
I had just been fired from my teaching post, and I thought I was through with
all that crap about standardized tests, rules and bathroom passes, so-o-o-o...
I wake up and grab myself a six pack of that famous Bulgarian Beer,
I start to read my old gym teacherÕs book called, ŅThe Way DownÓ.
It is the story about the high school where I grew-up. And, how there appears
to be no hope for the
students who went there.
- Hey thatÕs me.
The finale of the book is when he takes the county supervisors on a tour of the
neighborhood and ends up at the Detention Center for the Criminally Insane,
and he points to the center and makes the following statement:
- ŅThis is where our students go when they leave our beloved high school.Ó
- Smoken Stromboli
You know, to be honest with you: I donÕt think thereÕs any hope for my fellow
high school inmates, anyway. But this is probably, especially true for me.
Maybe I portend the future correctly. Let me Ōsplain:
Little did I foresee many years later that that old educatorÕs words would
prove true for me.
Any-who, I will always consider myself a huge success as long as I
managed to stay out of jail.
Baby Blue-Eyes -- thatÕs my beautiful wife of seven years -- comes into the
- IÕll be next door, then Betty TheBoop and I are
going to visit the Mayor.
Your still my favorite nush.
A nush, I thought I was her man. Oh, IÕm sure she
meant something nice.
- Ciao, baby.
Just watching T V
So here I sit, again, this time watching the latest newscast on TV, when, what
do I see: The same old, same old stuff about fourteen people killing some cheep-ass-son-of-a-bitch.
- I hate to say it: But have to say it: He probably had it coming.
Some guys just deserve killing... I think.
Then I decide to watch something else, anything else, on the box... to, you
know, lighten my load... without all that who-done-it crap.
I always say,
- I find it hard to keep up with all those mystery characters and their motives
and stuff. I like it straight forward, without all that complicated muddling
around.
Anyhow, I flip the box and I get Judge Lady-Here, Judge Maw-Maw There, and then
some Talking-Twit-Heads-Everywhere and I want to throw-up. I mean almost
violently become sick all over. I feel like I am going to bifurcate, so...
I flip the switch again and I get 17 mariaches
singing something about:
- Mi cortazone, e mi alma,
E mi amore, e mi brazos,
- E mi Cabessa> de Vaca???
The audience consists off six bouncing blond (?) Mexicans babes -- in three low
riders -- under a sign that reads:
- Compra Nueva Chevy a El Jorge
Slowly, I turn, step by step -- around and around I go -- into a Carlos
- Viva la Raza....
Ey-yay-yei-gh-y.
Flip again, and I get one of BollywoodÕs 1,000
generic movies made this year. This one is the same as the other 999. The names
and faces have been changed to protect the... er... guilty,
yet the story is pretty much the same:
Allow me to have my otÕer persona, Sahib the Inca of
Nepal wearing a turban and Indus valley robes, sum it up for you:
- She loves the dance, he, of course, by thhe way, loves her. Now her lady,
acquaintances make, for them, a what-you-say, a.. date. But, she...
Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha --
(Please excuse me Vishnu anÕ Sheba... anÕ the mountain gods. I am such a fool
when things get so funny.)
To continue... TÕen she knows... she... is such a
fool and tÕen she almost kisses him, but her hat
covers it up. So we think... they kiss.
One thing for sure is:
This movie is three hours long -- way too long. And we laugh and cry and be
happy because...
This damn film is finally over.
I, once again as Sahib, smile knowingly, and bow my head, spin my hands around,
and say,
- Salami, Salami, Baloney.
I am simply beside my self (at least three times myself) and slowly I turn
again... into Sam (the shamrock) OÕCasey and say:
- Praise and begorra! ItÕs over! Thank
you, Heaven!
And may you never get... a corn under your foot... or some such thing.
Enter Mr. Bebop
Evening comes, and at this point I am ready to take my .45 and either blow up
the T V, or my head, but I canÕt think of which one to shoot first.
BUT, just then -- out of nowhere -- Mr. Bebop comes on the T V...
- Lucky me, I think
Well, this doesn't surprise me, since I gave the T V people permission to make
my book into a musical in which Dr. Man-Daserty
dances with a giant stethoscope while the Nurse, Susha
Deel, holding a seven foot Square Needle, attempts to
stick Mr. Harry Bebop in his balloon labeled, the LEFT FRIJOLE, as they all
sing,
- IÕm Just Wild About Harry.
And heÕs just wild about me...
The heavenly blesses of his kisses
Fill me with ecstacy...
- It really is a wonderful number -- if I mmust say so myself. The Square Needle
is just like the 1950Õs tap-dancing Old Gold cigarettes girls. You know the
ones that have long legs and their face and body are covered in an opened pack
of smokes. Well, this time they are three dancing Square Needles.
Those were the good old days. The days when everyone smoked, drank and killed
50K on the highway and another 50K from sugar, white flower, cigarettes, and
partially-hydrogenated everything. I think I got that order right. -- WerenÕt
those days just great?
- God, if I could only go back and start alll over again.
(Youth is wasted on... just about everybody, especially alligators.)
- Oh IÕm just wild-
Well, this time, Mr. Bebop stops in mid-virse and
points his finger at me, and in a deep voice, calls my name,
- Charlie de Bearon!
I canÕt believe my eyes -- and my ears.
- What have they done to my little productiion? What happened to the infamous
musical number about Harry?
Then Mr. Bebop, in an unusually deep voice, demandingly implores me:
- Put the .45 away...
Because...
What would the people say if you shot yourself,
Or even worse... if you broke the TV?
I stop dead in my tracts.
- What the hell is going on here? Mr. Bebopp needs to get the Square Needle
injection and then turn around kill the doctor.
WhatÕs gone wrong?
Why in the hell is he telling me to put the gun down?
- HELL NO! I wonÕt do it.
But just then...
- >BANG!
Well... I shoot the T V anyway.
And no sooner that I do that, then two lady cops break the door down and start
to smack the shalalie outÕa
me, hand cuff me, and start reading me my rights.
Where is my darling, Baby Blue-Eyes when I need her most?
She probably next door drinking tea with the Ladies Auxiliary. Yeah, thatÕs
right. That must be true.
- What the hell are they reading me my righhts when they should be reading me my
wrongs.
Uh-oh! What am I saying...
I lift up my eyes and clinch my teeth as the big one tells me:
- Principal Dasher was shot with a .45.
>
- My Principal?
- Yeah.
I whisper under my breath,
- Good! He probably deserved kkilling
I hope nobody heard me.
Then I shout like a sincere Irishman would:
- I NEED A DRINK!
I didnÕt do it. You can ask my mother. ItÕs not my fault, it couldnÕt be me.
IÕm innocent -- leastwise until proven guilt... er...
or otherwise. MaÕam, please let me go. I didnÕt mean it, I mean... do it. I
mean... not do it. That is I didnÕt do this one.
It couldnÕt be me, my train had a flat time... or something.
ITÕS NOT MY FAULT! I wasnÕt there... that time. I mean later...
Mother-freeking-jaybird!
I bigger lady cop says,
- What about this Ņhe deserved killinngÓ thing?
She mustÕa heard me whisper that he needed killing.
- Time out! Will Someone Please Get Me... <A Boil-A-Maker!
I need a drink, so... bad!
IÕve always had this secret thesis that God invented whiskey to prevent the
Irish and Writers from taking over the world. Well, IÕm stuck being a Writer,
and I always can vow -- with my fingers crossed -- never to drink again. But I
definitely have to give up this Irish thing. There is too much persecution in
their karma.
So now IÕm ready to slowly turn, step by step, into Ari-Ben
Finklestine -- ready to blow up The David King Hotel
-- wherever it may be.
Just consider this: After all becoming Jewish from Irish is a definite upgrade.
(...just like when Marilyn Monroe married that there playwright, WhatÕs-His-Name...)
- My People have been
persecuted for the last five thousand years.
Oi Vey Smel
The only other Jewish thing I know to do
is to lay down and look up and say,
- Jake, the ceiling needs painting
(That must be Jewish, I heard my neighbor Mrs. GoldmanÕs shout it last night.)
I scream at the top of my lungs,
- Ahhhhhh
Let me finish my six pack, my sandwich,
my cigarettes, my next Bollywood movie... But first send
the T V out to be fixed-
As they are taking me out to the patrol car, I see Mr. Bebop, dressed in full
prison strips, with accompanying cap, opening the Black and White car door for
me, and says,
- Now, I told you NOT to shoot the T V.
In The Clink
Well, they do all the police stuff. I am sure you know the drill -- or maybe
you donÕt. Maybe you have a nice job and live in the suburbs with two point
three kids, bang your next door paramour once a week, and have never been
arrested. In that case, allow me to briefly Ōsplain:
- Strip - Pinstripes - Number - Fingerprintts - Picture...
And Bars Close.
Need to know anything more? Sorry, muthers, I cannot
give you any more info.. ItÕs a secret, and I canÕt give it away. I would
violate the code of the prison brotherhood -- and IÕd have to shoot myself
first before I told you.
Can you tell I am a little more than upset? IÕm looking at the Chair or
even Life. I have a migraine. And more important than all that, IÕm
about to have a freaking nervous-break-down.
- LetÕs face it folks: Life, death, murder and justice: It just
And just consider this: O J gets off, and is now looking for the murder of his
ŅXÓ. That guy must be a golfer, because Mr. Simpson spends most of his time on
the greens.
I, on the other hand, having been a lowly school teacher, have not been given
that luxury. IÕm in the Clink and I gotÕa figure this
one out -- living in this madhouse and eating this slop -- all by myself. And
maybe, with the help of these bozos, mother-rapers,
thieves, and liars, I will find a way.
IÕm behind bars now. It is a six man room with three bunk beds, two showers and
three crappers. I am now sitting at the card table when, low and behold...
Along comes Mr. Bebop and sits next to me and says,
- Tell me what you gonÕaa do now?
IÕm sure, dear reader -- you and he -- must be singing,
- ŅLondon bridge is falling down,
Take the key and lock him up.Ó
Well, you may think this is an open and shut case against me, but donÕt you
think I have more to say on this subject? Huh?
But before I present to you, and Mr. Bebop, my defense, I feel it is important
for you to understand something about what it means to be a teacher, and
educating someone. Also, being the teacher that I am, I have to have a
relationship with students, parents and the principal.
Not so easy when you hate the principal, and principles he stands for, as badly
as I do -- even for the last two years.
So you want to be a
teacher
Ever notice how
when you go into a restaurant and you order something and it sucks. But when
Joe is there, even pigÕs liver tastes like an Hawaiian luau.
Also, have you ever watch Mad-Donna get up on stage and read the dictionary.
She makes it sound like a Shakespearian sonnet.
Well, the same is true when you teach. Either you have it or you donÕt. Some do
and some donÕt.
THE PROBLEM:
The things the principal, your ńpalī, wants you to do:
1. Fill out racial balance forms.
(Needed, but not on the Q-T, please.)
2. Title Seven forms for ladies sports equality.
(Great idea, except at our school we had no sports at all.)
3. Use Reality Therapy to make contracts with students to gradually get them to
comply with policies of attendance, completing exercises, passing tests and get
the grades you know they can achieve.
(Ever hear of the Third Reich)
4. Teachers arnĶt that smart -- Quit giving out so
many AĶs.
(Maybe youĶd like to see more FĶs. ThatĶs a great way to ńwin friends and
influence peopleī)
5. Teachers should not be caught in bars.
(Basically, kiss my sweet ass.)
6. Meetings before and after scheduled classes should have no bathroom breaks.
(Please give us all a break. We go seven hours without peeing, just so we can
teach our students when they are eager -- before and after class. Some of us
are ladies, some are pregnant, and some of us are just simple minded guys that
7. Reason Alone is the rule of life, science, art, and thought.
(The past millennium has been based on survival of the fittest, and church
decrees based upon Reason. And that has led to restricted lives, slavery, and
innumerable wars.)
The world is changing and the inhabitants feel like it is going to hell in a
hand basket. And you have to help the natives live in their ńbrave new worldī.
Yet in spite of this, colleges all over this country have Education classes to
teach brilliant mathematicians, historians, scientists, linguists, etc. how to
communicate to their fellow man... eh... their student.
It doesnÕt seem to matter how smart you are. You have to learn how
you learned to be the expertÕn that you
are. So you can tell others how to be expertÕn
too.
The old method was to take out the text
book and have each student read aloud one paragraph at a time. You go up and
down the rows; and if one kid canÕt read you skip him and go on to the next.
There are questions at the end of the chapter and the students do it for
homework and you review it the next time.
ThatÕs the way it used to be.
Now you gotÕa
have lesson plans, visuals, film clips and activities -- all wrapped around a
grade with a perfect bell curve and standardized tests and no homework done at
home, with Ņno kid left behindÓ.
Mr. Bebop:
- Sounds like a cake walk to me.<
Sounds exciting, but it may not make anyone become a better educated man or
woman. The students may just treat their lifeÕs work as a visual activity and
nothing more, a video game. What a waste!
How can a teacher breakdown years of unquestioned belief, bias and
prejudice?
Did anyone ever hear of instilling
passion, and a desire to learn through Individualized Instruction? Duh-uh!
What does it mean to be educated, anyway? And why should I care if the
principal and I differ as to what we are supposed to be doing during these
eight or so hours at the school? IÕm gettÕen paid for
it, aint I?
IÕll have to get back to you on that later, because right now I am going out of
my mind with this whole thing about the Principal, murder, and things that
crawl in the night.
So here we go again. Back to:
Who-done-in-the-old-principal with his ancient principles.
WHO DONE IT?
Well, me and Mr. Bebop are sitting at the card table when he asks me to jot
down some notes as to who did what and why. O K, so I start to write down who I
believe did the dastardly deed to such a pathetic principal with perverted
principles.
THE
STUDENTS
Suzy Que
White, precocious mastermind.
Dr Dasher lowered her Economics grade from A to D.
It could have made all the difference in her exotic dancing career.
Oscar (Oinky) Pigman
Mexican-American from Oklahoma, convicted of attempted murder.
What more can I say?
Johnny Fire
Blue Blooded Brit that likes to carry explosives.
What if Dr. Dasher just blew-up before he got shot.
Ok, thatÕs a long shot, but...
Only the coroner knows for sure.
Fria Ferral
Black beauty queen, or so she thinks.
You know Dr Dasher groped her... You couldnÕt blame him.
Then again, you couldnÕt blame her for... killing him? Huh? Could you?
Mary Ali Yousef
Iraqi-American electronics wizard and smartest boy on the block
ComÕon... a geek with a girlÕs
name and from Iraq...
HeÕs a walking jumble of 18 years of prejudice against smart-asses, Jews,
Sheik... and Homos...
Need I say more?
THE EDUCATORS
Philip Cray
White, gay English Teacher turned Post... er...
Master
Have you ever heard of anyone Ņgoing teacherÓ?
No!
But I am sure you heard of...
Ņgoing postalÓ
Stern and staunch Catholic instruction teacher, works only on Wednesday -coincidentally,
the day the doctor was shot.
(Consider this: Dr. Dasher was a convert from a Catholicism to
Scientologist.)
Rich SiFi
Alchemist & biology teacher & cloning enthusiast.
Still trying to make gold out of lead? Huh?
Read enough science books to cover-up his dastardly, wicked, promiscuous
deeds.
J. A. Princess, Ed D.
Associate psychologist
SheÕs the one who fingered me. That should tell you a lot.
Remember what goes around, comes
around... BITCH.
Tomasina Aristotle
Liberal Assistant Principal, has the most to gain from Dr. DasherÕs death.
She can really prove herself to the conservative, Baptist community now.
WantÕa
The Alter-Ego Defense
(I better keep this section away from Mr. Bebop, because he might take offense)
AND WHO CAN FORGET THE CHARACTERS I INVENTED
AND THE ACTORS WHO PLAYED THEM. THEY MAY HAVE FIGURED OUT MY HATRED FOR
PRINCIPAL DASHER AND TOOK REVENGE -- ALL OUT OF LOYALTY TO ME.
FICTIONAL CHARACTERS
Dr. Man-Daserty
villain
Played by
Tom Curse
Nurse Susha
works for Dr. Man-Daserty
Played by
Renee Zellinger
Mr. Harry Bebop
our hero
Played by
Jim Ferry
They were played by real people. Maybe
some of my resentment to the doctor rubbed off on them. And they rubbed him
out.
- No, no... not possible. What would Jim Feerry, Renee Zellinger,
and Tom Curse gain from killing anyone.
Their much too rich to give a hoot or a toot about any writer -- nevertheless
me. Period!
No loyalty here.
Forget I even said that...
(They got enough money that they could hire someone to nail my mouth and ass
shut for six decades.)
- LetÕs move on-
Or maybe my characters came to life -- you know, like in another dimension.
They could be my alter ego. But they really couldnÕt
be my alter ego?
Or could they?
Shoot man! That would make a great defense... er...
If it were only true (?).
Yeah, that sounds good. I think IÕll go for that one...
(Or then again, maybe all this is all too ambiguous.)
- Nah, the
Yeah, Baby Blu-Eyes,
IÕll be home for dinner.
Jail is where the hearth
is
There was this guy in the Joint they called:
- THE HEATER!
I guess itÕs because he was so big and he said,
- IÕm always hot.
The real heater doesnÕt work.
But if you get cold at night, you are welcome to join me in my bunk.
I am on fire all the time.
His name was John-Boy Bruno. Can you imagine anyone naming their kid,
John-Boy.
Well itÕs true. They really named him that.
So that night, IÕm freezÕng my ass off when I say,
- What the hell, I can freeze to death or sleep with The Heater
I say to myself, IÕm gonna take the heat,
- IÕm not gay -- not even gay for the stay -- not even for a day...
BUT IÕM COLD... and I better take a chance.
I close my eyes and jump in his sack...
Well, as it turns out: IÕm not gay. And neither is the big guy... gay that is, I mean: The Heater.
I whisper,
- HeÕs just hot!
Must be something going on with his sub-tuitary
brain or something.
Then I decide to give him the old ŅJohn-BoyÓ good night,
- Pleasant dreams, Mr. Heater... er... Mr. Bruno.
The Heater responds,
- Nite, nite Mary Ellen
... z-z-z-z-z-z-z...
- Huh?
And someone I donÕt even know crys out in a high
pitched voice:
- Good night
John-Boy.
John-Boy tells the secret
Next morning I tell John-Boy about who I think did-it. I mean kill Principal
Dasher. And what my brilliant defense is.
He assures me that I must be going
- Listen to me kid. DidnÕt you ever see Ņ
- No.
- Well, according to that Scorcesse guy, there is two
things you got to remember when in the Pokey:
ŅOne, you keep your mouth shut, and;
Two, you donÕt rat on your friends.Ó
- Holy Samoli, I was just about to
spill my guts.
IÕm glad I found someone around here who was using their brain cells.
I wouldÕve been screwed, glued, blued, and tattooed if I didnÕt meet old
John-Boy Bruno, The Heater.
Looks like heÕs taken care of my hearth problems. ThatÕs why I always now
say:
- Poke them if they canÕt take a joke, or jjoke them if they canÕt take a poke;
or should I say... er...
Home is where the hearth is.
WhatÕs a nice guy like you doing this joint?
The next day we all do the three ŅSÕsÓ and I have to wait to get my tray at
breakfast. (The new inmate -- me -- has to eat last, all the time.) Of course,
John-Boy eats first. HeÕs been in the Slammer the longest.
He was convicted for misinterpreting the novel ŅSlaugtherhouse
FiveÓ. After reading it he immediately left his sisterÕs country cottage
and captured the first five things he saw, five Gray Owls. He
took them to the local slaughter house and demands they pluck, clean, and cook
them so he can begin his time travels. Hoo,
hoo, hoo.
- The only question I have is:
Well, as it turns out, no one! The supervisor turns him over to the
authorities.
Unfortunately for John-Boy all the Gray Owls died of malaria, and he gets two
life terms in the Clink and becomes,
- Ņ...The man who never returns,
Whose fate is still unlearned...Ó
Well after learning about John-BoyÕs fate, I can handle just about anything.
Good Morning. I
get up and do the three ŅSÕsÓ -- Please donÕt make me have to Ō
ŌNuff said?
AinÕt it funny: I
Oh well, thatÕs life for ya...
Then I go back to sleep and even and miss breakfast.
Fast Forward:
I sit at my place at the card table with Mr. Bebop...
Enter Stage Right:
Lieutenant-Sargent-Officer-Inspector-Detective-Professor-Dr-Pepper- Peter
Pan Piper Pedro Peter-o. I know you thought I was gonna
say Inspector Perot from that Oriental Express Garbage. Perot is the impeccably
clean, never-been-married, detective from Belgium assigned to solve the
unsolvable -- all while never getting his manicured hands dirty
-- or for that matter, have his perfect tiee and mustache shifted one centimeter
to the right.
Well... IÕm not that lucky.
My Guy, Dr-Professor Peter Pan Peter-o is nothing like that. Well, Dr. Pepper
has just gotten through with an undercover assignment in a Dumfy-Dumpster
on 4th Street, where he nabbed the infamous Harry-the-Happiness-
So he comes into the cell, pushes Mr. Bebop out of the way, and looks directly
in my eyes.
Mr. Bebop picks himself up, dusts his striped uniform off, sits down again, and
leans over the table, and stares at Our Man Peter-o.
I am about ready to faint -- not only from all the odor surrounding Peter Pan
-- but from the way he stares at me.
- Bud...
Did you do it?
Mr. Bebop anxiously jumps in,
- Tell him you did it; and, get this whole thing over with.
Lt. Peter-o, angrily,
- Not you, Bebop. IÕm talking to Buddy Boy over here!
I suppose thatÕs me. So now I guess IÕm Buddy Boy...
I look at Senor Pablo sorrowful,
- Your Lordship... Your Sire... er... Your
Profundity... I cannot tell a lie. No, I did not do it.
- I believe you and Geoorge Washington, Bud...
Very well, IÕll find out who did it.
Mr. Bebop falls to the ground and passes
out...
- Wake up my alter ego, wake up.
Our Man Dr. Pepper, Ph.D.
I want to know who-done-it.
I ask him, and he begins the long sad story that I shall relate to you here and
now. He motions for me to get closer and then in a low voice proceeds to
explain the mystery to me and Mr. Bebop. Every one of my cell mates ears move
toward the infamous card table as Dr. Peter-o tells all-
But before he does that, we must first listen to Mr. Bebop as he expresses his
distrust of that crazy witch doctor of criminology.
- ŅI told the witch doctor I was in love wiith you,
He said, ŌEw, e u a a, ting
tang walla walla
Ok, now I am glad that we got this over with, and now we can hear from Dr.
Pepper.
Peter Piper Picks
I went down the list you and Bebop gave me; and while I think it is brave of
you to put yourselves on it, I havenÕt quite exonerated you guys, yet.
Suzy Que and You
Charlie, letÕs consider Suzy Que. After she broke off her affections for Philip
Cray, she turned to you. You told her that not even Marilyn Monroe could pull
him away from his supposed ŅbrotherÓ and lover -- not even with a crowbar.
(How insensitive of you.)
You said that they were as gay as two male guinea pigs locked up in a cage
could be. Then you told her that you would only give her affection, love and
warmth if she killed Principal Dasher.
You gave her a bow and arrow to do him in.
She actually dug a grave in her motherÕs front yard for the anticipated corpse
and told everyone that her dog was about to die any minute and it was for him.
She even made a wooden cross over the gave and wrote Rover on it.
- I think I said, ŅKill him with kindness.Ó
Then she tried to shoot him with the bow and arrow you gave her, but the bow
broke in two before she could complete the task.
(You sorry, cheap bastard!)
She hated you, and him; and left to go to the Big Apple where she dances four
nights a week at the biggest strip joint in the world called
(IÕm sure you heard of it, Charlie.)
She makes a grand a week, doing the ŅfandangoÓ, and is as happy
as a clam at high tide. She is learning the ŅapacheÓ and plans to
double her earnings next year.
- You mean doing the Indian, ŅWoo-woo-woo-wooÓ
(No fool, ŅapacheÓ is pronounced | eÕ
She was working in New York the day Dr. Dasher was shot.
- I never loved her that way.
Conspiracy Theories Never Happen (?)
Next there was a conspiracy of minorities: Oinky
Pigman, Johnny Fire, Fria Ferral
and Mary Ali Yousef who tried to eliminate the
old boy.
They all dressed up as sad clowns on the night of all HallowÕs
Eve when they rang the Principal DasherÕs door bell, and were ready to stab him
twenty times -- just like you told them they did to Julius Caesar -- when --
would you believe -- a thousand sad clowns jumped out of a V W,
and knocked on the door too. Unfortunately for the minorities, the Principal
was wearing the same sad clown face too; and, they didnÕt know who was who, so
they backed off.
Cray Bashing
Philip Cray, the English teacher was my next bet, but he was at a PostmasterÕs
Convention at Las Vegas when the assault against Dasher took place. He was
actually going postal at the meeting and was restrained before he could
killed the the Postmaster General (for running a ship
shard organization). You almost got that one -- right crime, wrong man, Bud.
- I knew he was UP
(DonÕt be so homophobic. Calm down, Charlie, one out of fourteen
- Sorry, I am a real jerk sometimes, shame on me, Harvey Milk.
Sister Act
We can eliminate Sister Histerrect, because she was
attending the Novena To The Way Of The Cross at St. LucyÕs Church for the
Blind. And everyone there said you couldnÕt miss seeing her because she was
always front and center singing her little heart out -- off key.
- ŅHol-y God we prai-as
thy Name.
Ever-er-la-as-ting is-Ó
(Shame on you Charlie, such a nice little lady.
- Jesus H. Chri -- I am so-so-so, so-o-o sorry...
Mea culpa... and me papa too!
Zen Buddhist, Jews and Mr. Bebop Are People Too
Ms. J. A. Princess is just your usual Jungian Therapist. SheÕs not the
ŅJewish American PrincessÓ that your imagined her to be. She was born Jane Anne
Princess, and was raised Zen Buddhist, and her ancestry is pure Italian.
(Charlie, being Italian yourself, I donÕt see how you could miss this one so
bad.)
And Tomasina Aristotle is just a
liberal, minority teacher working her way up the ladder of success. What an
admirable woman she is. A single mother, raising three teenagers an a teacherÕs
salary. She could win a new kitchen on ŅQUEEN
FOR A DAYÓ.
- I never knew...
(Charlie, you never asked...)
We can eliminate all your foolish notions about your ŅAlter-EgoÓ, ŅActorsÓ
and ŅFictionalized CharactersÓ -- like poor Tom Curse and Mr. Bebop -- as
if they had something to do with anything, nevertheless arrows, knives, guts,
and guns.
We, at the department think that they have more to do with your
S-
And in your opinion, that leaves us only Rich SiFi,
the alchemist.
Mr. Bebop, you need to leave now. Me and Buddy Boy need to have a heart to
heart, in the back of the barn.
(Charlie, make sure you stay calm when I tell you this.)
HereÕs what happened that faithful October night: While you were drinking you
favorite brew and writing your next well anticipated novel, your Baby
Blue-Eyes lifted your .45 from your dresser, went to the school, where
Principal Dasher usually worked at night, and fired five rounds at the him. She
missed everyone except the one that pierced his right shoulder. Which, by the
way, bled like thereÕs no tomorrow.
She then was ready to have you take the blame while she skid addled with Betty
TheBoopÕs husband, Randy to Venezuela with your
teacherÕs pension.
She thought that she had killed Dasher, but that was not the PrincipalÕs fate
that cold and rainy and scary night.
Because...
Along comes Rich SiFi
into the PrincipalÕs Office, sees the almost dead Dasher, grabs him and gladly
gives him artificial respiration, and actually revives the old boy (whom he
(But alas, he fails to mediate anything...)
Two days later Principal Dasher struggles to leave his new jail and
falls into the toilet and breaks the seat off. The seat is now around his neck and
he crawls to my under cover Ō62 Printo.
Well... Well...
Needless to say, your Baby Blue-Eyes got six months for attempted
murder. And Mr. Randy TheBoop got fifty years
for trying to steal your $500 teacherÕs pension fund.
Their relationship must be a union made in heaven, because they will never meet
again until the hereafter
- ŅWeÕll meet again...
DonÕt know where, donÕt know when...
But IÕll see you... some sunny day...Ó
In hell, Randy
IN HELL muther-rucker!
Well, allÕs well that ends well, except for maybe a little hurt feelings on
your part. Sorry Buddy Boy. Maybe next time around things will go better for
you.
- I am so sorry I said all those stupid things about my students and
coworkers, especially the fictionalized ones. It mustÕa
been all the stress of being fired, and jailed. IÕm really not that way.
(In my line of work I see how people can get stressed out.
Charlie, as for me, my job is a revolving door, a never ending story.)
Oh, by the way, Principal Dasher promised to change his attitude toward
education and you can get your job back on Monday, if you want.
Well the principal didnÕt die, but his principles have changed. I guess
you might call this, ŅMR. BEBOP AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE DEAD PRINCIPLEÓ.
(Catch you on the flip side, Bud.)
-ŅThis could be the beginning of a
beautiful friendship.Ó
A POST SCRIPT
OK, so IÕm a bit
pissed-off about the old lady -- not to mention having my feathers are ruffled
from my visit to the Hoosegow -- but I am a firm believer that if you tuck in
your tail, and lick your chops, you can come out fighting another day. If that
other day ever comes around...
So I trade in my blue genes for a suit and tie and send out my cards, letters,
and feelers to an unsuspecting world, and wait... and wait..... and
wait....... and wait.........
What for? Well donÕt ask me, I too involved in being the protagonist, in this
Greek tale of woe to answer any questions now.
When...
Betty TheBoop
IÕm sitting in this here restaurant when Betty TheBoop,
having just finishing the devotions to St. Christopher, pulls up a chair and
sits next to me and whimpers.
- Since my man ainÕt coming home anymore, and Baby
Blue-Eyes broke out of jail to join the Neo-Nazi Brigade in Bucharest, I
thought you and I, with the blessing of St. Chris, could Ņget it onÓ.
- Please, my life is in the dumpster, my faantasy hero, Mr. Bebop is gone and I
just donÕt think we could, I mean, I could...
Dearie, itÕs time for both of us to forget this
ordeal and move on, separately.
Bet you thought I was gonna bang her.
DidnÕt you?
The Next ŅXÓ Mrs. de Bearon
Betty leaves, then five of my acquaintances from the time of my old church days
enter, and sit next to me. There are two couples and one gorgeous little blond headed,
third generation German-American from the farm in Iowa.
I somehow remember her, but I canÕt think where... Maybe in my dreams...
Well, everyone has small talk about the loverly
inter-denomination service at The Praise Church.
I whisper,
- Grea................t, I wish..... I was there...
So everyone begins to leave except for the mysterious golden lady.
But before they exit, they appears to give me the go-a-head, you
know, Ņthe nodÓ. It was like a wedding ceremony.
I canÕt believe my eyes. WhatÕs this beautiful babe doing with me?
The whole place is now empty as we talk about children, the interfaith church
and just about life in general. I mean we really communicate.
She doesnÕt even mind that I continued to do a little writing on my next book
as we talked. Then she shocks me...
- Do you mess-around?
- Well, yes, just the other day me and thiss detective played a friendly game of
softball against these three giant Normans. We lost, but we drank, and laughed,
and laughed Ōtil I started to roll on the floor. He got drunk that day and I
had to take him home to his new woman. What a great day that-
- No, silly, I mean MESS-around... liike, you know...
I lifted my eyebrows,
- O-o-o, you mean...
My knees start to quiver and my eyes almost pop out of my head while my
eyebrows lifts up further than ever. What could be happening here. I canÕt
dance and my tongue doesnÕt reach my forehead. What could she see in me?
She gives me Ņthe lookÓ and says,
- I always liked you because you actually listen to me. YouÕre sensitive and
so sweet. LetÕs face it: There is only me and you.
(This is a girl after my
own heart.)
- Are you sure you know what your getting iinto?
- Yup!
Holly Samolie, ŅEverlasting is Thy NameÓ
ThatÕs All Folks!
(But, Professor Peter-o says: ŅThatÕs never all there is.Ó)
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