Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

Let The Fat One In

They say first impressions are the most important, and I do tend to agree. My father -- may the Lord keep him in the insane asylum the police dragged him to after he tried to start a revolution to dethrone the Burger King, not knowing that he was a figurehead whose parliament held most control over burger policy with an iron fist -- always told me to make the best impression I could for people to remember me.

He taught by example, always making sure I was watching when he lunged at people, biting them in the neck, to impress his teeth marks on their flesh. He didn't understand the concept of "impression" or "aphorisms" and "biting people is considered a felony assault in most states." 

I know better, which is why I know that the polite thing to do is to kiss their knuckles when you shake their hands. Or forehead, if they are Asian and prefer to bow. 

The person knocking at the door was determined to make an impression on the door by continual percussion alone. The knocks were so persistent and rhythmical that I believed for a second that a mutant woodpecker was trying to have his way with the house. Shame it wasn't, for woodpecker meat is delicious. I had an interesting childhood. 

"A client?" asked Athanasius, waxing his mustache with some leftover pork fat. "I permutated that this day was going to go swimmingly."

"Don't get yer hopes up," said old Mrs. Wormwood, chewing on the butt of her breakfast cigarette. "It's probably the girl scouts back again knowing when you're gonna pay them for the latest batch of Thin Mints you ordered." 

Athanasius chortled a waf of garlic and bad decision, rubbing his belly above his poncho. "They didn't make me thinner, or mintier. If anything, I demand compensation for their flagrantly false advertising."

The door was still taking abuse like a baseball stadium urinal after the seventh inning, with the town bozo sucking at the urinal cakes for a drop of processed alcohol after the guy at the hotdogs stand refused to let him drink the "sausage sweat" the hotdogs were boiled in. Which means that the door couldn't hold any longer and be about to burst. 

"Guys," I said, interrupting the couple, "the house is gonna fall if someone doesn't open the door."

Athanasius procured his clipboard from under his poncho, alongside his now-signature red sharpie. He used them to review my performance on different subjects, awarding imaginary points with seemingly meaningless value. 

A few days prior, we were eating pasta carbonara -- which consisted of dried ramen noodles and grounded coal with a cheese-scented candle in the middle between us three for additional flavor -- he took out the clipboard, muttering "minus fifteen points, improper digestive system" while giving me a snide look. 

Later that day, while we were in bed, I felt him wake up in the middle of the night, muttering "minus five points, calfs not warm enough." 

But it wasn't all negative. Sometimes he would award me points for good things, like "plus twenty points, smells like elderberries today," or, and this one is my favorite, "plus fifty, didn't complain about the mondo fart I made last night." 

This time, it wasn't one of those plus moments. 

"Minus thirty, lacks initiative to answer the door," he whispered in a passive-aggressive matter, the same way a heavily evangelical mother would pray out loud in the middle of the night to deter their children from masturbating. Crude, but it worked.

It was enough for me to take the hint, moving to stand up when he whispered "ten points, knows how to take a hint." 

"If it's the girl scouts," said Mrs. Wormwood, grabbing a handful of grease and using it to comb her wispy hair down the middle, "tell em' we died."