Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

Super, Duper, Influencer Tupperware Party

"No, seriously, how much are we getting paid for this?" I asked Athanasius for the umpteen time that night. "We spent an arm and a leg for these mothball-smelling tuxedos from the Reagan era. Where did you even get those arms and legs?"

Athanasius simply greased his mustache dismissively with a flourish. "Such questions are unbecoming of a young lass such as yourself. Why would you even wear a tuxedo and not a dress in the first of places?"

"Not a lass," I muttered, "and because they make my butt look good. But seriously, our pay-"

"-shall be provided promptly upon the completion of our work," interrupted Anastasius.

"Which would be...?"

"Promptly," he stated.

"No, I mean, how much?" I pressed.

"I suppose that little time after, since that's the definition of promptly," he said. "As a Doctor in Letters, you should be of great understanding of the verbosity I spew."

Which meant that either he didn't know how much we are getting paid, or he knew and was playing coy about it. There was a third option that didn't even cross my mind, only because it was too stupid to entertain. But if I know anything about Athanasius is that, if there was an opportunity for him to do something stupid, he will become the entire circus to entertain.

I should've pushed more, but we had arrived at our destination before I knew it.

I should clarify that when I say push, I meant literal push, as our vehicle was, as Athanasius put it, a "porcine-powered vehicle for the lucky gentleman on the go," which was fancy for "pig wagon," as in, a wagon pushed by Athanasius lucky pig, Monsignor Porco. It worked surprisingly well until he hurt his hoofs with the hot asphalt and had to be cradled like a baby while I had to do the hard work. That's when I realized that I was a lady only when it fitted Athanasius' goals.

It took me a few hours to push us into a suburb just outside New York City, into what I can only describe as a Mansion King, which is like a McMansion, but vastly inferior, oddly grilled and dry, and gives you the runs. The whole suburb was littered with equally tasteless mansions, erect one after the other. I half expected to stumble into a reunion of white people silent betting in some rich fight club scheme.

"Halt, substitute swine!" yelled Athanasius as I pulled us to the driveway when a valet was waiting for us.

The man didn't bat an eye as Athanasius shoved Monsignor Porco onto the valet's arms, slipping two drachmas into his pockets.

"If I see a dent or a scratch on him," he whispered, "I'll turn you into bacon."

"I will make sure to feed him our best trash," said the man before putting Monsignor Porco into the wagon and parking it between a Porsche and a PopeMobile.

"Take note, Miss Cagliostro," whispered Athanasius as an equally drab butler showed us inside, "that my entrance was foreboding and somber as I eyed everyone in the room from the shadows."

Which could've been far from what happened, for as soon as we reached the living room we were greeted by something that neither of us had expected.

"Holy shit, is that a tiger?!" yelled Athanasius, for in the middle of the room, locked in a cage, was an actual tiger.

I don't know if you ever had the experience of seeing a tiger up close, but they are every bit of an asshole that cats are with the strength to back it up. Even their breath sounds like a million tiny tornadoes reverberating on a thunderous night, contained on a being that only wants to rip you apart like said tornadoes. I'm not saying that tornadoes are made of tigers, but I never heard anybody say anything to the contrary.