Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

Koalas, Clamato, And Champagne Concussions

A weird fact about crime is that the fingerprints of a Koala are nearly indistinguishable from human fingertips. In theory, a Koala could shoot somebody and remain unpunished, because who is going to believe that a Koala killed somebody when there are "clearly human" fingertips on the gun? All they do is eat eucalyptus and have chlamydia all day. But they can, and we should be wary of them. Even law enforcement in crime scenes in populations with Koala bears are advised to be suspicious and hugely prejudiced against them.

Now, I'm not saying that there was a Koala bear in the mansion, but I wouldn't rule them as innocent right away only because they were cute and cuddly, or have an inability to move a body from a room to another. If Koalas want to kill somebody, they will find a way to do it.

"But, Beatrix!" you might be saying, "aren't you being racist against Koalas?" And to that I say that you're not paying attention to my point. Yes, Koalas are ugly little gremlins that someone fed after midnight, but that doesn't make them guilty. That doesn't make them innocent, either. We only have to prove that the shit that hit the fan is not theirs. Mostly by checking said feces have chlamydia.

What we don't do is to let the Koala off the hook while we deal with the shit they threw at the fan. I'm starting to believe that this analogy is getting overly convoluted, but it will make sense right about...now.

"Ooof," said the wheelchair weirdo, "murder make Massimo itch like Koala, if Koala have the chlamydia. I mean, me, Byron Rockefeller The Third, Jr, Esquire, Md, which Massimo am! Maybe let out for air?"

"Sure, you and Mrs. Fat One can go out for a bit," said Athanasius. "As for the rest, nobody can leave this room!"

"Wait!" I said, throwing myself in front of the weirdo, "you can't let any suspects go!"

"Implying that a man in a wheelchair is a suspect is like implying that a Koala can be a murderer, Miss Cagliostro," said Athanasius while bobbing up and down like a cartoon mayor, "deeply disturbing and surprisingly specific."

"C'mon, the man's faking it!" I exclaimed. "Look at him! He looks like someone tried to make an avocado toast with a butternut squash, and didn't even bother to roast it!"

"Oh, burn!" yelled someone on the back.

"That's the opposite of what I said! Look at his shoes!" I said, pointing at the well worn Ugg boots that adorned his surprisingly petite feet. "They are used and dusty. Why would somebody wear shoes that are designed to maximize sole comfort and warmth when you can't even feel anything from the neck down?! And I'm, not, a, miss!"

Athanasius knelt beside the man, giving a couple of cursory pokes at his shoes. "This is clearly a superior boot worth somebody as famous and illustrious as Byron Rockefeller The Third, Jr. Esquire, Md."

"Massimo am Sir Byron," said the wheelchair weirdo.

"My fellow Sir!" said Athanasius, giving the man a military salute. "Forgive my assistant. She is not the sharpener tool in the place where one places said tools when not being used."

"Not a she," I stated. "And doesn't anybody realize this man is just some kind of chewed up troll doll in disguise?!"

A man with an impeccable black mustache that he kept twisting in a not-so-subtle way stepped forwards, putting his non-twirling hand on the shoulder of the wheelchair weirdo. He had a golden ring with a black skull on it. Interestingly enough, the eyes of the skull resembled the eyes of Mr. Fatone's tattoo. He was lanky, and smelled faintly of asparagus. "How dare you, you reject garden gnome, to come here and insult an upstanding member of society like that?! I should hang you for this, if you had a neck a noose could wrap around."