Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

The Bumfuzzling Misadventures Of Athanaisus Finch, Public Idiot - End

There isn't much to say that wasn't said before, so I will try to say something I haven't said before: Bumfuzzle, which Dictionary.com defines as to be confused or flustered. As in, "this whole case had me bumfuzzled the whole time." With that put off, let's continue to the end of this tale. 

Of course, with Baron von Douchebag shaving in the sweet bye and bye, Mrs. Fatone got chosen as the next leader of the Super Secret Illuminati. Not that it mattered, of course, as the existence of a Super Duper Secret Illuminati meant that she was a conspiracy middle manager, at the very least. It still bothers me that the real mastermind behind all this was never caught, but whatever. We aren't paid enough to go the extra mile. Speaking of which, Athanasius got a little extra bonus for completing the case, one that he was busy hammering on the door of 696 West Penn Street. 

"You know," said Mrs. Wormwood, taking a drag out of her artisan hand-rolled cigarette she fashioned out of dry leaves and mango skins, "you're kinda missing the point of the whole being on a secret society stuff."

Nailed to the door, in golden color as shiny as his grimy teeth, was a plaque that read "Sir Athanasius Finch, Official Member of the Prestigious Order Of The Super Secret Illuminati, P.I." Yes, he got inducted into the organization, and he was dumb enough to advertise it to the whole world. God help us. 

"The train has sailed, Mrs. Wormwood," said Athanasius, spitting on the plaque to polish it off. But since he had no rags to actually polish it, he left it like that. 

"But, Beatrix!" you might be saying, "aren't you guilty of kinda doing the same? You are writing about it." 

And to that I say, shit happens. You will see why in a minute. 

"Hey, that's cool and all," I said as I fanned myself in the shadows, "but how much did we get paid again?"

But he didn't answer. Instead, he changed the subject. "You know, I am quite thirsty. I shall fetch us some refreshments, posthaste! Anyone want a proteins shake?"

We entered the house for a refreshment when someone unexpected was sitting in our kitchen, petting our platypus. 

"Good puppy," said the man, which was no other than Massimo, the one-eyed assassin. "You has tail that are very weird, but is much good puppy." 

Athanasius made a tactical roll towards the fiend, but not before bumping into the kitchen table. "How dare you exist in my house, you fiend!"

The man raised his hands in a sign of peace. "Massimo am not here to give the death to tiny dick of private or nice puppy. Massimo am coming in song of peaceful, like serenade from sweet saxophone legend, Weird Al Jankovic." 

"Want me to kill him, boss?" said Mrs. Wormwood. "I know Jew-jitzu." 

"Let him talk," said Athanasius, rolling back to where he was like a reverse Bakugan. "Speak, heathen." 

"Sorry to giving death to man other day," said the assassin, taking a small box from under the chair he was sitting on. "Boss told me to give death if cover blown, and cover blown like when Massimo fed nitroglycerin pellet to baby fish. Might have been a dream. Massimo am not knowing. Here, boss send present of tiny dick of private."

He placed the package on the table, and after petting the platypus again, began to walk out of the door. 

"Wait!" I said, grabbing his arm to stop him. "Tell me one last thing. Why did you kill Morton McAbre? Was he also a loose end?" 

"Who?" said Massimo. "Massimo am only kill Fat One and try kill Miss Fat One. No kill anymore. Maybe kill other creepy man."

"I told you," said Athanasius. "It was auto-erotic asph-"