Post by Jack Puffer on Oct 30, 2019 12:33:41 GMT -6
Knock, Knock.
Who’s there?
Who could it be?
The Good Detective stumbled around his average apartment. It wasn’t cluttered. Puffer merely seemed to have a bit of difficulty navigating the arranged pieces of furniture.
No worries. He reached the front door, messing around with the lock for a few moments before unveiling the knocker.
There stood a man. A man wearing a charismatic hat. Within his right hand resided…a telegram.
Puffer eyed the man suspiciously, “Yes?”
“Telegram for Jack Puffer!”
“A telegram?” Puffer, like any moderately sane individual, might wonder who on Earth would send him a telegram. He also questioned whether or not telegrams were still a thing. His amazing skills of detection worked out that telegrams had to be a thing, due to the man standing at his door. That, plus, it’s a pretty clichéd way for a man to appease his woman on Valentine’s Day.
Puffer eyed the man. The man eyed Puffer. It became awkward.
“Well?” Puffer asked.
“Well what, Mr. Puffer?”
“Are you going to sing?”
The man laughed, “Oh no, Mr. Puffer. This isn’t a singing telegram. Merely a telegram.”
“Kind of takes the magic out of it, don’t you think?”
The telegram delivery guy sighed. He cleared his throat. Puffer stood upright, eager to hear the amateur vocal cords do their thing. With a wide-open mouth, the delivery guy prepared to belt out a tune…until, he didn’t. He stopped, releasing a lung’s worth of Carbon Dioxide into the air.
“Just take the fucking telegram, dude. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”
Puffer snared the telegram, “Fine, but I’m not going to give you a five-star review.”
“Whatever.”
Puffer shut the door. The telegram delivery guy moped back to his shitty car. He took a seat and slowly lifted the top to the middle console, eyeing a delicious revolver. Would he end it all?
Back inside Puffer’s apartment. He opened the telegram, less eager than if it had been delivered to him via the magic of music. Once opened, he read it aloud.
Puffer searched for a pen. It took longer than it should have, but he managed to acquire a writing utensil. Its purpose was to scratch out ‘Mr.’ and add in ‘Detective’. Once the work had been completed, he eyed it with satisfaction before continuing.
But, he wasn’t done. He continued eyeing the telegram.
“Xtreme,” he murmured. “Where is the E?”
This caused great consternation within the Good Detective. While far from some kind of spelling savant, he understood that Extreme was spelled with an E in front. Yet, on his telegram, it was spelled ‘Xtreme’. This could only mean one thing. The E had been lost.
“I must find this E!’
Puffer folded the telegram and wedged it into his back pocket. He dropped to his knees and began searching for the missing ‘E’.
He searched. And searched. And, yes, he searched some more.
Whilst searching, he came across a GCWA trading card featuring Adi Goldblum. He eyed it, suspiciously, “Something about that woman…I don’t trust her. Perhaps she stole the E…”
He placed her, in his mind, under ‘persons of interest’. The search continued.
Puffer crawled out of his living area, into the bedroom. Several magazines were scattered under the mattress. Usually, it would be safe to assume these magazines were of the adult variety. However, The Good Detective was no ordinary man. The magazines littering the wood floor underneath his bed were uncommon comic books.
One book, in particular, caught his eye. “Blue Thunder,” he read the title aloud. “Love this guy.”
He rolled the comic book up and placed it in his other back pocket. The back pockets belonging to his pair of jeans were being put to the test.
After several minutes of searching, Puffer took a break, seated on the floor, back against his queen-sized bed. “Where is that E!”
He slapped the wood floor with both palms, “I have to face a man who’s missing a huge chunk of his identity. I mean, imagine if I went around calling myself Ack Puffer or Jack Uffer. I’d be almost half the man I am today.”
That didn’t really make sense, but Puffer was doing his best attempt at prepping for the physical challenge that awaited him in nearly 48 hours.
“I’m close to blowing this, I can feel it,” Puffer’s insecurities began to boil to the surface. “I was asked to wrestle in Warrick Hill’s place until his whereabouts were located. I gave Derek Mobley my word. And, what have I done? I blew it against (E)Xtreme two weeks ago. Have I found Warrick? Not even close. I’ve taken more steps back than I have forward. This is a disaster.”
Puffer’s head dipped. He stared at the floor, feeling almost as depressed as the telegram guy. He couldn’t locate Warrick. He couldn’t beat Xtreme. And now, he couldn’t find the missing E. His life seemed to lack what all lives need – meaning.
There was a sudden jolt in his ass. A sharp pain that washed away any melancholy. Puffer reached around, checking his posterior. His hands found the Blue Thunder comic book. He carefully brought it around and began to read the contents.
It had a very positive message. So positive, in fact, that it pushed Puffer’s insecurities inside. New confidence began to beam within The Good Detective.
“Yes, believe in me.”
“It all starts from within.”
“You ARE good enough.”
“It’s never too late to change.”
Fuckin Blue Thunder. An inspiration for many downtrodden, low-level in-ring competitors. He’s instilled faith within even the most meandered souls. And, on this very afternoon, his healing touch has found yet another bruised soul – Jack Puffer.
“That’s it!” an excited Puffer rose to his feet. “The E has been in front of me all along!” With the comic book in hand, Puffer rushed into the kitchen. He slapped the reading material on his kitchen counter and pulled open a drawer, locating some scissors.
The Good Detective began doctoring one of the pages belonging to the comic book.
He made quick work, surgically removing an ‘E’ from one of the word bubbles within Blue Thunder’s featured odyssey.
Next came the telegram. He dug for a few minutes before removing it from the back, left pocket. He slapped it down alongside the comic book and carefully position the free ‘E’ in front of Xtreme.
“Glue…I need glue…”
Now, under ordinary circumstances, a grown man living alone would most likely not possess glue. And, if he did, it would be some of that adult glue…the super sticky kind.
But, as has been previously stated, Jack Puffer is no ordinary man. In that very same drawer that housed the scissors, Puffer found a Glue Stick!
It was his lucky day!
Puffer lathered up the back of the E and pressed it onto the telegram in front of Xtreme.
His mission was complete! He had located the missing E!
He exhaled, “Finally, some positive momentum. Just the push I needed heading into Friday. I’m going to redeem myself against Extreme. I’m going to show the entire world and, most importantly, Derek Mobley that I’m capable of completing the task that was offered and accepted. I will not let Derek or Warrick down. This Friday, in Dallas, the search and eventual location of Warrick Hill officially begins.”
Puffer’s eyes turned to the comic book, “Thanks, Blue Thunder.”
Fade…
Ring, ring.
Puffer’s cell phone produced an anachronistic ring, Jack’s ring of choice. He liked to keep this gumshoe operation as legit as possible.
“Yes?” he answered. “Oh,” his pleased expression turned serious. “Seriously injured…in a barroom brawl?” Puffer hustled for a pen, jotting some of these items down.
Bar Room Brawl.
Three Men Injured.
Attacked by one man.
Description matches that of Warrick Hill.
Omaha.
“Thank you so much, may I have your name?” Puffer waited. The other end clicked. The anonymous tipster was gone.
That was okay, Puffer had his first lead in the search for Warrick Hill.
There wasn’t any time to waste. A man like Warrick, a transient, daring individual wouldn’t sit still for long.
He raced for the front door, tearing it open. He spotted the telegram delivery guy in his car, sobbing. There was no time for consolation. Puffer hurried toward his Nissan, hopped in and drove away.
Who’s there?
Who could it be?
The Good Detective stumbled around his average apartment. It wasn’t cluttered. Puffer merely seemed to have a bit of difficulty navigating the arranged pieces of furniture.
No worries. He reached the front door, messing around with the lock for a few moments before unveiling the knocker.
There stood a man. A man wearing a charismatic hat. Within his right hand resided…a telegram.
Puffer eyed the man suspiciously, “Yes?”
“Telegram for Jack Puffer!”
“A telegram?” Puffer, like any moderately sane individual, might wonder who on Earth would send him a telegram. He also questioned whether or not telegrams were still a thing. His amazing skills of detection worked out that telegrams had to be a thing, due to the man standing at his door. That, plus, it’s a pretty clichéd way for a man to appease his woman on Valentine’s Day.
Puffer eyed the man. The man eyed Puffer. It became awkward.
“Well?” Puffer asked.
“Well what, Mr. Puffer?”
“Are you going to sing?”
The man laughed, “Oh no, Mr. Puffer. This isn’t a singing telegram. Merely a telegram.”
“Kind of takes the magic out of it, don’t you think?”
The telegram delivery guy sighed. He cleared his throat. Puffer stood upright, eager to hear the amateur vocal cords do their thing. With a wide-open mouth, the delivery guy prepared to belt out a tune…until, he didn’t. He stopped, releasing a lung’s worth of Carbon Dioxide into the air.
“Just take the fucking telegram, dude. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”
Puffer snared the telegram, “Fine, but I’m not going to give you a five-star review.”
“Whatever.”
Puffer shut the door. The telegram delivery guy moped back to his shitty car. He took a seat and slowly lifted the top to the middle console, eyeing a delicious revolver. Would he end it all?
Back inside Puffer’s apartment. He opened the telegram, less eager than if it had been delivered to him via the magic of music. Once opened, he read it aloud.
“Dear Mr. Puffer.”
Puffer searched for a pen. It took longer than it should have, but he managed to acquire a writing utensil. Its purpose was to scratch out ‘Mr.’ and add in ‘Detective’. Once the work had been completed, he eyed it with satisfaction before continuing.
“You have been cordially invited to the GCWA Arena this Friday in Dallas Texas to take on Xtreme.”
Puffer’s brow furrowed. But, he continued reading.“Will you show up? Circle yes or no.”
Puffer paused, wondering if he should show up or not. Friday nights were special occasions for single men. A time to go out, enjoy the nightlife and perhaps woo the company of a female. He turned to his little black book, flipping through the endless sea of white. His scheduled appeared to be wide open. So, he circled yes.But, he wasn’t done. He continued eyeing the telegram.
“Xtreme,” he murmured. “Where is the E?”
This caused great consternation within the Good Detective. While far from some kind of spelling savant, he understood that Extreme was spelled with an E in front. Yet, on his telegram, it was spelled ‘Xtreme’. This could only mean one thing. The E had been lost.
“I must find this E!’
Puffer folded the telegram and wedged it into his back pocket. He dropped to his knees and began searching for the missing ‘E’.
He searched. And searched. And, yes, he searched some more.
Whilst searching, he came across a GCWA trading card featuring Adi Goldblum. He eyed it, suspiciously, “Something about that woman…I don’t trust her. Perhaps she stole the E…”
He placed her, in his mind, under ‘persons of interest’. The search continued.
Puffer crawled out of his living area, into the bedroom. Several magazines were scattered under the mattress. Usually, it would be safe to assume these magazines were of the adult variety. However, The Good Detective was no ordinary man. The magazines littering the wood floor underneath his bed were uncommon comic books.
One book, in particular, caught his eye. “Blue Thunder,” he read the title aloud. “Love this guy.”
He rolled the comic book up and placed it in his other back pocket. The back pockets belonging to his pair of jeans were being put to the test.
After several minutes of searching, Puffer took a break, seated on the floor, back against his queen-sized bed. “Where is that E!”
He slapped the wood floor with both palms, “I have to face a man who’s missing a huge chunk of his identity. I mean, imagine if I went around calling myself Ack Puffer or Jack Uffer. I’d be almost half the man I am today.”
That didn’t really make sense, but Puffer was doing his best attempt at prepping for the physical challenge that awaited him in nearly 48 hours.
“I’m close to blowing this, I can feel it,” Puffer’s insecurities began to boil to the surface. “I was asked to wrestle in Warrick Hill’s place until his whereabouts were located. I gave Derek Mobley my word. And, what have I done? I blew it against (E)Xtreme two weeks ago. Have I found Warrick? Not even close. I’ve taken more steps back than I have forward. This is a disaster.”
Puffer’s head dipped. He stared at the floor, feeling almost as depressed as the telegram guy. He couldn’t locate Warrick. He couldn’t beat Xtreme. And now, he couldn’t find the missing E. His life seemed to lack what all lives need – meaning.
There was a sudden jolt in his ass. A sharp pain that washed away any melancholy. Puffer reached around, checking his posterior. His hands found the Blue Thunder comic book. He carefully brought it around and began to read the contents.
It had a very positive message. So positive, in fact, that it pushed Puffer’s insecurities inside. New confidence began to beam within The Good Detective.
“Yes, believe in me.”
“It all starts from within.”
“You ARE good enough.”
“It’s never too late to change.”
Fuckin Blue Thunder. An inspiration for many downtrodden, low-level in-ring competitors. He’s instilled faith within even the most meandered souls. And, on this very afternoon, his healing touch has found yet another bruised soul – Jack Puffer.
“That’s it!” an excited Puffer rose to his feet. “The E has been in front of me all along!” With the comic book in hand, Puffer rushed into the kitchen. He slapped the reading material on his kitchen counter and pulled open a drawer, locating some scissors.
The Good Detective began doctoring one of the pages belonging to the comic book.
He made quick work, surgically removing an ‘E’ from one of the word bubbles within Blue Thunder’s featured odyssey.
Next came the telegram. He dug for a few minutes before removing it from the back, left pocket. He slapped it down alongside the comic book and carefully position the free ‘E’ in front of Xtreme.
“Glue…I need glue…”
Now, under ordinary circumstances, a grown man living alone would most likely not possess glue. And, if he did, it would be some of that adult glue…the super sticky kind.
But, as has been previously stated, Jack Puffer is no ordinary man. In that very same drawer that housed the scissors, Puffer found a Glue Stick!
It was his lucky day!
Puffer lathered up the back of the E and pressed it onto the telegram in front of Xtreme.
His mission was complete! He had located the missing E!
He exhaled, “Finally, some positive momentum. Just the push I needed heading into Friday. I’m going to redeem myself against Extreme. I’m going to show the entire world and, most importantly, Derek Mobley that I’m capable of completing the task that was offered and accepted. I will not let Derek or Warrick down. This Friday, in Dallas, the search and eventual location of Warrick Hill officially begins.”
Puffer’s eyes turned to the comic book, “Thanks, Blue Thunder.”
Fade…
Ring, ring.
Puffer’s cell phone produced an anachronistic ring, Jack’s ring of choice. He liked to keep this gumshoe operation as legit as possible.
“Yes?” he answered. “Oh,” his pleased expression turned serious. “Seriously injured…in a barroom brawl?” Puffer hustled for a pen, jotting some of these items down.
Bar Room Brawl.
Three Men Injured.
Attacked by one man.
Description matches that of Warrick Hill.
Omaha.
“Thank you so much, may I have your name?” Puffer waited. The other end clicked. The anonymous tipster was gone.
That was okay, Puffer had his first lead in the search for Warrick Hill.
There wasn’t any time to waste. A man like Warrick, a transient, daring individual wouldn’t sit still for long.
He raced for the front door, tearing it open. He spotted the telegram delivery guy in his car, sobbing. There was no time for consolation. Puffer hurried toward his Nissan, hopped in and drove away.
