D'Brickashaw! Blizzard! Love's! Omaha!
Nov 19, 2019 21:53:34 GMT -6
Deana Barrows and The A-List Fixer like this
Post by Jack Puffer on Nov 19, 2019 21:53:34 GMT -6
VICTORIOUS!
It was a word that suddenly applied, albeit loosely, to the name JACK PUFFER. He vanquished his adversary a few days prior at Inferno, proving that he was no longer the bumbling, fumbling, stumbling detective people grew to love and pity from OCW.
CONFIDENCE.
Was now instilled within the good detective. He had an entire week until his bout with the A-List Fixer…Craig Benson. Or something like that. He was pretty sure Craigh Benson was close. He’d seek clarification via the magic of the interwebs later on.
For he was driving.
And the good detective does not play around with electronic devices while behind the wheel.
He is too safe for that.
Behind the wheel of a rented, bright red car, Jack Puffer calmly striped down the right land of a four laned freeway. Being that it was Monday evening, the road was relatively sparse. More eighteen wheelers hauling freight than anything else. In fact, the private detective’s BRIGHT RED vehicle was about the only thing that stood out.
LOVES!
Yes, the popular truck stop lining many of the major US interstates called to the Good Detective. Being that he was cruising right at the speed limit in the right hand land of a sparse freeway, exiting was not a problem. He took that fucking exit and made his way, casually into the parking lot, finding one of about 30 available pumps. He parked, exited, swiped his card, and inserted a gas nozzle.
The sun had drowned into a black sea of infinite possibilities. It was evening. Wild shit went down in the evening. Puffer yawned, stretching his arms. He’d been in his bright red car for several hours. Driving from Dallas to Omaha is far from a short trip.
OH-MAH-GAH…OMAHA!
Yes, The Good Detective’s leads, like pussies whenever The A-List Fixer is around, had run dry. He was forced to do one of two things…focus on his wrestling career, remain in Dallas, workout, cut a super scary promo in front of a camera or…OR, travel to Omaha. The site of his first and only lead regarding the whereabouts of Warrick Hill.
MAGIC MAN
Inside the slightly dingy, mildly smelly, and always corrupt store belonging to Love’s, Puffer snared a packet of suspicious beef jerky. He really should have hit Buc-ees up on his way out of Texas. “Wheel in the Sky” by Journey was dying out over the speaker system. The Good Detective snared a cup, looking for a fountain drink. Coke, probably. Puffer was a man of tradition.
“Magic Man” by Heart began to play. The door to the establishment swung open, announcing the entrance of a super alpha, super bearded, and slightly eager man. He had lust in his eyes. The man was looking for love. Puffer attempted to weigh the man, sadly…his radar wasn’t fully functional. The man spotted Puffer, smiled, and sauntered over toward The Good Detective.
WELL HELLO
The man greeted Puffer. Puffer nodded, pouring a coke into his 44oz THIRST BUSTER. How the man stayed in such great shape is beyond me. “I couldn’t help notice you in those tight little jeans, exiting that pretty little red car of yours.”
Puffer, subconsciously immune to what was taking place, struggled securing the lid atop his beverage. The man reached over, snapping the lid in place.
“Thanks,” Puffer said, eyeing the lid, “but that’s not really sanitary.”
“My semi is purring out there. I don’t have much time, but I’ll be over…here, if you’d like to continue this chat.” The man tossed his head in the direction of the giant, grimy bathrooms belonging to Love’s. He gave Puffer a tap on the fanny and marched right toward the Love Tunnel.
Puffer seemed confused. He walked up to the cash register with his jerky and soda.
D’BRICKASHAW!
“Why on Earth would he want to talk in the bathroom?” Puffer asked the employee who, after all these years, knew enough to keep his opinions to himself. “That’s a place of privacy. Not to mention, these particular bathrooms come off as somewhat odious. Might want to do something about that.”
The beef jerky tally was more than the stickered price. But, Puffer let it go. While digging though his wallet for a debit card, he continued to chat. He’d been alone for some time.
“I’m heading to Omaha. Only about an hour away. Probably should have waited for a proper meal upon arriving but…I don’t know, munchies got the best of me.” He slapped the card down. The employee rang up the coke. “I’m a private detective. I’m hoping I can locate a criminal on the run. His last whereabouts were in Omaha.”
This caught the employees attention. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I know this guy. He’s giving seminars in Omaha this week. Some kind of program to get criminals onto the right track.”
With nothing else to go on, Puffer leaned in, hungry for more.
“Yea, his name is D’Brickashaw Ferguson.”
Puffer leaned back, “Ah man, don’t mess with me. My time is precious!”
“I’m serious. How could I make up a name like that?”
Puffer scoffed, retrieving his debit card and receipt. He considered lingering, applying his skills of detection to figure out if D’Brickashaw was a real name or not.
However, strange, creepy whistling sounded out from within the Love’s Bathroom. So, Puffer decided it was time to abscond.
DONT’BRAKEALAW!
Puffer looked ole D’Brickashaw up, expecting the results to come up empty. To his pleasant surprise, he found that Mr. Ferguson did…in fact, exist!
Standing outside a detached building used for temporary business ventures, Puffer read an impermanent marquee which stated ‘Dont’Brakealaw!’
He nodded, “Makes sense.” And entered.
A session was coming to an end. Mr. Ferguson gave some platitude filled statement about staying strong, avoiding temptation, and being good to others. The meeting broke. Puffer stood back while Ferguson shook hands, sold books, and handed out smiles – for free.
Finally, it was The Good Detective’s turn.
“Mr. Ferguson!” he called out.
“Yes? How can I help you.”
Now, D’Brickashaw, a former NFL player, was no small man. He stood nearly 6’6 and weighed close to three hundred pounds. And we’re not talking sloppy, Bifford type weight. This man was STOUT. However, Puffer wasn’t intimidated. He’d had his ass kicked at least 300 times over the past few years.
They shook hands.
“I’m a detective and I’m searching for a missing person. He’s something of a criminal. The last time anybody spotted him was right here, in Omaha. I don’t have any other leads so, I thought I’d come down here and see if you may have seen him.”
“Seems like profiling, Mr. Detective.”
“Yea, I know. He was also a pretty good college football player. Does that narrow the profile down a bit?”
“A bit.” Ferguson mulled. “You got a picture?”
Puffer produced a shot of Warrick Hill. There weren’t many photos of the man – especially good ones. So, it should come as no surprise that the best photo Puffer could muster would be one with Warrick engulfed in smoke, about to down a beverage.
D’Brickashaw scratched his bald head. He squinted. “Ya know…”
“Yes, I know it’s a long shot. I’m grasping for wasps here.”
“Wasps?”
“Yea, you know, when you’re at the end of your rope…” Puffer paused upon being smacked by epiphany. “Oh fuck, it’s straws, isn’t it?”
D’Brickashaw nodded.
“My bad.”
“You say you’re a detective?” It was at that point Mr. Ferguson made a mental note to never hire Jack Puffer.
“THE GOOD Detective, Jack Puffer.”
“Right…” Mr. Ferguson acquired some glasses – cheaters, if you will, for closer inspection. “Hmm, ya know what? I think this dude attended one of my seminars last week.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I got the feeling he wasn’t all that sincere during the message.”
Puffer pulled out a tiny notepad. A wave of confusion infected his face. He looked at D’Brickashaw, “Can I borrow a pen?”
Mr. Ferguson offered Puffer an officially licensed ‘Dont’Brakealaw!’ pen.
“Long, curly blonde hair. Guy sat down, coughed a few times, yawned once, laughed at the serious material, rolled his eyes at the comic relief. Which was fine…I’ve had my fair share of rogue personalities.”
“Rogue personality,” Puffer said, jotting the description down.
“He started hitting on women. And not just the ones around him. There were women three, four rows away that he whistled and shouted at, right during the presentation.”
“That’s when you kicked him out?”
“Almost…the breaking point was when he called me an NFL bust.”
“Ah, yes, I see.”
“I had a ten year career! I made 3 pro-bowls! Fuck that guy, seriously.”
“Fuck…that…guy...got it! Any idea where he may have went?”
Mr. Ferguson motioned toward some crew members to begin tearing down the setup. “I don’t really know. I heard he was pushing narcotics to people as they were exiting. He may have even successfully scored with some of the women. I didn’t care enough to investigate.”
“So, you’re saying I need to talk to some of the women in Omaha?”
Ferguson shrugged.
“Can I get a list of all the attendants from that meeting?”
“No.”
“What if I have a warrant?” There was an awkward silence. Puffer broke first, laughing, “I’m just kidding.”
“I know.” D’Brickashaw was so over The Good Detective.
“Seriously, can I see the list?”
Thirty seconds later, Puffer found himself outside the building, list-less. “Bummer,” he kicked a rock.
“Hey!” a voice called out, belonging to a man carrying a box full of pamphlets. A curious Puffer snuck over.
“Yes?”
“I heard you talking to Ferguson in there. I think I can help you out.”
“Oh?”
The man extended an open palm. Puffer gave him a five. The man cleared his throat and reopened his palm. Puffer grabbed it and began to read his lifeline. The man pulled his hand away.
“No! Money, mother fucker!”
“Ohhh, yea, that makes more sense.” Puffer offered a twenty. The man, about to ask for more, sized up the pathetic gumshoe, pocketing what he deemed was Puffer’s best offer.
“Carey Schulze. Fuckin bitch ass slut. She cheated on me with the son of a bitch you’re looking for. Here’s her address.”
“Oh wow, thanks.”
A-LIST ALERT!
Puffer received the info and headed toward his birght red car. His phone had a new notification. It read ‘Update from The A List Fixer.’
“Love these GCWA alerts! Let’s see what…Craig Benson has to say!”
He hooked his phone to the car radio and listend to The A-List Fixer while en route to Carey’s residence.
IT PLAYS. DEAR GOD IT PLAYS. MERCIFULLY, IT ENDS.
“Okay, so his name is Dave Branson. Good to know.” Puffer comes to a stop at a redlight. “I’m not sure what was going on at the beginning of that piece, but it sounded like a giant circle jerk with Dave performing for all the hot and heavy males in attendance.”
The light turned green. Puffer, deep in thought, failed notice.
HONK!
Puffer hit the gas.
“That Dylan guy seems abnormally obsessed with me. Watching me in OCW like some kind of creeper. I don’t know, maybe he’s a detective also. Am I being vetted?”
Puffer wondered, too much, nearly taking out a man on a bike. The man shook his fist in the rearview. Puffer, again, failed to notice.
“No DQ. I don’t blame Dave for producing those brass knuckles. I’d be angry if I couldn’t have Dairy Queen either. But, it’s no big deal. Texas is full of DQ locations. We can go out for ice cream later, Dave.”
Puffer spoted a Dairy Queen, as luck would have it. He pulled in.
“In fact, I think I’ll get a blizzard right now!”
He ordered an M&M Blizzard because that shit is the shit.
“I have less wrestling acumen than a worm. That one is interesting…” Puffer pondered. “If we’re talking wiggling and writhing on the mat, a worm has probably got me beat. However, if we’re talking using arms and legs, I think I have the advantage in that department.”
Puffer neared the window.
“That, plus a hot girl trying to make me jealous or insecure…is about all there is to Dave Branson.”
Puffer reached the window, paying for his Blizzard.
“I don’t know much, Dave. But I do know this. It doesn’t matter how many pairs of Brass Knuckles you have. How deprived of DQ you are. How many men beat off while watching you fight on a nightly basis. How many hot women drink smoothies with you like they’re drinking champagne…”
BUT!
“I do know this. Until you develop some kind of a personality, you won’t amount to shit in this world. Dylan got one thing right. Showmanship is a big part in what we do. I learned that the hard way. Now, you will too.” Puffer pulled away from the window and stopped, giving the dude behind him enough space to claim his purchase. “Oh and instead of pretending you’re drinking champagne, be a man and drink the actual thing.”
BLIZZARD!
Puffer took a sampling of his treat. “Delicious.”
“I look forward to meeting you, Dave and continug to leave my past where it belongs.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have…”
Ready to deliver a SUPER COOL LINE, Puffer was interrupted by the agitated customer behind him.
“HEY! MOVE YOUR FUCKING CAR, DOUCHE!”
Puffer’s confident demeanor hauled ass. And soon, his car followed suit.
Word Count - More than 1500. Less than 15,000
It was a word that suddenly applied, albeit loosely, to the name JACK PUFFER. He vanquished his adversary a few days prior at Inferno, proving that he was no longer the bumbling, fumbling, stumbling detective people grew to love and pity from OCW.
CONFIDENCE.
Was now instilled within the good detective. He had an entire week until his bout with the A-List Fixer…Craig Benson. Or something like that. He was pretty sure Craigh Benson was close. He’d seek clarification via the magic of the interwebs later on.
For he was driving.
And the good detective does not play around with electronic devices while behind the wheel.
He is too safe for that.
Behind the wheel of a rented, bright red car, Jack Puffer calmly striped down the right land of a four laned freeway. Being that it was Monday evening, the road was relatively sparse. More eighteen wheelers hauling freight than anything else. In fact, the private detective’s BRIGHT RED vehicle was about the only thing that stood out.
LOVES!
Yes, the popular truck stop lining many of the major US interstates called to the Good Detective. Being that he was cruising right at the speed limit in the right hand land of a sparse freeway, exiting was not a problem. He took that fucking exit and made his way, casually into the parking lot, finding one of about 30 available pumps. He parked, exited, swiped his card, and inserted a gas nozzle.
The sun had drowned into a black sea of infinite possibilities. It was evening. Wild shit went down in the evening. Puffer yawned, stretching his arms. He’d been in his bright red car for several hours. Driving from Dallas to Omaha is far from a short trip.
OH-MAH-GAH…OMAHA!
Yes, The Good Detective’s leads, like pussies whenever The A-List Fixer is around, had run dry. He was forced to do one of two things…focus on his wrestling career, remain in Dallas, workout, cut a super scary promo in front of a camera or…OR, travel to Omaha. The site of his first and only lead regarding the whereabouts of Warrick Hill.
MAGIC MAN
Inside the slightly dingy, mildly smelly, and always corrupt store belonging to Love’s, Puffer snared a packet of suspicious beef jerky. He really should have hit Buc-ees up on his way out of Texas. “Wheel in the Sky” by Journey was dying out over the speaker system. The Good Detective snared a cup, looking for a fountain drink. Coke, probably. Puffer was a man of tradition.
“Magic Man” by Heart began to play. The door to the establishment swung open, announcing the entrance of a super alpha, super bearded, and slightly eager man. He had lust in his eyes. The man was looking for love. Puffer attempted to weigh the man, sadly…his radar wasn’t fully functional. The man spotted Puffer, smiled, and sauntered over toward The Good Detective.
WELL HELLO
The man greeted Puffer. Puffer nodded, pouring a coke into his 44oz THIRST BUSTER. How the man stayed in such great shape is beyond me. “I couldn’t help notice you in those tight little jeans, exiting that pretty little red car of yours.”
Puffer, subconsciously immune to what was taking place, struggled securing the lid atop his beverage. The man reached over, snapping the lid in place.
“Thanks,” Puffer said, eyeing the lid, “but that’s not really sanitary.”
“My semi is purring out there. I don’t have much time, but I’ll be over…here, if you’d like to continue this chat.” The man tossed his head in the direction of the giant, grimy bathrooms belonging to Love’s. He gave Puffer a tap on the fanny and marched right toward the Love Tunnel.
Puffer seemed confused. He walked up to the cash register with his jerky and soda.
D’BRICKASHAW!
“Why on Earth would he want to talk in the bathroom?” Puffer asked the employee who, after all these years, knew enough to keep his opinions to himself. “That’s a place of privacy. Not to mention, these particular bathrooms come off as somewhat odious. Might want to do something about that.”
The beef jerky tally was more than the stickered price. But, Puffer let it go. While digging though his wallet for a debit card, he continued to chat. He’d been alone for some time.
“I’m heading to Omaha. Only about an hour away. Probably should have waited for a proper meal upon arriving but…I don’t know, munchies got the best of me.” He slapped the card down. The employee rang up the coke. “I’m a private detective. I’m hoping I can locate a criminal on the run. His last whereabouts were in Omaha.”
This caught the employees attention. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I know this guy. He’s giving seminars in Omaha this week. Some kind of program to get criminals onto the right track.”
With nothing else to go on, Puffer leaned in, hungry for more.
“Yea, his name is D’Brickashaw Ferguson.”
Puffer leaned back, “Ah man, don’t mess with me. My time is precious!”
“I’m serious. How could I make up a name like that?”
Puffer scoffed, retrieving his debit card and receipt. He considered lingering, applying his skills of detection to figure out if D’Brickashaw was a real name or not.
However, strange, creepy whistling sounded out from within the Love’s Bathroom. So, Puffer decided it was time to abscond.
DONT’BRAKEALAW!
Puffer looked ole D’Brickashaw up, expecting the results to come up empty. To his pleasant surprise, he found that Mr. Ferguson did…in fact, exist!
Standing outside a detached building used for temporary business ventures, Puffer read an impermanent marquee which stated ‘Dont’Brakealaw!’
He nodded, “Makes sense.” And entered.
A session was coming to an end. Mr. Ferguson gave some platitude filled statement about staying strong, avoiding temptation, and being good to others. The meeting broke. Puffer stood back while Ferguson shook hands, sold books, and handed out smiles – for free.
Finally, it was The Good Detective’s turn.
“Mr. Ferguson!” he called out.
“Yes? How can I help you.”
Now, D’Brickashaw, a former NFL player, was no small man. He stood nearly 6’6 and weighed close to three hundred pounds. And we’re not talking sloppy, Bifford type weight. This man was STOUT. However, Puffer wasn’t intimidated. He’d had his ass kicked at least 300 times over the past few years.
They shook hands.
“I’m a detective and I’m searching for a missing person. He’s something of a criminal. The last time anybody spotted him was right here, in Omaha. I don’t have any other leads so, I thought I’d come down here and see if you may have seen him.”
“Seems like profiling, Mr. Detective.”
“Yea, I know. He was also a pretty good college football player. Does that narrow the profile down a bit?”
“A bit.” Ferguson mulled. “You got a picture?”
Puffer produced a shot of Warrick Hill. There weren’t many photos of the man – especially good ones. So, it should come as no surprise that the best photo Puffer could muster would be one with Warrick engulfed in smoke, about to down a beverage.
D’Brickashaw scratched his bald head. He squinted. “Ya know…”
“Yes, I know it’s a long shot. I’m grasping for wasps here.”
“Wasps?”
“Yea, you know, when you’re at the end of your rope…” Puffer paused upon being smacked by epiphany. “Oh fuck, it’s straws, isn’t it?”
D’Brickashaw nodded.
“My bad.”
“You say you’re a detective?” It was at that point Mr. Ferguson made a mental note to never hire Jack Puffer.
“THE GOOD Detective, Jack Puffer.”
“Right…” Mr. Ferguson acquired some glasses – cheaters, if you will, for closer inspection. “Hmm, ya know what? I think this dude attended one of my seminars last week.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I got the feeling he wasn’t all that sincere during the message.”
Puffer pulled out a tiny notepad. A wave of confusion infected his face. He looked at D’Brickashaw, “Can I borrow a pen?”
Mr. Ferguson offered Puffer an officially licensed ‘Dont’Brakealaw!’ pen.
“Long, curly blonde hair. Guy sat down, coughed a few times, yawned once, laughed at the serious material, rolled his eyes at the comic relief. Which was fine…I’ve had my fair share of rogue personalities.”
“Rogue personality,” Puffer said, jotting the description down.
“He started hitting on women. And not just the ones around him. There were women three, four rows away that he whistled and shouted at, right during the presentation.”
“That’s when you kicked him out?”
“Almost…the breaking point was when he called me an NFL bust.”
“Ah, yes, I see.”
“I had a ten year career! I made 3 pro-bowls! Fuck that guy, seriously.”
“Fuck…that…guy...got it! Any idea where he may have went?”
Mr. Ferguson motioned toward some crew members to begin tearing down the setup. “I don’t really know. I heard he was pushing narcotics to people as they were exiting. He may have even successfully scored with some of the women. I didn’t care enough to investigate.”
“So, you’re saying I need to talk to some of the women in Omaha?”
Ferguson shrugged.
“Can I get a list of all the attendants from that meeting?”
“No.”
“What if I have a warrant?” There was an awkward silence. Puffer broke first, laughing, “I’m just kidding.”
“I know.” D’Brickashaw was so over The Good Detective.
“Seriously, can I see the list?”
Thirty seconds later, Puffer found himself outside the building, list-less. “Bummer,” he kicked a rock.
“Hey!” a voice called out, belonging to a man carrying a box full of pamphlets. A curious Puffer snuck over.
“Yes?”
“I heard you talking to Ferguson in there. I think I can help you out.”
“Oh?”
The man extended an open palm. Puffer gave him a five. The man cleared his throat and reopened his palm. Puffer grabbed it and began to read his lifeline. The man pulled his hand away.
“No! Money, mother fucker!”
“Ohhh, yea, that makes more sense.” Puffer offered a twenty. The man, about to ask for more, sized up the pathetic gumshoe, pocketing what he deemed was Puffer’s best offer.
“Carey Schulze. Fuckin bitch ass slut. She cheated on me with the son of a bitch you’re looking for. Here’s her address.”
“Oh wow, thanks.”
A-LIST ALERT!
Puffer received the info and headed toward his birght red car. His phone had a new notification. It read ‘Update from The A List Fixer.’
“Love these GCWA alerts! Let’s see what…Craig Benson has to say!”
He hooked his phone to the car radio and listend to The A-List Fixer while en route to Carey’s residence.
IT PLAYS. DEAR GOD IT PLAYS. MERCIFULLY, IT ENDS.
“Okay, so his name is Dave Branson. Good to know.” Puffer comes to a stop at a redlight. “I’m not sure what was going on at the beginning of that piece, but it sounded like a giant circle jerk with Dave performing for all the hot and heavy males in attendance.”
The light turned green. Puffer, deep in thought, failed notice.
HONK!
Puffer hit the gas.
“That Dylan guy seems abnormally obsessed with me. Watching me in OCW like some kind of creeper. I don’t know, maybe he’s a detective also. Am I being vetted?”
Puffer wondered, too much, nearly taking out a man on a bike. The man shook his fist in the rearview. Puffer, again, failed to notice.
“No DQ. I don’t blame Dave for producing those brass knuckles. I’d be angry if I couldn’t have Dairy Queen either. But, it’s no big deal. Texas is full of DQ locations. We can go out for ice cream later, Dave.”
Puffer spoted a Dairy Queen, as luck would have it. He pulled in.
“In fact, I think I’ll get a blizzard right now!”
He ordered an M&M Blizzard because that shit is the shit.
“I have less wrestling acumen than a worm. That one is interesting…” Puffer pondered. “If we’re talking wiggling and writhing on the mat, a worm has probably got me beat. However, if we’re talking using arms and legs, I think I have the advantage in that department.”
Puffer neared the window.
“That, plus a hot girl trying to make me jealous or insecure…is about all there is to Dave Branson.”
Puffer reached the window, paying for his Blizzard.
“I don’t know much, Dave. But I do know this. It doesn’t matter how many pairs of Brass Knuckles you have. How deprived of DQ you are. How many men beat off while watching you fight on a nightly basis. How many hot women drink smoothies with you like they’re drinking champagne…”
BUT!
“I do know this. Until you develop some kind of a personality, you won’t amount to shit in this world. Dylan got one thing right. Showmanship is a big part in what we do. I learned that the hard way. Now, you will too.” Puffer pulled away from the window and stopped, giving the dude behind him enough space to claim his purchase. “Oh and instead of pretending you’re drinking champagne, be a man and drink the actual thing.”
BLIZZARD!
Puffer took a sampling of his treat. “Delicious.”
“I look forward to meeting you, Dave and continug to leave my past where it belongs.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have…”
Ready to deliver a SUPER COOL LINE, Puffer was interrupted by the agitated customer behind him.
“HEY! MOVE YOUR FUCKING CAR, DOUCHE!”
Puffer’s confident demeanor hauled ass. And soon, his car followed suit.
Word Count - More than 1500. Less than 15,000
