"The Corpse Wore Seersucker": A Tank Ironspleen Mystery

It was one of those mornings when you didn't trust yourself with a razor. The house was shaking, and I thought it was last night's 10 sloe gin fizzes pounding out an "Anvil Chorus" revenge on my cerebellum until I remembered I don't drink, and that the contractors were finishing up the remodeling by reattaching the shutters. I made a mental note not to be so mental.

Stumbling down the stairs, I hit the button on the coffeemaker to start the Ethiopian/Sumatran Blossom roast to percolating, wondering why mornings had to hit so early in the morning. I'm Tank "Clutch" Ironspleen, private blogger--PB, the hep cats call it--and while I'm tougher than doing Chinese arithmetic on a Tilt-A-Whirl, I also enjoy a high-quality cup of joe, java, varnish remover, battery acid. "There's no reason you can't be tough and cultured," my old mentor and barista, Slats McGonigle, used to tell me. I miss that man. When death dealt him a losing hand in the form of a terminally blocked salivary duct that not even around-the-clock Sour Patch Kids could cure, the world lost a great one. That's the way the world is, though. It's got Bette Davis eyes, and a Joan Crawford heart. Maybe a Barbara Stanwyck clavicle, and a Veronica Lake philtrum, I think.

But there's no room for sentimentality in the PB biz. There are two types of PBs: the tough, and the even tougher. I've been a member of that second group ever since my boss at the salt mines ripped me from the corporate teat with a kick in the kidneys, also known as a layoff notice. "Too many mixed metaphors," he told me. I popped back that he'd regret breaking the camel's back with loose lips on a rainy day, then spun on my heels and walked out. I reached for a cigarette, a coffin nail, a gasper, for some pre-packaged nicotine to choke some alveoli and numb the pain, patting my vest pocket in a vain search for some smoky, slow death. "Figures," I thought to myself, since that's the only way you can think. "Worst day in six years, and I don't even have any cigs on me." Then I remembered that I don't smoke, and never have, so I let it slide. There's no room for false addictions in the PB biz, either.

From then on, I've been a hired gun. "Have keyboard, will travel," it says on my business cards, although I don't travel all that much. Travel requires money, and around my house, money's gotten scarcer than a kid at the mall with pants that fit. So I look at the world through a monitor, passing the days one wasted pixel at a time.

It's tough out here in the killing fields of the 'burbs. Just when you're almost through cringing from a Tweet hit, somebody pokes you on Facebook. You never see the Tweet with your name on it, either. Sometimes, the screaming gets louder than a Jerry Springer audience and I can't even focus enough to type. "Another one dead," I think, shaking my head at the senseless loss of life, until I remember that Tank "Clutch" Junior has started teething, and that's probably just him screaming. When the advance forces of the dental army start lobbing mortars to soften up the gumline defenses, quiet is the first casualty.

It could be worse. I could be one of those PBs who start a themed blog post, but then can't figure out a way to wrap it up, bring it home, nail it shut, pronounce it dead, give a pithy eulogy. But I'm not that way. I just refer my readers to a repository of "Pat Novak, For Hire" MP3s that inspired this weak imitation, complete with a stolen opening line. That's right, the bit about the razor wasn't even mine. You got a problem with that, you take it up with my lawyers, Mssrs. Smith & Wesson, Esq. They have an office in my desk drawer, and they're prone to firing off lead legal notices at 800 feet per second.

Now to see if that coffee is ready, finished, perked, done, in order, in the saddle, on tap, potable. This blog ain't gonna write itself, so I'm gonna need the caffeine, the buzz, the juice. Gotta stay sharp, or you'll stay dead. It's the PB way.