Short Story Shenanigans

An Occasionally-Growing List of Silliness

Notre Dame

You might think I’m crazy, and this story can’t be true, but this is how it happened. It started with a Dame. Notre Dame, to be exact.

After the university crashed through my door, completely demolishing my office—and making me reconsider spending my last paycheck on a new desk—I knew I was on to something. Those bigwig college professors resented my snooping, and had sent me a warning.

But I don’t quit that easy.

After climbing out what was left of my window to let the other tenants know there was nothing to worry about, I returned to the university and went to bother the Executive Vice Assistant to one of the professors I’d questioned yesterday, right after that laundry service truck narrowly missed my car.

She still wouldn’t tell me anything about the two girls who’d gone missing, but she must have been expecting me to come back, because she now had two assistants of her own—a guy and a girl. Graduates, it would seem.

“Hey man, nice bowler hat!” The guy had evidently never seen a fedora.

I hid my frustration over that by picking up the vice assistant’s stapler and clicking it at her.

The girl grabbed the phone. “I’ll call security on you!”

I gambled. “Good. Then you can tell them about that laundry service.”

The vice assistant looked startled.

The girl looked confused.

The guy appeared to be stacking folders on his head to imitate my hat.

The girl glared. “Listen, old man—”

I resented that. I was only 25 looking like I was going on 49. A job takes a toll on a man.

“—doesn’t mean everyone’s guilty of some heinous crime.”

“Not everyone.” I turned to the vice assistant. “I know why that laundry truck was here yesterday. You can come clean about your boss and his friends now, or have it all come out in the wash later.”

She spilled.

I called the police and then drove to the warehouse where the girls were being kept.

An ugly lug met me at the gate, but I cleaned his clock.

Inside the building, another guard waited, with a face like a bull. But I had knuckles like meat tenderizer. He was well-done in 10 seconds flat.

I found the girls unharmed, but sitting, sedated, in oversized hampers. Their professors had obviously tried to make basket cases of them.

They were able to point the finger at the people responsible for their abduction, and were also able to go to their homes that night.

I’d solved the case. All that was left for me to do was figure out how to get that university off my office building before the landlord complained…

Plumbism

The masked man came from the right, completely bypassing the checkout line. He brandished a gun. “Hand over the cash or I’ll give you an acute case of plumbism!”

The cashier blinked at him. “Huh? The plumber’s already been to my place. I had a clog that almost blew the pipes.”

Before the gunman could reply, a young woman near the front of the line spoke up. “I think he’s saying he’s going to force you to eat plums—probably until you’re a permanent fixture of your bathroom.”

“Aw man, then I’d have to call the plumber again.”

“Yeah, but you’d get a proper flow through your intestinal plumbing.” A young man further down the line chuckled. “Trust me. Once you add prunes to your diet, you’ll—”

“Stop talking!” The gunman shook the weapon at the cashier. “That’s not what I meant. If you don’t hand over the cash now, I’ll give you lead poisoning!”

“Were the plums grown in leaded water?”

“Drop it.” A police officer appeared behind the gunman, his service weapon against the criminal’s back.

The gunman relinquished it, and the store cheered.

All except for the cashier. “If he was threatening me with the gun, why was he talking about plumbing?”

Art Inspires Art

Art inspires art.

Or at least, that’s the way it should be.

But while I stood in the middle of an art expo, sculptures to the left of me and canvases to the right, I wasn’t thinking about art.

I was thinking about my full bladder and fuller bowels.

Where do they keep the bathrooms at these things?!

I probably should have found out when I first got there.

People came and went around me, admiring this, or trying to ignore that, and I searched for someone with an employee name tag whom I could ask about the facilities.

But of course there were no employees in sight.

And I was running out of time.

When nature calls, it screams.

I broke into a careful jog, weaving between sculptures in hopes that there might be a restroom beyond the exhibits.

And then, I saw it.

A porta potty.

Right in the middle of the sculptures!

I couldn’t believe my good luck.

I darted inside and locked the door behind me. Good thing I’d brought hand sanitizer.

Several minutes later, I walked out feeling very relieved.

And that was when I saw the plaque on the side of the porta potty.

Porta Potty. Sculpture by Le Jean.

No. No. No. I took off running.

When I reached the part of the paintings’ section where a friend was exhibiting his still life of poppy flowers (inspired by one of Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers paintings), I grabbed his sleeve. “Hey. We need to get out of here. I just peed and defecated in someone’s sculpture.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not—you actually—”

“I didn’t know someone entered that porta potty as a sculpture!”

He exhaled. “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t go. My painting’s in the contest, so I can’t exactly—”

“Right.” And I was there to support him. “Okay. I guess I’m not leaving either.” I admired his painting. “You are going to win, you know.”

“I hope.”

The lady judging the paintings had real taste in art. My friend took 1st place.

The gentleman judging the sculptures did not have real taste. “I absolutely love the incorporation of urine and feces in this sculpture! It’s pushing the boundaries of art and integrating multiple media—”

My friend nudged me. “Le Jean owes you for that win.”

I side-eyed him. “We are never going to speak of this again.”

Cats

Then, before I realized what I was doing, I’d triggered a spring release. A pair of Wellingtons shot into the air, arcing toward me. I dodged them by tripping over a cat. One thing was for sure: someone wanted to give me the boot.

That meant the trail I was on hadn’t gone cold. Even if it had, there was no way I was walking away from this case. If I didn’t find the client’s litterbox soon, her cat would not be pleased. And then he might do something she’d regret.

The feline I’d just tripped over wasn’t pleased himself. He looked too well-fed to be a regular stray, so I figured he belonged to someone, but without a collar, I couldn’t be sure. I put him in my car and drove to Wigman’s place. He was a good source of information, especially when things got hairy.

He combed through his files for any notes on criminals who sent messages via footwear. “Ah, Shoeman. Doesn’t tend to do things on his own, but loves to toe the line for anyone who’ll pay him.”

“I know about him—he hangs out at a shoe store that closed down years ago.”

“I heard he’s also working for Gloveman now.”

“The guy who gets called when someone’s got a problem that’s too hot to handle?”

“That’s Mitman.”

“Oops.” I shook hands with him. “Thanks for the information. I’m headed to the shoe store.”

When I got there, the feline hopped out of my car before I could shut the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he took off toward a side entrance.

I followed, pulling the door open. The clamor of cats made my ears ring, and a noxious wave of tuna stench almost knocked me down. The cat charged right in. Covering my nose with a handkerchief, I followed.

Inside the shoe store, cats yowled and climbed Shoeman, who pleaded for mercy as he operated an electric can opener, the whirring mechanism popping open can after can of tuna, but not fast enough for these frantic felines.

“Shoeman!” My dramatic declaration was stifled by my handkerchief. “What are you—”

“HELP!” He yelled back. “We bit off more than we could chew. Just look at Gloveman! Look at him!”

It was hard to see through the throng of cats, but I finally spotted Gloveman’s shoes sticking out from under a table. “What happened?”

“He tripped carrying a bowl of tuna, and these little monsters beat him senseless and then ran off with it!”

“What does this have to do with that trap you left for me”—then I saw it. “You’re stealing litterboxes to support your…what? Your pet shop?”

I stepped forward, my progress hampered by cat tails left in the walkway by their careless owners. But then, they obviously owned the place. Keeping that in mind, I checked for cat turds as well. “Give me my client’s litterbox, and I’ll be on my way.”

“It’s not that simple!” He yelped. “We need to get these cats back to their owners too.”

I remembered the cat I’d found. “You’re running a cat kidnapping ring?”

They’d brought this on themselves.

“Blame Glove! He said we’d make a lot of money. But we haven’t even had time to send the ransom notes because—ow! Ow!”

I found the client’s litterbox and called the police.

Some time later, I left the client’s house with my regular fee and a bonus.

I’d gotten the box back to her before Mr. Manners pooped on her bed.

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Note: Everything I write is written without AI—even if I do use a lot of em dashes (and some semicolons).