THE BAKELITE FALCON: A META NOIR #VSS365 SERIAL

THE BAKELITE FALCON

[A META NOIR #VSS365 SERIAL]

1/ #vss365 #tissue

A clown entered the office unannounced, clad in faux leopard, neon-green curls, and weeping war paint. My hand reached for a tissue box before his voice had a chance to ask the obvious question: 

“Are you Sam Tropes?”

[Spoiler: I'm not.]

2/ #vss365 #tissue

Ten minutes later, the clown was still soaking tissues while going on and on about some diamond slippers. 

One was missing. 

Stolen? 

To be frank, I wasn’t listening. The dead plot bunny and the missing cat from the previous night were still giving me heartburn.

3/ #vss365 #tissue

The clown’s paint had already eaten a whole box of tissues when the telephone cut his sob story short.

We stared at the old black Bakelite monster going Callas in the office.

“A bit odd, no?” the clown noted.

“Why?”

“I thought we were doing cyber-noir.”

“Different story.”

4/ #vss365 #glove

The clown nodded & asked: “What about the diamond slippers?”

“What?”

“My case!” he screamed over Bakelite Callas.

“I need to take this call first.”

We stared at the telephone again.

“That thing looks nasty. Better wear #gloves.”

I scoffed.

[The clown was right.]

5/ #vss365 #broom

[Deep breath.]

I picked up the receiver—it weighed a ton. Bakelite Callas stopped singing mid-aria.

“Sam Tropes Investigations. How may I—”

“Whatever—you do—kid,” a voice cut in, low and breathless, “do not—look inside—the #broom closet.”

“What? Sam? Is that you?”

6/ #vss365 #wax

Silence.

“Sam?” I asked again. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

“Don’t get waxed, kid,” the voice whispered just before the line went dead.

For a moment, I forgot to cradle the receiver and sat there, heavy old Bakelite in hand, trying to figure out what had happened.

Detective work wasn’t really my bailiwick. 

I was only a writer. [You know that.]

7/ #vss365 #wax

When I finally put the black Bakelite bone to rest and gazed up at our client, the clown looked unhappy. [Not that he had seemed happy to start with, but you know what I mean, right?]

“What’s this all about you not being Sam Tropes?” he asked angrily. His white paint had almost all come off. There was something familiar about that long face.

“I’m not! Didn’t I tell you that, Mr.--? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

He smirked and said: “Most people call me Waxer.”

That’s when I noticed the mouse gun in his hand.

. . .

THE END [?]

Disclaimer: This was a live, unrefined first draft of an ongoing narrative. Subject to future revisions.

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