Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 4!

Check out Part 1Part 2, and Part 3.

This one’s a little short at just shy of 800 words, but there’s so many jokes it’s almost unreadable! <-That’s a good thing! Hope you enjoy!

A plucky PI users her unconventional methods to find out the truth after an army private gets caught under the influence of marijuana but claims she never smoked.

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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At the morgue, the mortician told me there was no body there with the name Jessica. I had her check for Jess’, Jessies, and Archibalds, because I really wanted to see a dead guy named Archibald.

I told her a little bit about my case and she said she’d heard about it on the news. I was surprised when she told me Jessica wasn’t dead. It felt like people kept telling me that. Talk about déjà vu.

Luckily it checked out with the story Belda had fed me, so I was onto something, even if it was something everyone else seemed to know already. At least I was earning my paycheck. After all, I’d already spent my pay on a dead body I bought from the mortician.

“I told you, I’m not selling you a body! Get out of here!,” the mortician yelled as she chased me out. Whatever. It saved me five grand.

I was glad to leave. None of the bodies in the morgue could tell me where Jessica was anyway, not even when I moved their mouths with my hand. I thought Ditch could help, but I hadn’t heard from him. Not since his frantic phone message asking about a wallet. If he was speaking in code, I didn’t know what it meant.

I bought a soda with a dollar from Ditch’s wallet and called Belda.

“She’s at the park. I told you that,” Belda said through the speaker, sounding annoyed for some reason. By Belda’s tone, I was glad Jessica wasn’t dead, because it sounded like a bad time to break the news. I hung up on her and headed straight for the park, only getting in two accidents on the way.

Once I was done washing the shrapnel and blood off the side of my car, I pulled into the parking lot of the park.

The park buzzed with typical activity: couples walking together, children playing, and film students making a terrible movie. There was one unusual thing in the park, however: Patrick Poogal, proprietor of Patrick Poogal’s Private Investigation Company LLC. My greatest rival.

He was making his way towards me, eating an onion like an apple because he always does. He’s the type of guy you’d fuck more for his confidence than his looks, then you’d fuck him for his looks.

He asked me what I was doing, as if I wasn’t obviously slashing his tires. Turns out it wasn’t even his car so I went to another car and started slashing those tires. He told me that wasn’t his car either. I should have known. It had some stupid window decal of a stick-figure husband, wife, kid, and a dog in a wheelchair.

“I’ll slash every tire here until I find yours,” I warned him.

He took a big bite of his onion and asked “what’s got you in such a huff?” blowing his breath sexily with the word huff.

“Because you didn’t take the case to help this girl. You took it because you’re trying to get under my skin. You wouldn’t help a woman if she was on fire screaming, ‘help me’.”

He said I was being ridiculous, so I grabbed a can of gasoline and poured it all over myself and struck a match to prove a point. He wrestled the match from me in a panic before I burned alive.

Damn. Patrick, 1. Riz, 0.

He stomped out the match and plugged his nose, “Jesus Christ, there’s something wrong with that gasoline, it smells like skunk.”

The joke was on him. I already smelled like skunk before the gasoline spilled on me.

Needing to get on with the show, I told him he needed to get off my turf, calling him a couple of choice four letter words, including some that weren’t even real words.

“I didn’t think you knew those words,” he said with a wink.

“I know a lot of words. Like dog, marshmallow, cerebral palsy, penis, vagina, penis-vagina, and um, a bunch of other ones,” I told him, brilliantly.

“Do you know ‘date’?” he said, as if he was all smooth or something, and not totally making me wet.

I told him I was seeing someone, plus, he was a total jerk, so I’d answer him in the only way I knew how…

“No, thank you.”

I marched away, sidestepping ghosts, because I see them, remember? I hoped Jessica had some answers for me, and that there weren’t any skunks in this park. I’d been sprayed enough that day


Let me know what you think in the comments! And make sure to check out my books on Amazon. 🙂

The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 2!

Read Part 1 Here (it’s very funny!)

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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And now… here’s part two of Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers


It was my 20th time visiting the cemetery that month. You could say I go a lot. Go ahead. Say it.

Mom, dad. I still haven’t found out who killed you, or how you died, or who framed Roger Rabbit since I never saw that movie, but I promise I will. If you could just help me find the answers. I see so many ghosts, but I never see you… I miss you so much.

“Excuse me.” A man stood behind me with his young daughter beside him. She was cute. Cute enough to grow up to be a high-priced call-girl, or at the very least, a girl who drives a Jetta.

He asked me what I was doing. I wanted to respond with “Nunya. Nunya business,” but I’d been using that one too often and couldn’t think of a new one, so I told him the truth: the authorities never found my parent’s bodies, so they were never given a grave, plus graves are really expensive and not worth paying for if you don’t have a body to throw in there. I guess there are rules against digging them up too, which seems stupid if it’s your grave. I told him I’d been using that one as my mother’s. Then I stuck my finger out at him and asked him what are yooooooouuuuuu doing here?

“That’s my wife’s grave,” he said, upset for some reason. I told him it was beautiful, then shoved some old flowers off it and replaced them with my own, along with a note saying “I luv you, mom.” “Luv” was spelled incorrectly on purpose because my mom and I used to have this little inside joke where I didn’t know how to spell, which was also not a joke.

He tried to swat and shoo me away like I was some kind of pestering bee, so I stung him a couple of times and then decided to call it quits after he finally connected with a 911 operator.

I know how hard it can be to lose someone, so before I left I made sure to give him some comforting words:

“I can’t wait until you die, so one day I can put flowers on my father’s grave.” The words must have really touched his daughter, because she started crying instantly. Nothing a good handful of dirt didn’t stop though.

While the dad wrestled me away from putting dirt in his daughter’s mouth, my phone got a text message, which could only mean one thing: my phone service hadn’t been cut off yet.

I’VE GOT A CASE FOR YOU

***

My office is the last one in a long row of businesses.

-Pair-a-Normal Investigators, Rick Normal and Tobey Normal

-Sofia’s Unmeltable Ice-cream (Legal note: the ice-cream is not unmeltable, but is very tasty)

-Patrick Poogal, Private Investigator

And finally, mine: Riz Raru, Preyevit Investalligator. I have a CERTIFICATE OF EXCELLENCE taped to the door to show everyone how excellent I am at the hiding fist holes in the door (The certificate is for a Jiffy Lube somewhere in Sherman Oaks.)

My assistant, Ditch, was already waiting in my office for me. He’s really more of my sidekick, but the rates for sidekicks are much higher than assistants. I’m not made out of money.

He looks like someone plucked right out of a 40s-detective movie. He wears a trench coat and has a really big mustache that I make him wear. He tells me it’s very itchy and uncomfortable, but then I threaten him with violence and that always ends that argument. He’s very easy to get along with.

I sat in my chair looking at a picture he put on my desk. It was of a girl in military fatigues. I studied it for a while as Ditch leaned against my desk reading the accompanying file, then I stole his wallet while he wasn’t looking.

“You’re not going to believe this one, Riz,” he said with a chuckle.

“Hit me.”

He punched me in the face. I told him I meant the news, so he grabbed a rolled newspaper and hit me with that. I thanked him and asked him about the case.

“Her name’s Private First Class Jessica Rios. You may know her as the face of army recruitment.” I nodded, even though I didn’t, nor had I really been listening that well. He could tell I wasn’t listening because I’d been humming loudly, so he taped my mouth shut and explained that there were billboards for military recruitment all over the country with Private Rios’ picture. He told me the army had caught her off base.

I ripped the tape off and saved it for later. “Is there a crime against that?” I asked sassily. Looks like I’d solved the case before it even started.

He told me that yes, it was a major infraction for military personnel, especially the poster-child of the army.

I rhetorically asked him what the mystery was, knowing it must be murder.

He told me it wasn’t murder. “More like murdering brain cells, actually. She was high as a kite when the military police officer found her. As you can imagine, the military frowns on that sort of thing. It’s not like she was a male officer who sexually assaulted a female recruit. They couldn’t just look past this one.”

It sounded like an easy case. Just not for the defense. I told Ditch that I didn’t see anything worth investigating, then started throwing things at him.

He begged for me to stop, which I finally did once I ran out of things to throw. As he pulled my letter opener out of his thigh he told me the kicker; Private Rios swears she didn’t smoke, but refused to give a straight answer on what happened.

“The military wants to clear her name, but she’s stone walling all of their investigator. They think she might open up to an outside party,” he said, wrapping his leg wound in used tissues I told him were gauze.

“So they called the best,” I said proudly.

He said “bingo,” and a man came in, took a Bingo card from ditch and inspected it.

“We have a winner,” said the man, leaving immediately.

I told Ditch I’d think about it. As much as I needed a case, I also didn’t feel like working, so I wasn’t sure of the right thing to do.

“By the way, they’ve also asked Patrick Poogal to take the case,” he said on his way out the door.

My eye twitched at the sound of his name. Patrick Poogal was my biggest competitor and rival. At just shy of 6’5” he towered over all the other private investigators in the area. He also often stole my business.

I told Ditch I’d take the case. After all, it was the perfect case for me. I was used to tracking down and tattling on stoners in high school.

Ditch chuckled to himself and remarked, “Plucky teen, Riz. I can only imagine how you were in high school.”

“High school?” I asked him, “this was last week. But don’t worry. I’ll get her to open up to me. Even if it costs me her life.

Ditch left, leaving me alone to wonder how I was going to solve this case, and get drunk.


That’s it for now. Later this week I’ll be writing about how I went about writing my Star Wars parodies before the movies came out. If you want to read why I wrote them, check it out here.

Don’t forget to sign up for my mailing list so you can get your copy of Scrote One! (just click here)

Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers

Hello!

So many exciting things are happening right now with Scrote One, my Star Wars Parody, and my compilation of short stories (free on Amazon right now!), but I’m sick of promoting. It’s time I give an excerpt from something I’m working on.

It’s about a female private investigator named Riz Raru. It’s based off of a teleplay I wrote, but I think it works better like this because I was able to add a ton of more jokes. Let me know what you think!


It had been my first case in a long time where a civilian hadn’t ended up dead, and the first case in an even longer time where I hadn’t been the one to kill the civilian. Even that might not be true, since I tend to conveniently forget those types of details. It works really well for plausible deniability, but mostly I’m just forgetful.

My name’s Riz Raru. I’m a special cases private investigator, which means people all over the world hire me to help them investigate the cases no one else will take. Like cases about aliens, conspiracy theories, or ones that expose beloved celebrities as rapists. I’m just your typical gumshoe, and sometimes gumsandal in the Summer.

I can also see ghosts, so there’s that… but they can’t see me, and I can’t interact with them or anything, so some would say it’s not very important at all, or that it’s just a marketing tactic to make the cover look more interesting. I’m always told that if I didn’t lie so much about other things that they might actually believe me about the ghosts, but I tell them how much I like lying, which is often one of the only true things I say in the conversation.

I’ve always had a bit of a sixth sense… for justice. People may call me a little crazy, reckless, or a danger to society, but I’m just a normal girl who solves the unsolvable.

And sees ghosts.

And I’m also searching for the man who killed my parents.

RIZ RARU in…. The Case of the Sticky Fingers

It all started when I was born… but there’s a lot of boring stuff in between that and the interesting stuff, so I’ll just cut ahead.

The interesting stuff all started when I was tailing one John Drexel just outside the Japanese restaurant on 9th street, or it might have been 3rd street. Let’s split the difference and say… 3rd street. The restaurant was called Sushi Go, which isn’t important unless you want to order from there. I suggest the orange chicken.

Drexel delicately picked up his Shih-Tzu, cradling it in his arms, and then entered the restaurant. The dog must have felt like a baby does when it’s picked up like a dog.

I glared at him through my car window as he walked in, looking like the cockiest prick I’d ever seen. He looked so damn cocky I spent extra time glaring at him and ended up getting a parking ticket. After a couple minutes of trying to convince the parking attendant to take back the ticket, which resulted in a shouting match lasting several more tickets, I got out of my car and followed Drexel inside.

The restaurant smelled like a restaurant, so everything checked out there, but there was still the Drexel matter to take care of. I tiptoed through the lobby and shushed the hostess before she could speak. I shushed her again as she was trying to keep quiet, just because. I flashed her my badge and my gun. I thought about flashing her my boobs too, but it would have just muddled the message.

I told her to call the cops, then put in an order of orange chicken. I continued into the restaurant, palms sweaty, nervous about not ordering anything for me and the cops. It felt rude.

In a private room, Drexel ate his bowl of rice one grain at a time, like a real asshole, as I barged in with my gun pointed right between his eyes. If my investigative work was half as good as I thought it was, that’s where his brain would be, just like mine.

“Stop right there. I know what you did,” I said, fearless and brave, since I was the one with the gun and all.

He patted his lips with a napkin and smiled. “And you would be?”

I threw him my badge. He inspected it and smiled. “This is a toy.”

“You damn right it is,” I said, “I’m Riz Raru. Special cases investigator.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you, Ms. Private Investigator. You solve the unsolvable cases, don’t you? And here you’ve solved mine. Bravo. So, you’ve figured it all out, have you? How I’ve been diverting power from the city center to operate my secret underground factoring, manufacturing my own polysynthetic weapons, and selling them to the Russians for vast amounts of money. Good work- “

I cut him off and told him that what I was referring to was that he didn’t clean up after his dog. He questioned why I would pull my gun on him for that. I told him I’ve pulled it out on someone for a lot less.

His face turned as red as a baboon’s ass after a spanking, and before it too. He stood up quickly, “hah! Well, it doesn’t matter why you came here. Since I revealed my plan to you, you won’t be leaving with your life!”

He drew his gun on me and I was suddenly regretting not checking him for a gun, or not bringing a bigger gun, but it wasn’t long before he learned that you can’t pull a fast one on old Riz Raru. The cops burst in with their guns drawn, leaving Drexel wishing he would have pulled a slow one on me.

The chief of police asked what the hell was going on. I asked him who the hell he was. He said he was the chief of police. I told him that I thought the chief of police wore some sort of head dress. He said that was an Indian chief, and I told him “oh, right.” While this was happening, Drexel almost got away, but the other police officers (who were wearing head dresses) caught him.

I told the chief that Drexel had a secret underground factory for photosynthesis with Russians and weapons or something. I asked Drexel what it was again, since he was so good as explaining it, but he was too busy fuming. I told them that it would just be easier if they checked under the city center for the photocopiers, or whatever.

After a while they thanked me and told me that, “no, for the second time, you can’t shoot the dog.” I reminded them that the dog was technically a bad guy. They told me that just because someone’s a bad guy doesn’t mean you can execute them. I told them I knew a few bad guys who wished I would have known that a couple weeks ago.

The cops were starting to ask questions so I figured it was time to go. Since I didn’t get any money off the case, I was in desperate need for a new gig. Or just a big bag of money. I would have preferred that. I headed back to the office hoping there’d be a gig waiting for me, but not before I took one important stop.


The Kresnik Files is FREE for the next couple of days. Check it out and give it a review.

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Chapter 9 is here! And it’s funny?! You decide!

My last post got some good love, so as promised, here’s Chapter 9. If you haven’t read the introduction yet, read it here.

Lessons In Debauchery: The Topher Weyland Story is an adventure comedy novel about an aspiring TV personality who gets recruited by the CIA to be a distraction, but things quickly get out of hand when he forces himself into their mission and is thrust into saving the world.

I’ve included a little blurb about the events leading up to this chapter so you won’t be super confused, and you can read some of my thoughts on it at the bottom of the post.

Chapter 9
Fired

Topher has literally risked his life to get back to the studio to film an important episode of his show when his producer, Frank, summons him to his office looking furious.


“I knew you were a scumbag, but this is low!” he yelled.

Frank’s face was as red and swollen as his wife’s vagina after our lovemaking. That was my opener when I walked into the room, hoping to diffuse the situation. It didn’t work, but at least I had a funny anecdote to use when I told people about it later.

“You had sex? I thought you just kissed!”

I tried lie #1. “It’s not what you think. She must have had sex with a guy who looked like me. You know how small her brain can be sometimes.”

Lie #1 backfired, which it often does. Luckily I don’t always start off with my strongest lies.


Lesson:

Don’t waste your good lies early. You want to have a couple of great options to fall back on.


“Shit,” I said without missing a beat, “I meant, whoever told you this is obviously a big liar. I say we buckle down and find out who this person is, what they want, and why they’re trying to frame me-”

“I saw you! I have video of you two kissing!” he shouted, pointing at his office security camera.

“Can I have a copy?”

He whizzed a stapler at me, but my lightning reflexes kicked in and my hand blocked it, which broke my pinky instantly.

“Frank, just calm down. You have to understand. I didn’t know she was your wife. I thought she was your daughter.”

He whizzed his other stapler at me, but I was too busy wondering why he had two staplers to block it in time.

He hissed at me, “You’re fired. We’re having you replaced with Glen River Howard.”

Glen River Howard was a two-bit Youtube host at best, and the closest thing I had to a rival.

“Don’t be a stupid asshole, Frank. Glen River Howard doesn’t have half my talent, and I’ve seen him make eyes at your wife. You don’t want two guys screwing your wife, do you?”

He feverishly searched for something to throw at me, but there was only paper. “You may be hot shit right now, but I’m going to make sure everyone knows what you really are: a selfish, sociopathic prick.”

I needed to get him back on my side. “I hate to say this, but you’re sounding like a really big, dumb asshole right now.”

Judging by his heaving chest, it didn’t work. Luckily instead of finding another stapler to throw at me, he quickly composed himself and sat down.

“Get out.” His eyes darted down to his desk. He couldn’t even make eye contact with me. It was a good thing since I was checking my phone anyway.

Things were looking grim. Frank was completely ruining my big break. There had to be something I could do.

The chemicals in my brain started to churn, which meant I was getting a great idea.

“Who else knows, Frank?” I asked.

“I’m making the announcement after you leave,” he said, the wind out of his sails.

I stood there, weighing my options: Leave a shamed man, and work my way back up the entertainment ladder. Or…

He pretended to shuffle and sign some papers. “You’re still here? What part of leave didn’t you understand?”

I slowly walked to the door and locked it.

“What are you doing?-”

My wingtip smashed into his face with one of my patented front kicks, which I was hoping would knock him out instantly, but it didn’t so I had to keep kicking.

After about 46 kicks I stopped and he was out cold. With my shoes bloody and weathered, I had no choice but to take Frank’s. I know what this sounds like: I beat a man to near death after sleeping with his wife, and then stole his shoes. I guess while that is literally what happened, it makes me sound less heroic. I stuffed him in his closet and tied him up, but I made sure to leave a note:

note

I told myself that after I filmed this last episode of “Do You Have Your Keys?” and got a new dynamite hosting gig, I’d buy new teeth for Frank. After all, I didn’t want to hurt him. I was just doing what I had to do. It’s not like I was a monster.

I rifled through his desk for other things that I could steal when there was a knock on the door, and I saw the silhouettes of two suited men through the opaque glass.


 

Some of my thoughts:

A lot of this chapter is still pretty messy, focusing more on the comedy than brilliant prose. That’s something I want to work on as it develops. First and foremost with this book are the laughs though, and I think this chapter gives a good indication of Topher’s unapologetic nature.

So far I’m about 34,000 words in with an aim of about 40-45k words total. The chapters are meant to be small, around the length of the chapter above to make it a nice, tight read.

I can’t wait to get done with the full first draft and appreciate any feedback or if you are aching to read some more, even if its very rough still.

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The Introduction Chapter to my book “Lessons in Debauchery: The Topher Weyland Story”

I am pleased to release the introduction chapter of my book on my blog! It’s got a couple of jokes in it, you know. No big deal. You can also download it in PDF if that’s what you’re into. Let me know what you think, and pass it along to your friends and enemies.

The book is an adventure comedy about an aspiring TV personality who gets recruited by the CIA to be a distraction, but things quickly get out of hand when he forces himself into their mission and is thrust into saving the world.

Lessons In Debauchery:
The Topher Weyland Story

(PDF DOWNLOAD HERE)

Introduction

My name is Topher Weyland, and if you’re reading this I’m already dead.

Assuming you’re reading this 50+ years after I’ve written it, because I’d be far too old to still be alive. Unless, of course, they’ve made some kind of robot body to put my consciousness in after my human body withers and dies. Then you have to ask, is it really even me anymore?

But those aren’t the questions we’re going to ask or answer in this book. Well, maybe we will ask them later. I can’t say. It never made much sense to me to write the intro after you’ve written the book, and I don’t like playing by the rules. Not even my own. Either way, we definitely won’t answer those questions.

This book is going to be filled with lessons, which are a lot like rules except you don’t have to follow them. Avoid rules. They’re too constraining. There’s no rule book for life, right? If there was, a million idiots would probably buy it.

I love lessons, because unlike rules, you can’t be punished for not following them. My favorite thing about life is you can keep repeating your mistakes until you’re dead or you get a girl pregnant. Luckily I’m sterile, but you’ll learn about that later.

I’d like to say I’m an every man, but I’m not. I’m the type of guy who can’t be grouped in a “type of guy” classification. I’m one-of-a-kind. The purpose of this book is to reach out to the one, or maybe two other men out there who are also one-of-a-kind. (And to gloat about my accomplishments, of course.)

This book will explore the very nature of what it means to be a human. A human man named Topher Weyland. From Sunnyvale, California. Social security ending in 6578.

If you’re curious about how I look, here is a picture of me a computer might make:

computer drawing

Here is a picture of me a small child made:

child drawing

(Just kidding. I drew it, but in the style of a small child. That’s how talented I am)

I’m about to tell you biggest adventure of my life, which has been “my life.” Hell, it’s all been an adventure, right? Even if I’ve only been in one high-speed chase… a day. I’ll also throw in a couple of lessons along the way. The kind of lessons the one person this book is written for can learn from.

For good measure. Here are a couple of lessons everyone can learn from:

  • Don’t touch that.
  • Look out.
  • Don’t write checks that your ass can’t cash, because your ass doesn’t look like its ID picture anymore, which was taken 20 years ago.
  • Pushups are the only exercise worth doing.

Follow me on my journey from a child, to becoming the hottest up-and-coming television personality, to an American spy, to an astronaut, to a sex slave, and all the way back again.

By the end of this book, I promise, you will have read the whole thing.


Let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more chapters. I’ll definitely post more if there’s more demand.

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