Chocolate eyes, caramel skin.
It was a French flavoured summer in 1980 when I fell in love with my chocolate eyed stranger. We were recent arrivals to Europe, having just moved from England to Germany with my Mother, Sister and Victorian values Stepfather (who steadfastly maintained the look and demeanour of a chap that had just finished piloting a Navy ship).
My Sister and I abhorred the very thought of moving to another continent away from friends, family and our real Father, but we had been given no choice. In another time and different frame of mind, we would have relished the experience, the assault on the senses; but I was 11 and she was nearly 13 and relish it we did not.
Still reeling from the culture shock of 80′s Europe, we embarked on a leather seated and over-heated epic journey by means of an old brown Rover to the South of France for a holiday in Juan-le-Pin. It being my first time in France, I swam through waves of fluid language, basic toilets, unctuous stinking cheeses, wine syphoned from vats in farms and daily new crispy and lengthy bread. It was enchanting.
Then there were the packed topless beaches hugging the bright blue Mediterranean, heaven itself for a boy whose fascination with the female form had been smouldering since he was five. Yes, at five my captivation with the workings of woman started. I grew up in an era of British newspapers being emblazoned with brazen and brash topless beauties; Sunday magazines rammed to capacity with more. Airbrushing was yet to exist, so glimpses of pubic hair and entire smudges of flattened 70′s body hair could be easily pored over in the lingerie section of catalogues.
And pore over them I did. Of course, I had yet to fully understand the meaning of the thrill the taunting representations shot through me, nor did I understand my first girl-induced erection stood next to the new arrival at school that I liked when I was only five. Erections had been passed off by my Mother as my ‘needing a wee’ when I asked what was happening to my young hard penis, so ignorance reigned.
Nothing was finer than drawing my crude interpretation of naked bodies, lovingly scribbled in scrapbooks next to images carefully cut, tongue protruding, from said newpapers and magazines. I was obsessed.
So, years before I was able to act upon the very urges I had yet to comprehend, I found myself on these sizzling, flesh filled sandy stretches of Southern France surrounded by girls and women frolicking in near nakedness. There were breasts of all sizes, ones that had yet to develop, others that were in the process of budding; then the women with all sizes of fully developed chests. Body sizes and different shapes, young through to old, all held my rapt attention. All were so fascinating to me, I had no preference at an age where I was the taboo.
Then there were the delightful glimpses I stole when positioned in such a way as to peer down bikini bottoms stretched taught across protruding hipbones; tufts of hair and folds of flesh on display if gaps gaped, or angles allowed. How I made the angles allow. This little prepubescent pervert worked diligently for his visual fare.
Daily, I stared until my eyes blanked from the sun’s glare on taught tanned bellies, glistening globes, and I carried a yearning I had no channel for, no understanding of venting.
Balmy, baked days slid by like this, and I would return to our campsite at the end of the day yearning for more. We would normally eat in newly acquired, at least for three of our party of four, European ways. Gooey cheeses, that day’s baguette, salad with oils and wine in copious cheap quantities, poured from large plastic containers filled earnestly at farms and vineyards. Geckos and mosquitos, bugs and colourful birds would be our soundtrack, as I chewed upon food and thoughts, masticating on the day’s stolen fleshy glimpses, marvelling at the realness of it all.
We would venture out rarely. My Stepfather was one predisposed to spending as little as possible in life, but even he occasionally sought different fare, some heated food served by locals; and so, finally, I was to visit my first French restaurant.
A new world, it was, of sound, colour, smells and nuance. Packed to the rafters with locals rather than bloated with tourists, it was authentic, real. Not for us an English translation on the menu. It evoked in me a thrill filled fear, and that carries through with me to this day; the love of the new and the electric rush of being thrown out of my cotton-wool filled rut.
Once seated, I took in the vista of tables of all sizes laid out in front of me, like the clusters of houses and dissecting streets of an ancient Mediterranean town when viewed from above. They were everything a tourist could expect. Romantic couples leaning in over checked tablecloth to whisper sweet nothings impossible to hear over the cacophony of noise, swarthy workmen with ruddy cheeks, evidently still on their post work drinks and eats; through to the families of all sizes making up the majority of the restaurants wall of noise.
Openly gawking at the generations of gesticulating French in front of me, I marvelled at how social it looked, how joyous. An ongoing celebration of blood and kin over broken bread and wine and beer. As I looked about, my hungry gaze a nosy lighthouse; my beam reflected in the dark eye of the girl that was to be my love. She was sat amid the throng of the largest table, calm amid the sea of relatives shouting and laughing around her.
Caramel skin and eyes deep and brown. Glossy black hair in a bob that framed the angelic beauty of her exquisite French face. She wore a simple white summer dress that was milk on the coffee of her skin. I had been gulping her in as she watched me, smiling her dimples so gently back at this obvious stranger, this English boy. I must have blushed, then grinned back into her bottomless brown gaze. She laughed, icing white smile that unlocked butterflies I didn’t know were locked within me. My stomach flipped and I fell hopelessly in love with this beautiful stranger.
Seconds elapsed in that lifetime, until parental demands meant my attention had to be turned to ordering. Whilst I did, I took slices of her from across the room and ate her up. How she blew hair out of her face when it fell into her gaze. How she tucked her star-white bra strap back under her dress each time it snuck out to play. How she ate only with a fork and sipped her wine. I ached to be that wine. Our eyes met, again and again, striking the room silent as the sparks flew between. Smiles, dimples, blushes and an as yet non-verbal bond.
No one noticed, as we were kids. She, what I could only uneducated guess as 13 or so, purely by physicality of her from across the room and me just 11. To be nearer, I orchestrated a need for the toilet, sure that we would meet; the door to which was adjacent to the end of my French fancy’s table. I swam through her thick gaze, afire as I walked that walk to the conveniences. Her stare mirrored what I felt as I glided by, eyes locked in on hers.
Finally, I exited the toilette where heart stoppingly, she was there in front of me in the vestibule between the cubicles and the restaurant. All was quiet. We said nothing, just digested each other, our smiles inches apart. She was slightly taller than me, and seemed to float in an aura of sun kissed skin and innocence.
I went to speak, but she placed a finger on my mouth so that I smelt another world. Her fingers were bread, wine, musk, hair, lemons, salt and life. I was giddy as she peered into my soul, her bee stung lips parting to utter a ‘ssshhh’.
My world fell away when she replaced her finger with her slightly parted mouth, and gently kissed me with plump teenage lips, wetly, pushing her tight young body against my clumsy inexperience, her pudenda nudging my throbbing unfulfilled and building need.
She had to have felt my spasm, my trembling body killed by her beauty, grace, her smell. And then, she turned and left me. One wave, a cheeky peek over her shoulder and with a laugh she lifted up the back of her bright white dress, flashed her pert, pink knickers, tan lines, tight golden thighs with sun beached hairs; and flounced out.
My heart broke when I finally emerged, composed, to her family having left forever. I carry her everywhere, and my French girl unknowingly never lets me go.
Those secret seafoam places that drip and
part in lovers' waves,
that's where she broke the bones.
The pelicans dance in midnight oils
to kiss the burn away,
And swells roll in their shade.
Hidden in-between cracks where tongue
meets haunted oblivion,
her spell is burnt in another's lips.
And when Poseidon calls to him that
nymph of gilded steel,
she melts away in clouds of cosmic
Slips and shards of coloured silk.
She is mine,
And in her there is a destiny encased
In eternal cloud and flame. It glints
heavy against the pane
Of tiny glass that holds us close together.
Et ainsi, le moqueur chante.
Love is Mad, Mad is Murder
She slithered into my head unnoticed,
seemingly through cracks and creases
left abandoned, forgotten works of
ancient builders. The clever Devils left
me exposed to this wanted intrusion.
I loved her little body, bendy and fair
and menacing in its sensual posture.
Time twisted and snuck past my defenses,
when I finally noticed, it stood sneering
in the distance, taunting my failed perception.
She had me buried deep within her plans,
drowned to the bottom but sinking still,
further into a collage of the failed wills
of all the others. They too fell victim to the
same cryptic grinding hips and serpent speech.
Down beneath the bottom of everything
I see the cracks and creases of her grimaced heart,
freedom may be possible, but not like this
for I too am toxic and spewing evil intent
laced with lust. We will sift the innocent forever.
Twenty five years I've eaten her fruit, tasted
of her nourishing decay. Life flourishes when
roots reach down to death. But she has nothing
left to offer, she has fed all the fruit she can.
Find another. Maybe this one will last forever.
Dig the garden, six feet down.
You'll find it's full of love.
Cause and Effect
My name is Harry - well, that’s not my real name but you’ll understand later why I must remain anonymous. I’ve spent 52 years on this planet, always considering myself the average Joe until I picked up the book, Lolita, from the library shelves and became intoxicated by its contents. “...that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since –until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.”
As I read the passages, I felt warmth coursing through my body and found it necessary to sit down, crossing my legs to hide my budding growth. I was embarrassed by my welling desire as I panned through the book but also titillated by the realization that I, too, was one of the select five percent who experienced the same feelings.
As I ventured further into the book, I felt the commonalities that the author and I had shared. As a very young lad, I had lost my mother to cancer and had to make my way through life without her nurturing influence. When I was 19, I watched a little girl at the playground and imagined us together, lying in silken sheets with her prepubescent body touching mine. Her breasts were not yet blossoming but her lithe legs held such promise as I observed her swinging by her knees from the jungle gym, exposing her virgin white cotton underpants. I fantasized that she was embryonic, just waiting for me to introduce her to the delights she had not yet experienced. But, alas, it was not to be, as her mother walked over and told her it was time to leave. Although I went to the same playground many times, I never saw her again, much to my dismay.
Although I never completely excised my fantasy, I was able to live a fairly normal life for many years until I was in my late forties. I had never married but I had had numerous girlfriends, mostly ones who were youthful and almost childlike with small breasts and straight bodies. One day, I met a new woman who had a 12 year old daughter, full of innocence and unable to recognize the stirring she aroused in me as I looked at her legs with a little peach fuzz outlining their shape. I imagined her little suckling rosebud mouth caressing my manhood as I taught her how to please me and at the same time, introduce her to the beginning of womanhood. Thinking she was the main attraction, her unsuspecting mother moved in with me bringing her young daughter. I began to assume a doting father figure to the child, holding her on my lap, stroking her arms and rubbing my mustache on the back of her neck, causing her to dissolve in paroxysms of giggles. I rubbed lotion on her legs and dried her with fluffy towels after her bath. Knowing she was needy, I played to the gaping void in her life. She was my goddess and I was the one who could fulfill her every desire.
One spring day, I arrived home early to find my little innocent cherub sitting in the kitchen eating graham crackers in her t-shirt and panties. I hugged her and kissed her on the mouth, lingering there as I parted her lips and inserted my wet tongue. She appeared surprised but I told her I was just glad to see her. I picked her up and placed her on my lap, holding her as my fingers played with the lace at the edge of her underwear. Her eyes shut in passion, at least that’s what I thought, and she began moaning as I explored deeper into her little flower. This is what Daddies do to little girls I told her. You’ll learn how to please your husband when you are older. I scooped her up in my arms and carried her gently to the bedroom. Slowly, I began slipping her blouse and then her panties off as the tip of my tongue flicked her skin.
I undid my belt buckle and began ripping my clothes off to consummate my urgency. All of a sudden, I heard a blood-curdling scream. There stood my little nymph’s mother at the bedroom door with a look of complete horror on her face.
This is not the end of my story. Pardon me, for a moment, while I use the toilet in my cell. I really do not like the design of the combined toilet and sink because my grey shirt keeps getting wet and I don’t have a spare. I am the pariah of the cell block, at the receiving end of the other prisoners’ ministrations, over and over again until it becomes difficult to walk. I don’t think it’s really my fault. I was cursed by a biologically related condition; a psychological disorder, if you will, according to my psychiatrist. I am left-handed which possibly indicates that disturbed hemispheric brain lateralization may play a role in my deviant attractions.
They consider me a pedophile but I prefer to think that they are biased against me. Unfortunately, I am confined for an indefinite period of time where I am forced to remain without my little sprite who brought me so much joy. But what I continue to wonder is did I cause the effect or did the effect of her beauty cause my neurosis?
A Lingering Moment
I watch the smoke trails dissipate
as I exhale yet another cigarette.
Alone, I perch myself on the toilet.
Three am, eyes wide.
Silence the patronising voices in my head,
Stuck, here now,
in this moment.
I allowed him my body.
He’s not the first,
won’t be the last.
In a whirlwind of lust
he took control,
The ferocity excited me,
directing my every movement,
heating me from the inside out,
forceful movements allowed me to lose myself,
unrelenting pleasure found.
Once, twice, a third time he rose me to the zenith,
each time I sunk deeper within the rippling clouds of ecstasy.
For the briefest of moments, I was worthy of his attentions.
For the briefest of moments, I felt loved.
For the briefest of moments, I did dream.
Why now, after this moment of bliss,
am I perched on the toilet
to pee out
Urgency to wipe him away,
and flush this moment
overrides all senses.
I cannot allow that tiny scene to take refuge in my heart.
Our relations - he and I,
from the outset,
were never meant to amount to
anything more than
just another passing moment.
Can you hear my pulse?
The water in my veins has turned to fog
sat steaming on your midnight lake.
I pray to God that you are real
and pray again that you are not.
Your sin is rosy cheeks and butterfly kisses.
My sin is you
were never mine to keep.
Can you hear my pulse?
Because I cannot,
though I feel it thundering beneath my skin
as I watch your lashes fold over ocean eyes.
Is the torrent in your eyes or in my soul?
You ask for candies and breezes,
and daisy chains on summer days.
Ask instead that the waves still.
My dear, we will drown.
Your laughter is unfair.
I suit myself in envy and sit quiet.
I am still sitting here.
I have been sitting here for ages,
watching you run with your arms spread
like you might just catch the wind
and fly far, far away.
I want to slow your movements
so I can pull at your wings
and fasten you to the wall
with the pin of my lapel.
Your sin is bright eyes and smiles with crooked teeth.
My sin is you
look so much like her.
that little girl
who lived on the beach
that little girl
knew not of poverty
of real-life villains
or heart-breaks of Mommy
that little girl
believed she’s a mermaid
would grow up a teacher
to help people HER way
that little girl
thought sad was sickness
anger, a cartoon emotion
she could only bare witness
that little girl
has haunted me ever since
twenty-four years later
I am that little girl again
having realized where she went
inside me, where she was sent
in pain communicated by men
because she was but only seven
devastated by their want of power
twenty-four years later
at two months shy of thirty
it has become very clear to see
the source of what is separating
that little girl from the haunted me-
and that’s been me listening to society
twenty-four years later
that little girl has come to light
to realize there’s one true left or right
as only oriented by an individual’s own sight
and so that little girl is reborn, into an adult life
(inspired by the offered phrase, but I didn’t use it because the instructions weren’t that specific and I thought creative freedom was encouraged so, I ran with it. Thank you for the challenge!)
Brian sat near the surf, waves caressing his feet, finally tasting the tears of his ruined day. His torn jeans revealed a mangled knee that stung his soul more than pained his body. There was no room in his life for damaged jeans. His mother worked three jobs to still not make ends meet. She would hurt to see him beat up again. But, it would be the look in her tired eyes when she saw the ruin, irreplaceable jeans. Knowing that look would greet him tonight crushed him. He sobbed.
“Why do you cry, little boy?”
Brian whipped his head to the direction of the query, startled. A pale, lithe girl stood there with a wistful smile on her lips and seaweed tangled in her long, dark hair. She was easily a foot shorter than him.
Who was she calling little? he thought a bit angrily. “It has been a long day, little girl,” Brian replied through a choked sob that was laced with wary annoyance.
The girl giggled mirthfully. He watched her toes claw into the wet sand and felt she found the act both alien and wonderful. “Little boy makes jests. Markie always enjoys the clever boys. This day is no longer than the last day, little boy. So again, why do you cry?” She mocked, yet she seemed to care deeply.
Looking into her inviting seafoam eyes, filled with more secrets of the world than his seventeen years knew, Brian responded more kindly, “My heart hurts, more than my broken knee. I dread going home, and...I tire of the...daily torments.”
The girl, Markie, tilted her head and took him in deeply with her gentle eyes. Brian felt unnerved by it. She flowed to him and kissed his tear-covered cheek.
“You taste like the sea, little boy. Perhaps you are her missing wave? You should not waste your sacred tears though, for they hold such memories...”
Her speech was so strange, Brian thought as he watched her break off some of her seaweed and wrapped it around his wounded knee. It stung almost to a curse, yet in a few moments, the sting and deeper pains were gone. She removed the weeds to reveal a knee, healed. Pale, wavy scars the only sign any harm occurred.
“There,” Markie said, quite satisfied with herself, tracing fingertips over Brian’s new scars, “Much better, yes? Now the other desires require a kiss to fix. Can I take a kiss, little boy?”
Brian, a mess of emotions, looked into her inviting eyes and gave her a silent nod. Markie gently held his head and kissed him. She tasted like the sea. He saw a vastness of mysteries within her eyes, a depth that didn’t match her petite frame...
She broke the kiss in sudden, almost innocent glee. “There! Those fixed as well. Fare Well! Little boy! Fare Well! Missing Wave!” She broke away across the beach and dove into the sea, and never surfaced. He felt better in almost all ways, save one. A piece of his heart was missing. Markie was the thief.
Nothing again. A month passed since Brian last saw her. He visited the beach everyday since. He sat near the surf watching the sun starting to set.
“Why do you call my name, little boy? Why on this Moon’s night, Missing Wave?”
Excited, he turned to see her there, pale skin glowed contrasting the sunset. Her tangled hair and seaweed was pulled back tonight. Her small breast were held by two, large starfish, almost mocking a bikini top. A belt of pearls and gold adorned her tiny waist. She wore nothing else. She was lovely and more mature than her frame mimicked. His soul knew that clearly now.
“How did you do it, Markie? How did you...make them leave me alone? How…”
Markie put two fingers to his lips, the touch tender, yet stirring. “I did not do wrongly, did I, little boy? I fixed the hurts in your heart, did I not, Missing Wave?”
“Then why does it matter how, little boy?” She smiled wicked, yet childlike. It drew him closer. She watched him with curiosity, “Do you have another desire, little boy? Can I take another kiss, Missing Wave?” She looked deep in his eyes until she found his heart’s desire. She then pulled herself away in a flourish and laughed. It tore at Brian’s pounding heart.
“Oh, little boy. I cannot give you that, for you are not my missing wave. But, I can give you something that you may like just as much.”
Brian under her spell, still yearned to kiss her at least once more. He yearned to taste the sea off her soft lips again. He gave a nod.
She flowed to him in a wave, and drowned him with her kiss. It was bliss. It was asphyxiating. She broke it just as suddenly.
“There little boy. Not quite your desire, but something similar. Can you be patient, Missing Wave?”
Brian nodded. Markie kissed him once more. It was tender and sweet. It tasted of wistful longing and forgotten goodbyes.
“Oh, little boy. Do not call my name again until your face is bearded as a man’s. Oh, Missing Wave, do not seek me out again, until your voice forgets the little boy you are.”
Markie turned and skipped away across the beach and dove into the sea, disappearing underneath. His heart beat like a fiery drum while his skin fevered in a way that would now allure.
Brian sat at the beach running his fingers through his beard, trying to remember the last time he stood here.
Nine years ago?
His other hand fiddled with the engagement ring he has been unable to give to his current lover. He finally realized why yesterday. A memory of a girl that had given and taken so much. Markie.
Brian found the courage to call her name, compelled to see her one last time. To say thanks, goodbye and perhaps kiss her as a man. “Markie…”
Nothing. He sat there letting the waves lap at his bare feet, remembering her, until the rising full moon shimmered its reflection in the waving sea.
“Why do you tremble so, Missing Wave! The evening is so warm, soooo inviting.”
Brian stood, turned to see her. A woman faced him. Her skin glowed a paler green than he remembered. Her midnight hair pooled down to her waist. Her breasts, swollen, heavy globes of the softest flesh. Her legs went on forever, revealing and concealing her sex at the same time. Her smile framed with plump lips. Her eyes glowed lilac. He realized then, they were not Markie’s gentle and seafoam eyes. They invited, but consumed as an ocean consumes. With no care of obstacles in its way.
“Where is Markie?” was all he could ask, feeling foolish doing so.
“Why does it matter, Missing Wave? She found you for me, that is the only matter.”
The woman strolled closer, looking deeper into his eyes, drowning him with vast mysteries and fluid desire.
“I see Markie’s last gift was made too strongly, Missing Wave.” The woman said as she plucked the ring from his hand. Before Brian could protest, she kissed him fully.
He drowned, tasting a part of the ocean he could never have imagined, but slowly remembered. The fever that continued to burn his flesh, cooled, then boiled. He could feel this woman completely, could feel how much they both wanted; could feel how her wave perfectly countered his; just as his feelings for his would-be fiancee slowly faded away.
With crushed will, Brian breathlessly broke off the kiss, “You never asked to take it. I never gave it freely.”
The woman laughed, causing him to want to devour her more. “Oh, my sweet, Missing Wave. I never need to ask for what is part of me, just like you never need to ask for what is part of you. You are my Missing Wave. Markie told you as much, yes? You wanted her too, but you were not HER missing wave.” She tossed the ring in the sand.
Brian’s memories of his life kept seeping away, just as he slowly started to remember this woman that he never met before.
“I don’t know your name...I don’t...remember it…”
She kissed him again, until he finally forgot his own name. She wrapped her legs around him and he carried her into the ocean. Beneath the drowning waves she lead him to the place her first kiss promised.
Markie watched them melt away into the sea as she picked up the ring left in the sand, looping it into her belt of pearls and gold. She yearned to find her missing wave. She noticed a human walking the beach, oblivious to her presence, too preoccupied in his pain.
“Why do you cry, little boy?” she asked suddenly, with a wistful smile.
...that little girl with her seaside limbs
and ardent tongue
haunted me ever since
until at last,
twenty-four years later,
I broke her spell
by incarnating her in another.”
(Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov)
& She Like a Mother
Introduced me To Heather
of Back Alleys & Clip Joints
All Dark Eyes & Gin Soaked Thighs
I Let Her Lead me Down That Hall
& Many More
In Love With the Waste That Became my Life
& Impossible Heists
Were the Dreams I Would Cling To
As the Sodden Sheets
Muffled Our Screams
Guy Hamilton: Private Eye - The Teddy Bear
CAST (in order of appearance):
NARRATOR: Guy Hamilton, once an and coming police detective, has been thrown off the force by crooked cops, but this could not quench is believe in the immutable word of the law. Now he offers justice for those the law has forgotten in his quest to restore integrity to the force and expose those who would disgrace the badge. These are the adventures of Guy Hamilton: Private Eye.
(SFX: DRAMATIC MUSICAL INTERLUDE)
GUY: (Narrating) When I was first thrown off the force, it stung. Heck, it still stung, but I hit the ground running like a rabbit out of a fox hole. Sure we had a few bumps in the road, but we got a few odd jobs and people got to talkin’. The more people talked, the busier I got. Yeah, business had been good to us lately. So good I decided to hire an assistant. Inside a week, he was already cocky, overconfident, and running around like he owned the place. Sometimes I’d peg him at 20, then five minutes later it was like he was 12. I liked him immediately.
(SFX: DOOR CHEEKING)
HENRY: Hey, Chief, what we got cookin’ today?
GUY: Henry, how many times do –
HENRY: Yeah, yeah. You ain’t the Chief, but you are my chief so I’m gonna call ya Chief. So what do we have cookin’ already?
GUY: It looks like we’re all caught up with our current cases. Why don’t you head down to the Post Office and check the mail. And be snappy about it.
HENRY: Already ahead of ya, Chief. Here you go.
GUY: Henry, I –
HENRY: Fine, Boss then. You fine with Boss?
GUY: These are already open. You went through our mail already?
HENRY: Yup, sure did. Needed somethin’ to do on my walk back uptown.
GUY: And I suppose you have a case all picked out then?
HENRY: Funny you should ask. Come on and get your coat, Boss, the case ain’t gonna solve itself.
GUY: (Narrating) He was a good kid. His heart was in the right place even if his head often wasn’t. The case the kid had picked out wasn’t the one I would have gone for first. I’d probably have skipped it all together. It just wasn’t my cup of joe. But Henry was excited and I was about to do nothing to dampen that. The letter was one of the fancy flowing kinds where in two pages he had asked us to come see him. I wasn’t too upset. It was a fine afternoon or a drive. When we arrived, Mr. Cooper had tea in porcelain cups waiting for us in his sitting room.
MR. COOPER: Thank you for coming gentlemen. I had assumed my letter would have reached you yesterday. I suppose there is no accounting for the post office.
GUY: This is very nice and all, but let’s get to it.
MR. COOPER: (Chuckling) Ah, a man of action. I suppose I should expect nothing less from the famous Guy Hamilton. Very well. There is going to be a break in at 1042 West Fulton. The target is a child's stuffed bear. A ‘teddy bear’ if you will. I need you to foil this robbery and procure this toy before the perpetrator.
GUY: You seem to be misinformed. I am an investigator, not a thief and it seems you’ve already done the investigating.
MR. COOPER: An astute observation, Mr. Hamilton. I expect nothing less than the youngest detective in the history of Hiawatha County. I also expect him not to turn a blind eye to a crime about to be perpetrated.
GUY: If there is going to be a crime committed, go to the police. That’s how it works.
MR. COOPER: (Chuckling) Yes, but if I report it now, it will be buried in paperwork until tomorrow and handed of in the morning to interdepartmental mail and not reach the correct officer until that night, maybe even the following day. That is how it works, correct? Well, this crime is going to happen tonight. What I would like from you is to go and retrieve this bear.
GUY: Fine. I’ll ask some questions, but I cannot promise anything more.
MR. COOPER: (Chuckling) Why Mr. Hamilton, That is wall I ask and expect. All I ask and expect.
GUY: (Narrating) Mr. Cooper gave us the address and we were on our way. The old man made me feel like a penguin in a hot tub and didn’t want to spend anymore time around his as I had too. When I got to the house in question, it took some talking, but the parents let me hide out in their daughter’s closet. I made Henry wait downstairs with the folks and waited. I was about to give up the ghost when the window creaked open.
GUY: Alright. That is far enough.
THIEF: What? Who are you?
GUY: Guy Hamilton, Private Eye.
THIEF: A set up, huh? Why too back for you, Mack. I come prepared!
(SFX: TWO GUN SHOTS)
GUY: (Narrating) I must have been getting sloppy. I hadn’t expected him to come armed. Lucky for me, I had my large jacket on. He took a shot at my general shape. The bullet had merely grazed me. My jacket wasn’t so lucky. Nevertheless, I kept my own firearm close by. The would be thief wasn’t so lucky.
(SFX: RUNNING UP STAIRS)
HENRY: Boss! What happened?
MRS. WILLIAMS: Mr. Hamilton! What is going up -- (Gasp)
GUY: It’s alright, Mrs. Williams. Sorry about the mess. You had better call the authorities.
MRS. WILLIAMS: I… Yes. Yes, of course. Right away.
GUY: One last thing, before you go…
MRS. WILLIAMS: What is it?
GUY: The bear. May I take a look at it? I want to know what this is all about.
MRS. WILLIAMS: Yes, but of course. I’ll be downstairs.
HENRY: What do you think it is, Boss?
GUY: I don’t know but there’s something in this bear.
HENRY: Gee wiz! Is that an emerald?
GUY: It sure looks that way.
HENRY: Well I can see why he was after this! It is the size of my head!
GUY: (Chuckling) Well, maybe not that big, but it sure is a whooper.
GUY: (Narrating) It didn’t take long for the police to arrive. They tend to hurry when there’s a body waiting for them on the other end. I knew some of the officers. They harassed me pretty good, but in the end, Mrs. Williams corroborated my story of self defense and refused to press any charges. They told me not to leave town incase they had any questions, but I didn’t plan on it. It was time to pay Mr. Cooper a visit and get some answers.
MR. COOPER: Mr. Hamilton. You have returned.
GUY: I sure have and you had better start making sense of this all.
MR. COOPER: Yes, yes. In due time. The bear tell me you brought the bear. (Deep inhale) Ah, it is just as I imagined it.
GUY: Funny, I would have thought you’d want the thing inside. The cops have that now.
MR. COOPER: No, no. This is the real treasure. It still smells of my precious Clara.
HENRY: Clara? Clara Williams?
MR. COOPER: That little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since –until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.
HENRY: Hey, The Boss said to start making sense.
GUY: Oh, he’s making sense. It was the bear he was after. Come on Henry, we’re done here.
(SFX: CAR STARTING)
GUY: (Narrating) The car ride began in silence. In truth, I was worried about Henry. A case like this, well, it can shake a man; shake him at his core. There was a saying back on the force, gangs before kids. Anything with children in our line of work was always difficult. A man needed time to digest something like this. I just wondered how the kid would take it. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer.
GUY: Yeah, what is it?
HENRY: That was weird, right? It wasn’t just me, right?
GUY: Yeah, about as weird as snow in July.
HENRY: So what do we do now?
GUY: We head back to the office write up our report like always.
HENRY: No, I mean what’s gonna happen to Mr. Cooper?
GUY: Well, there is not much we can do. He hasn’t broken any laws.
HENRY: So, what? We just let him be free?
GUY: All we can do is let the police now what we found. They’ll watch him. Maybe even set up a sting operation.
HENRY: Sting operation? What’s that?
GUY: It’s where they give him some rope.
HENRY: Rope, Boss?
GUY: Yeah, rope and see if he’ll hang himself.
(SFX: DRAMATIC MUSICAL INTERLUDE)