Martin Dripps, P.I.: The Lost Rainbow Case

By S.E. Batt

People often lose their colour. This leprechaun lost seven of them.

Seamus the leprechaun approaches Martin Dripps with a curious case; his rainbow vanished, and with it, his pot of gold. Martin (mad enough to take the case) and his dog Chumples (mad enough to join him) ventures into the town of West O'Backwards to track it down. Did the luck of the leprechauns just run out?

A humorous novelette totalling approx. 13,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.E. Batt
• Release date: Feb 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311503503

S.E. Batt

S.E. Batt loves all things light-hearted and humorous. When he's not writing, he's playing video games, talking to other writers, and generally wishing he was writing. He's a proud member of the Forward Motion online writer's group, and sends all of its members a digital thumbs-up.

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Copyright

MARTIN DRIPPS, P.I.: THE LOST RAINBOW CASE

S.E. Batt

Copyright 2014 by S.E. Batt

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

1. Copyright

2. Martin Dripps, P.I.: The Lost Rainbow Case

3. Thanks

4. Other Works

5. Excerpt from Friend Ship

Martin Dripps, P.I.: The Lost Rainbow Case

***

Seamus the leprechaun was not happy.

Seamus, like every other leprechaun in the world, had a pot of gold. Also like every other leprechaun, he kept his large sum of wealth at the end of a rainbow. The problem is that everyone assumes that a leprechaun finds a rainbow and puts their pot of gold at the bottom of it. This is based on the idea that a leprechaun goes out of his way to store his life earnings under a giant colourful ‘it’s here’ banner. This is not the case. The pot of gold is the one that generates the rainbow, which keeps tabs on the riches like a bank account. It makes sense, then, that if somebody’s bank account upped and left without any prior notice and left someone without their money, they would not be happy.

This was the case with Seamus.

While people have to wait until it rains in a very specific way to see a rainbow, Seamus didn’t have to bother. His magical powers meant that he could see his and other’s rainbows come rain or shine, and his own rainbow was well-made, bright, and currently not where he left it. It also meant, by association, that his pot of gold had been taken with it.

Seamus stamped his foot, making a small growling noise. There was only one person he knew could get him out of this problem. He also, however, didn’t do it for free.

***

Martin Dripps was a PI. Unfortunately.

The universe as a whole had it out for him. That’s the only way Martin could explain it. It wasn’t a case that he had exceptional bad luck; it was that he had, usually, quite good luck but with an added twist. Such was the fact that, when he opted to have a dog fit for his career, he expected a golden retriever or some other fine breed to help him in his job. He felt he could be a little more proud in his day-to-day activities if he had such a fine canine. Unfortunately, the bulldog that he ended up with was less than stellar, even though he had gained the ability to understand and speak human speech. It even named itself ‘Chumples’. People used to ask him why a bulldog was able to talk, but everyone had just gotten used to the fact that Martin Dripps stuck his foot into cases that would drive other, saner men mad. Sometimes Martin wondered if he had gone insane and just hadn’t realised it yet. Sometimes he even realised it.

Martin performed the duty of anyone doing detective work and finding themselves in in an office all day; acting like they were in a noir movie at all times. He took the fancy Cuban cigar (which, due to budget problems, was actually a cheap cigarette) out of his mouth, stubbing out the quickly-diminishing end into an ivory ashtray (which, due to legality problems, was actually a Burger Mate chip box) and threw the remains into the bin on the other side of the room (which, due to wanting to take out the stresses of daily life out on something, was actually Chumples).

Hey, Chumples said, raising his head from his stomach. What’s the big idea?

Just thought it’d be good for you to move once every two hours, Martin said, lighting another cigarette. It’d burn off the fat.

I’d probably get a lot more off the belly if I chased you around the office, snapping at your ankles.

That implies you would be bothered to do it.

Chumples gave a stare, then huffed to himself. Touché, he said, resting his chin back on his flab.

A knock at the door.

Oh, bollocks, Martin said. Battle stations.

Because Martin was in a permanent state of ‘black and white noir film’, it was safe to assume that each and every knock on the door was a lady wearing a dress a size too small and wearing enough make-up to coat a house, who had a case ready for him to perform. Of course, she would do so in the most flirtatious way possible, and Martin would always have a clever comeback for anything she might say. The ‘battle stations’, which Martin called it, involved him putting his feet up on the table in a carefree manner, and holding the cigarette in his mouth in a way that looked like it would fall over at any moment. Chumples’ version of the battle stations was to not be Chumples as much