Not a Weasel (Beastly People Tales)

By Dai Alanye

Short stories, essays, excerpts from longer works, poems and doggerel, miscellaneous subjects

Two mysteries, two historical essays, a short horror story (mild), humorous tales, critiques of two literary genres and an anonymous author, a brief travelogue, a stolen fairytale, a verbal cartoon series, miscellaneous nonsense and several chapter-length excerpts from works in progress.

Not too painful to read, and the price is right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dai Alanye
• Release date: Feb 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370430338

Dai Alanye

No superheroes nor anything supernatural (thus far, at least.) Expect merely ordinary people - you and me, as it were - caught up in extraordinary circumstances. Plots are character-driven, and the characters themselves are complex and often contradictory. I aim to appeal to the reader who has an ample sense of humor and an appreciation for irony. You can expect adventure and romance, but graphic violence and sex are at a minimum - think PG or PG-13 at most - and suitable for mature youths as well as adults.

Book preview

Not a Weasel

(Beastly People Tales)

§

by Dai Alanye © 2017

Edition 1.0

Some of these tales, humorous essays and poems have been published previously.

Not a Weasel (Beastly People Tales) has almost nothing to do with animals—merely humans, beastly or otherwise.

The book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and the author retains all rights of reproduction and licensing.

If you wish to share this book, please acquire an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not acquire it yourself, or it was not acquired for your exclusive use, please return to the retailer and obtain your own copy.

Not a Weasel (Beastly People Tales) is the original work of the author. Except for public individuals and happenings all characters and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. Any resemblances to actual happenings or to persons living or dead are otherwise strictly coincidental or of a satirical nature.

Not a Weasel

The Foot, Old & New

Might Be Lost

H. E. L. P.

The Adventures of Farmer Mudd

Tolkien's Crime

You'll Not Be Wanting That!

Humbug!

I Hate Romance

What's in a Name, Huh?

Cleverest Hans~A Grim Fairytale

Neighbors

Non-prose & Nonsense

Excerpts from Incomplete Works

§

Not a Weasel

Chapter 1 – It's a Marten

Lying in a curtained space of St Edmund's ER, George Boggs felt worse than he could ever remember—in pain despite having been doped-up, and apprehensive despite having been told by two doctors, a nurse and an aide that his life was in no danger.

The aide, though, had qualified her statement.

But I'm not a doctor, you realize.

And the nurse was a guy… with an earring.

·

I feel awful.

I can imagine, detective Fred Lassman said. Tell me how it happened.

He just…

From the beginning.

Oh. Well, I'm in my apartment, see…

When was this?

Five-thirty, five-forty maybe.

Uh-huh.

Normally I eat around seven—seven or even eight, ya know? But for some reason I was feeling hungry, so…

You can skip that. Get to the meat.

"Meat? Is that some kind of a joke?" Boggs felt dismay to think his problem might be a subject for gustatory humor, but the cop shook his head.

Well, er… So I go down to the lobby, and there's usually somebody hangin' around, and maybe I'll see if anyone wants to go along, ya know? But there's nobody, so I head for the doors…

Doors?

Double doors.

Okay.

Are you recording this?

Certainly.

You don't write stuff down any more? I watch Dragnet, ya know? Well, not much now, but I used to get the reruns and…

Hold on—can we just have the facts, mister?

George looked at the cop, and the cop looked back at him. They both laughed until George groaned.

I can't believe I said that, the cop said.

"Man! Now I know what they mean, It only hurts when I laugh. Hurts more, that is."

Get on with it, please.

Okay. So I head for the doors and this guy busts in…

Looks?

Sure, naturally I looked.

"No, what were his looks?"

Oh, sorry. Tall, skinny, dressed kinda casual but not too criminal, if ya know what I mean.

So, no hoodie.

That's right.

Race?

Movin' pretty fast, yeah.

"No! I mean, what was his race."

Oh. White guy. And he was carrying—in one hand, ya know, down by his side—like this limp piece of fur. And I look and see it's some kind of animal…

An animal—go on.

"So I say, Whatcha doin' with the weasel?"

Yeah?

"And he says, right like this: It's not a weasel, it's a marten. Then he shoots me."

"I see… Was it a marten?"

"Looked like a weasel to me, for crying out loud!"

You a zoo-ologist?

"Zo-ologist."

"Sorry. Are you?"

"No! So why'd he have to shoot me? Not like it was a mink, fer gawdsake!"

Or maybe a ferret.

Sure, or a skunk or something. Wolverine, even. All related, ya know.

Badger?

That too, could be. Or an otter.

"And you're not a zoologist."

Like I said.

"Maybe he is."

≈

Chapter 2 - Lorayne

When Lassman arrived at oh-seven-hundred next morning, the office—a high-ceilinged dingy room, dimly lit by dusty fluorescent fixtures—was practically empty, everyone else either late or getting coffee and doughnuts. He squeezed into his cubicle, flicked on the desk lamp, sat and opened his case to extract the recorder and notes he'd made last night before hitting the sack.

…Lassman… A harsh nasal voice penetrated his concentration.

Lorayne! What the… He grimaced—he'd have to deal with her this morning.

I don't blame you, one of the women replied in a bored tone.

"…Lassman… ever… out wi…!"

What was she gassing about? He'd never asked her out—never would. Not if she begged on bended knees, he assured himself.

Yeah, Lorayne repeated, coming nearer, Not if he was the lass man on Earth.

Some giggles and the group broke up, Lorayne continuing to her own cubicle—against a wall, larger than his, and with higher partitions. There to gloat, no doubt, about her victory over another poor soul attracted by her remarkable sexuality. And getting in a cut at Lassman himself while doing it.

Or maybe he was paranoid. But I've got good reason to be, he told himself.

Lassman blushed once again to remember his first encounter with her, shortly after she had started two years back.

·

The young woman had walked away from a group after relating her spirited response to an approach by a lecher, and Lassman—though on the shady side of thirty-five, yet hoping to gain the notice of this aphrodisiacal newcomer—had fallen into step, choosing a confidential tone.

Let me tell you, Lorayne, I really admire your scruples.

She abruptly halted to glare at him, teeth bared in fierce outrage.

"You shut your dirty mouth, bastard!"

Shocked and astonished, it took a day before he realized the word scruples might have meant… meant who knew what, to someone so stupid? He'd never since approached her except on work issues.

Adding to his chagrin, this shunning seemed to bother her not the slightest.

·

And now he needed to deal with her again. Blast!

Get it over with, he told himself, wriggling out of the cubicle to go see head detective Casimir Ferguson.

Ferguson, who couldn't have been in for more than ten minutes, already had two dead fags in his ashtray and seemed to be working on his second coffee… unless the empty cup was from yesterday.

I need to get a sketch.

Ferguson took a deep drag and blew smoke. The weasel thing?

Yeah.

So get it.

Lorayne's not stacked up? Lassman said, looking for a smile because A), Lorayne was definitely stacked, and B), she always claimed to be behind in her work.

Ferguson duly responded with a slight widening of his mouth.

Even so, Fred, this is important. Tell her to get on it.

Lassman ran a hand through his thinning hair and mentally girded up his loins to stalk toward Lorayne's cubicle. The door, as usual, was closed, and he flipped it open in hopes of catching her at some misbehavior.

She jerked back from her desk. "Hey, dope! Ya almost made me spill my polish."

I need a sketch. Right away at Saint Ed's.

He held out a paper with Bogg's name—which she refused to notice, rolling back against the desk and dipping the brush into a bottle of pale pink lacquer.

Go right over. If he's out of ER, check to see what room. I need it quick like a bunny."

Tell the boss.

I have, so get to it.

She flicked an angry glance at him but deigned to look at the paper.

D'you have any idea how much… she began.

"Now means now!"

Tell the goon ta come over here.

"He's in the hospital, for crying out loud. In bed with a bullet in his gut. Take your kit and go see him!"

Her air of disgust was palpable. "Fine! I got two nails yet, then I'll go."

Thank gawd, Lassman mumbled, turning to leave.

When they're dry, she called after him.

≈

Chapter 3 - Redo

Next morning after canvassing Boggs' building—seven apartments besides the man's own—Lassman accepted defeat. Not a soul admitted to hearing or seeing anything, nor had the manager/maintenance guy even been in the building. Lassman stood outside near the entrance in hopes of either seeing something or having someone stop to offer evidence but no dice. He checked nearby apartment buildings and businesses to ask of anyone suspicious-looking or running away at the time of the shooting, but no one could help.

Boggs had been writhing on the floor right after the shooting and had no idea in which direction his assailant had fled, or even if the man had fled.

Lassman took a turn up the block across the street and back down again, searching hard for surveillance cameras but saw none. What the hell?

He could only think of going to the news media with Lorayne's sketch. That and maybe checking with institutions and psych-benders to ask about men with some kind of animal fetish—assuming their privacy ethics would even let them give info. If only there was a record of similar behavior in the files… There might be but he remembered nothing like it

He took an early lunch.

* * *

Back at HQ he was astounded to find Lorayne's sketch on his desk. But then he looked at it.

Over to Ferguson—and after a rap on the unlatched door just in case the man was napping, Lassman entered and stood by the desk.

Lorayne finished her sketch, he said, his voice flat.

She's quick, no doubt of that. Let's see it.

Lassman handed it over.

Take a pew, Ferguson said, studying the paper. Whadaya think, release it to the news?

Take a look at it.

Looks fine. A pro job as usual. Once she gets going on something…

The guy's black.

Ferguson looked up. Yeah?

The perp ain't black, Kaz.

Ferguson glanced again at the sketch, frowning now. Fred?

Yeah?

The features are white—Caucasian, I oughta say. Siciliano maybe? Indian… from India-type Indian?

Check his hair.

Ferguson fumbled on his desk, picking out Lassman's written report.

"Yeah, I see where you got Caucasian checked here. The vic sure about it?"

I specifically asked.

Huh!

She ought to be fired.

Now, Fred—you know that's not going to happen.

Yeah, Lassman thought, and I know why, too. Rather, both he and Ferguson knew who. Her friend, higher in the department, was suspected by almost everyone.

And Ferguson was smiling, reinforcing Lassman's belief the man enjoyed these intra- departmental squabbles.

·

On the way to Lorayne's cubicle Lassman wasn't particularly unhappy. Quite the contrary, in fact. He'd been waiting for this day and only had to make sure he didn't overplay his hand.

He opened Lorayne's door and stepped in.

"What're you after?"

Your sketch…

Just put it there. She nodded toward a pile on the desk next to her drafting board, waiting for him to leave. When he failed to, she half turned her head. Well? she said, her tone medium-belligerent.

A few details need changing.

She swiveled