Mandrill P.I. Volume 0: Dial M for Murdered Coyote

By Christopher Brimmage

Who stops cartoons when they turn criminal?

MANDRILL P.I., that's who!

He’s a hardboiled, hard-drinking private detective, and in this tale, he must solve the murder of his city’s foremost celebrity. But when he discovers a deadly conspiracy behind the scenes that threatens to engulf the entire town, will he stop it in time? Or will mad science bring a violent end to him and everything he’s ever cared for?

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It's like Hellboy meets Who Framed Roger Rabbit in this hardboiled noir tale set in a cartoon metropolis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Brimmage
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736221341

Christopher Brimmage

Christopher Brimmage is a writer, teacher, marketer, brand manager, and former boy band front man. He has a wife named Geraldine to whom he loves to sing Chumbawamba, a son named Augustus with whom he has formed the Steam Roller Boyz, and a pair of brothers that he loves to annoy.

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Copyright

MANDRILL P.I.

Copyright © 2013, 2021 by Christopher Brimmage

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Miblart

Map design by Caenwyr Cartography

Table of Contents

A Note About The Setting

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Author’s Invitation to Collaborate

Email Signup

Call for Reviews

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Preview of Next Book

Toonsville Map

Other Works by Christopher Brimmage

For Brian and Mark,

who both used to watch cartoons with me

A NOTE ABOUT THE SETTING:

This story takes place in Toonsville, a sprawling cartoon metropolis full of neighborhoods as vibrant as a technicolor rainbow. It is a 1950s-style noir wonderland full of cartoon creatures of every imaginable species.

The center of the city is a dilapidated, black-and-white neighborhood named the Grays that was created before color entered the world. Neighborhoods grew outward from there to serve as homes to different cartoon species as new cartoons were created, novel cartoon styles were invented, and assorted characters were born.

Toonsville is an ever-growing place filled with vivacious characters and surrounded by a dangerous wilderness.

We welcome you to our city, and we hope you decide to stay a while.

[CLICK HERE FOR MAP & KEY]

CHAPTER 1

I SIGH A deep-throated, guttural sigh, and then I pop the collar of my trench coat. Despite what most people assume ’bout us fuzzy mammals, a fur coat don’t keep ya too warm when the wind pummels ya like the fists of some massive gorilla boxer.

I stare at a pair of pants through a shop window. Thunder cracks overhead, and cold rain crashes onto the cement around me. Lightning flashes, and the momentary brightness highlights my reflection in the shop window.

I scowl at myself. I hate the ribbed, rotund blue bulges that protrude from my cheeks. I hate the bright red color of my snout. I hate the coarse fur that grows in an unkempt rainforest across my body, everywhere except on my ass.

My trench coat masks my Technicolor ass from the gawking of passersby, but I know it’s down there, lurking beneath my coat and my stubby tail, mocking me with its shades of blue and red. And the more worked up I get at it, the brighter its colors become, as though they are a spotlight shining infamy upon my ridiculous species.

I tighten the belt on the trench coat, hoping to prevent the blustering wind from blowing up my coat’s bottom and flashing my ass to the world. I firmly tug my fedora onto my head and tip the hat’s brim down to obscure the haggard reflection staring back at me.

I blink, take a long drag on the cigarette hanging from my lips, and walk on. As tempted as I am to bust this shop window and steal the pants displayed before me, I resist.

That ain’t my style. And besides, the shopkeeper’s a buddy from way back, and if you’re gonna resort to stealing from your buddies, then ya may as well give up on life and put yourself outta your misery. I sigh, because not stealing these pants means that I’ll need to skip my morning coffee at Camel Joe’s and swing by my office to grab another pair.

The damned dame from last night made off with my pants, and it’s left me rather surly. Though my memory of the evening’s foggy, I’ve been able to conjure many of the details through sheer hangover-be-damned focus.

I remember the dame’s manicured fingernails as they danced across my waistline like a tender debutante, ready and willing and teasing. As soon as we stumbled from the pub and through the door of the seedy motel room, she yanked off my trousers and threw them aside.

Time seemed to slow as they glided across the expanse of the musty room and then skittered to the floor like a crash-landing duck. I tossed aside my trench coat, tugged off my bow tie, ripped open my button-up shirt, and beat my fists against my furry chest. I allowed a low growl to creep from my throat, and it drifted across the room like a blast from an awkward, off-key tuba.

I recall her grabbing my hand and pulling me onto the bed. She stroked my inner thigh, and the fur on the back of my neck stood on end. My lips weaved through her bright red fur and discovered her earlobe. I nibbled at it.

The dame chuckled. It was a sharp bark that intruded on our desperate tryst, and it yanked me out of my foolish, drunken fantasy—a fantasy I’d convinced myself to believe only after drinking myself silly, a fantasy where I had no worries and no wife.

Guilt flooded my heart, and it made me want to melt right through the rotten floorboards. Her chuckle had been nearly identical to my precious Moana’s.

Oh, my Moana! She was the best person I’d ever met. And she was the love of my life. And though I’ve rescued this stupid, chaotic, insane city from the brink of disaster more times than I can count, I couldn’t save her when she needed it most. The damned cancer ate her from the inside out, and now she’s gone. My life’s pointless without her.

She was entirely too good for me, and nobody ever let me forget it. There ain’t no doubt she’s up in Toon Heaven, while I’ll be lucky enough just to knock on the door of Toon Purgatory whenever I kick the bucket. And if I do get the chance to meet up with her again in the afterlife, I don’t know how I’ll face her, not after how far I’ve fallen since she passed. My life’s been one long bender after another, benders that’ve been underscoring a swirl further and further down the drain of despair.

I don’t recall how long I sat there, sulking with shame. But eventually, my meandering, guilt-ridden thoughts were interrupted by the dame when she nipped me on the chin with her sharp teeth. It was a playful, seductive move, one that any other red-blooded Toonsville fella would’ve found quite arousing. But it simply hammered home my guilt.

And when her crimson lipstick shone in the neon lights pouring into the room through the drawn shades, I felt disgusted for soiling Moana’s memory by allowing myself to seek carnal pleasure with some stranger.

I reached a foot over to where my trench coat lay on the floor. I dug into a pocket and retrieved my flask. I unscrewed its cap and brought it to my lips. I didn’t stop chugging until I’d sucked down every last drop.

Y’know, fella, it’s courteous t’share, said the dame, her raspy voice underlined with a flirty giggle. I ignored her and stared down at the flask. It was shaped like a banana, and it was a gift from my Moana for a birthday a few years back. I choked back a sob and stuffed the flask back into my trench coat.

Then years of smoking tickled the back of my throat. I began hacking coughs into my hand. The hacking didn’t subside until I was gasping for breath and lying back on the bed. I wiped my soiled hand on the sheet. I didn’t need to look. I knew I’d just smeared a big red handprint onto the faded white cloth.

Still game, baby? whispered the dame, her yellow fangs flashing at me in the dim light. It’s okay if ya ain’t, but ya know there ain’t no refunds, right?

I tried to sit up. I needed to get out of there. I needed to go somewhere to clear my head.

But my head paid no heed, for it chose that exact moment to begin spinning. I flailed my arms out beside me to find my equilibrium, but I only succeeded in knocking the digital alarm clock off the bedside table. It crashed to the floor with a loud CLACK! The red numbers seemed to burst from within, and every digit glared back a bright red eight.

My vision became fuzzy and unfocused. I tried lifting my arms and legs, but they felt like they’d been dipped in cement, and they wouldn’t cooperate. My tongue lolled dumbly from my mouth, and I felt my racing heart give up on the chase.

I stared at the dame’s feline nose, and I reeled as it morphed into two noses, then three. They swirled before my eyes, and nausea reached its greedy fingers into my belly. It gripped the banana salad I’d eaten for lunch in a revolting fist and hurled it up my esophagus.

The banana fastball lurched into my mouth. I tried forcing myself to swallow it, but I couldn’t. I attempted to gasp, but I choked on the vomit.

Oddly enough, I chuckled, surreally amused by the absurdity of my impending death—choked by guilt, whiskey, and regurgitated lunch from a cheap diner, with the only witness to my last moments being an even cheaper call girl. I’ve been too much of a coward to end my miserable life since my sweet Moana died, and this was how I’d be biting the big one. How quaint!

It’s okay, baby. Ya can go to sleep now, said the dame. We ain’t gotta fool around. Just go to sleep. I’ll even holdja for a while if ya want me to.

I remember trying to mumble something, anything, to stay conscious, but all I managed to do was choke harder. Despair enveloped me. Sparks of light flashed on the edges of my vision, and from there I don’t remember anything else.

I woke about a half hour ago on my belly with my head hanging over the side of the bed and my repulsive yellow vomit lying splattered across the dingy green carpet. I guess the call girl must’ve rolled me over at some point and prevented me from choking to death. She probably thought she was doing this old drunk a favor.

I rubbed my aching head and glanced around the room to gain some sense of orientation, and that’s when I noticed my predicament: the dame might’ve ensured that I survived another night, but she left me with little else—for she’d stolen my pants, and by taking my pants, she’d run off with my wallet, I.D., P.I. license, favorite gun, and stash of banana-flavored mints.

I cursed. Then I hopped off the bed and trudged to the bathroom. My brain rattled around in my skull like a toddler’s toy. I swooned, balancing myself on the doorframe. I stumbled to the toilet and pissed. It smelled like cheap whiskey and spoiled dreams.

I snatched my remaining clothes from where they lay on the floor. I hurried into my nicotine-stained white button-up and stuffed my bow tie into my trench-coat pocket. I wrapped the coat around my shoulders and buttoned it all the way down, covering my exposed lower body. I cinched the coat’s belt around my waist and crowned my head with my fedora.

And then I scrambled out of the motel room window and descended the fire escape, using the cold, black rails for balance. I’d rented this motel room for two hours when the dame and I had stumbled here from the bar. I’d paid cash up front, but I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious, and I no longer possessed a wallet to pay the difference.

I looked out across the city and sighed. The neon lights reflected from puddles on the damp streets, covering the whorish cartoon metropolis in hazy, pink rouge.

I grunted, and then I hopped down the last few rungs to the cement below. And after that, I walked on toward my office until the pants in the shop window distracted me.

CHAPTER 2

I TRUDGE TOWARD my office, this time ignoring my reflection