Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

Lacroix Is Just Spicy Water

An unintended side effect of having a house reconstructed plank by plank is the lack of basic commodities like electricity and proper plumbing. I don't know if it was Athanasius' stingy nature that refused to pay for such necessities or the fact that having any of them would make the whole place a fire hazard, but the fact was that we had to make do with what we had. 

One of the most interesting ways we managed to overcome this was to use basic engineering, which is the only area I could say Athanasius excelled at without a hint of sarcasm.  

There was a water tank on the rooftop that connected to a pipe system that used basic gravity to deliver water to all three floors when a pulley mechanism activated it. What made it genius was that the water tank was a metal pot that siphoned wastewater from the neighbour's AC and used a system of broken mirrors from compact makeup foundations Athanasius found on the back of a going-out-of-business Sephora to redirect sunlight towards the pot, thus heating it. At approximately 12:32 PM, the water was at the perfect temperature to take a nice relaxing shower, which Mrs. Wormwood and I had to share to save water. 

Athanasius never bathed himself, as he once allegedly hugged Margaret Thatcher and swore he still had skin flakes on him that would allow him to revive her via cloning if the need arises. Mrs. Wormwood told me that he actually hugged a wax figure from Madame Tussauds, and that it was more than a hug, which prompted the UK government to ban his entrance to the United Kingdom and any other country in the commonwealth. 

But the award for the most ingenious person has to go to Mrs. Wormwood, who, without gas, a fridge, or any medium of preservation, managed to flex her culinary muscles in a way that would rival any celebrity chef. Some of her recipes I compiled in the book "Bitch Lasagna(Not That One): How To Bring Satisfaction Bellow The Price Of A Sneaky Castro," soon to be published by Simon and Schuster.

Prostitutes have been synonymous with high cuisine ever since Puttana Ingoiatutto, a Neapolitan prostitute in the mid-20th century, invented the Spaghetti Alla Puttanesca when a client with a baby fetish wanted something nutritious and easy to swallow. She grabbed the frustration things in her cabinet, threw them together in a pot, and thus the fates of cooks and prostitutes were entangled with each other forever. 

There is a reason why Gordon Ramsay's biggest business are not his restaurants, but his hotels. 

It wasn't until that day that Mrs. Wormwood's full abilities were revealed to me, as our diet until that point consisted of several types of cigarette ash with the occasional flavoring. 

"Listen here," said Athanasius as we huddled up in the kitchen. With the thick stench of his breath, I would've seen the words leave his mouth at close range. "This is a fat cat we are dealing with. If we play our card right, we might come up with quite the spoils!" 

"I can see the fat part," I said, "and even the cat part. But I don't see her having more money than, say, a particularly corrupt priest." 

Athanasius shook his head, which made the tassel from his fez scratch my nose. "Fool. You see, but don't observe. Perhaps you failed to perceive her stilettos?" 

"Those are Stuart Weitzman 'Platinum Gold' Stilettos," said Mrs. Wormwood. "They go up to a million dollars. They're the kind of shoes that up the value of the floor they walk in." 

"Do remind me to upend those floorboards to sell later," added Athanasius. "They will fetch quite a price among collectors." 

"Those ugly things? I swear I saw a pair like those in a Foot Locker." 

"And don't get me started on that dress," said Athanasius, wiping the sweat of his brow, and thus, the last of the cells the wax Margaret Thatcher bestowed upon him. "Armani. The whole get up."