Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

The Power Of Love And Firepower

As Athanasius and I ate some still-warm eggs benedict from the ziploc bag while sitting on the floor, we couldn't help but not help Mrs. Fatone, who was rolling on the floor, bawling her eyes out. 

Several people tried to console her with sweet nothings, but she was otherwise indisposed to the idea of not being a little attention whore. 

"Don't comfort me!" she said, rolling on the floor like that one burger that rolled out of Adele's fast food bag that inspired her to write "Rolling In The Deep," which I meant as glorious, full of trans fats, and wholly inexpensive. "I'm uncomfortable!"

To my surprise, nobody seemed to really care about the tiger on the other side of the door. Nobody seemed to care about much that was happening, as there was not a face of terror or worry amongst the guests. If anything, they were somber and pensive, almost as if there was an understanding amongst them. Or maybe they were all psychics and were communicating via some rich people mind network. 

When the most normal response comes from the weirdest woman in the room, you know something smells like a fisherman's fingers after valentine's day — fishy. 

Even weirder was the response of the only other person in the room who wasn't brooding or bawling their eyes out, which was, upon closer inspection, a person even more bizarre than Mrs. Fatone. 

It was a man in an electric wheelchair, with an obvious fake blonde wig. He had only one eye, seven fingers, and scars all over his face. He looked like a piece of chewing gum with third-degree burns, and all of those degrees were given by the University of Ugly, or Ug for short. Not like you wanted to shorten it, as he was most likely a Summa Cum Laude, probably a doctor in being a chewed piece of pig snout. If anyone looked suspicious, it was him.

Mind you, it wasn't because he was ugly. Ugly people are not evil. It was because he kept wheeling around the room saying very suspicious things. 

"Oof," said the man, sitting in the middle of the room, "much tragedy are happened. Tiger find man delicious, for man is made of delicious meat. Taste like pork. Maybe revenge of Tiger of Tony from stealing Frosted Flakes with sugar? Hubris of human!" 

He reeked of guilt and Grappa. Or maybe that was Athanasius. 

Whatever the case, I resolved to keep my eyes on him, until a more pressing matter took my attention away, with that being a shoe literally pressing at my but as it was playfully punted.

"Hey there," said Mr. Katz, continuing to punt me. Maybe he just liked to see me jiggle. "You left this behind." 

On his hands was the glass of champagne I forgot while running from my life, as any sane person would. It was still cold and bubbly, which I found weird since we had been there for ten minutes now. 

"You got your priorities in order," I said, taking it away from his hand. 

Mr. Katz sat next to me, sipping from his own glass of champagne. "Athanasius," he said as he tipped his glass at the detective. 

"Mr. Katz," said Athanasius with a mouth full of Hollandaise sauce. "What a pickle we have found ourselves into." 

"Sure smells like a pickle," retorted the lawyer. 

"You know each other?" I asked. 

"Sure do!" said Athanasius. "He is my lawyer, after all." 

"Told you I represent half the people here," said Mr. Katz. "Besides, who do you think gave Athanasius' name to the fat one over there?" 

Athanasius took a dollop of the Hollandaise and greased his mustache with it as he moved his nose like the world's creepiest Bewitched cosplayer. "I thank you for that."