The Toilet Paper Caper: Chapter 3
A Stark Mystery
I’ve dropped some pretty stinky loads in my day, especially after a few Coney Island foot-longs, but the smell coming from behind the door of my one-holer took the cake.
And it didn’t smell like any cake I’d ever come across.
When the dame stepped out the first thing hit me was how in the hell a tiny body like that could have produced such a rank smell.
Maybe she liked chili and cheese Coneys as much as I did.
She looked at me, casting a demure, impish smile in my direction as she straightened and smoothed out a form-fitting blue miniskirt. She stood there in silence, a pair of tanned legs partially covered by leather knee boots, auburn hair parted in the center cascading down to her shoulders and a pair of luscious lips slightly parted.
The problem was she looked out of place. Like about thirty years out of place. I should know as old as I am. I tried the glam rock scene back in the day but eventually settled for something better suited to my profession.
A fedora and a trenchcoat.
Somehow, this woman looked like she’d just stepped out of a time…
Couldn’t be. Really?
“You know this ain’t a public restroom lady?”
“I know. It’s just that travel always upsets my indigestion. I stopped at several places on my way here and none of them had toilet paper. By the time I got to your office. Well, let’s just say things were getting pretty serious.”
“I could smell. So who the hell are you and what are you doing in my office, aside from stinking the place up?”
“First things first. Have you ever heard of air freshener?”
“That’s what cigars and matches are for.”
“They told me you were a neanderthal, but I had no idea people of your time were that bad.”
“People of my time? So let me guess. You’re a time traveler and you work with old baldy who hired me to find Whipple.”
She smiled and stepped closer, but I raised my hand and air palmed her.
“Stop right there woman. Nowadays we follow the ten-foot rule. It’s bad enough we can’t find enough toilet paper to wipe our ass, but now we have to practice social distancing. Think of it as safe sex without all the sex.”
“Oh, like masturbation?”
She had me there.
“Whatever floats your boat. So what’s the skinny?”
“Well, you’re right. I do indeed work for the man who hired you yesterday. His name is Thaddeus Charles Whipple. He’s my father. My name is Rebecca Darling Whipple.”
Okay, I told myself I was getting somewhere except for some reason my old noggin was telling me I wasn’t getting anywhere at all. Old baldy had hired me to find a way to go back in time to where it all began.
That meant I needed to seek out Mr. Whipple and find a way to stop him before he could put his nefarious plan in action. Whatever the hell his plan was I had to find Whipple and stop him.
Now, this dame is telling me old baldy and her are both named Whipple? Why do I need to find Whipple when Whipple just found me?
“I know what you’re thinking right now.”
“Lady, I don’t even know what I’m thinking right now. Except for maybe, I need a drink and a cigar.”
“You need to use the bathroom?”
“What?”
“Well, you said that’s what matches and cigars are for so I just assumed.”
I stepped around my desk, yanked open a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Makers Mark and a glass. After inspecting the glass and blowing out some of the dust, I poured three fingers of sauce in it, then tossed it back.
I poured another drink then sat down, my chair protesting the presence of my fat butt with a couple of hard groans and creaks. One of these days this old chair of mine is going to bust and I’m going to end up on my back.
But I wasn’t going to worry about that right now. Right now I just needed to get my head around this woman looking like a chick from the seventies standing in my office.
And the fact she had the last name as the dude I’d been hired to find.
“Rebecca is it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Rebecca Whipple what the hell’s the deal here?”
“I see where this may be a bit confusing.”
“You have no idea.”
“Mr. Stark. George Whipple is my uncle. He and my father are twins. Together they and their commercials put the toilet paper company, Charmaine, on the map. Everything was going great until George came up with a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yes, a plan to create commercials using subliminal messages on television. Commercials that would hypnotize the buying public into thinking they had to buy all the toilet paper they could get their hands on.”
“You mean like what’s happening now?”
“Exactly. Just like Texon and Mobly did in the eighties with their gas shortage schemes.”
“Damn. I knew those guys were sitting on fuel. They just wanted to drive the price up.”
“Exactly and that’s what George wants to do.”
“So what do you need me for Rebecca? Why don’t you and your father just reel him in?”
“Because we don’t know when he is.”
“Don’t you mean where?”
“No, George stole my father’s time-traveling device. We don’t know where or when he is right now. That’s why we need you. We heard what you did in Kansas…”
“I already told your dad there’s an explanation for that.”
“Explanation not necessary. We need you to find George Whipple and stop him.”
“Honey, as long as the money’s right we got us a deal. So what’s next?”
“First we go back and talk to dad. Maybe he can give you something that will help. I have my Pinto parked right outside.”
“What? Wait, your time travel machine is a Pinto?”
“Yes, after George stole my father’s device he had to improvise. Is that a problem?”
“Uh, yeah, maybe. Your dad couldn’t have come up with something a little more snazzy? Like a DeLorean maybe?”
“What’s a Delorean?”
“Never mind. I’m probably going to regret this, but lead the way, Rebecca.”
Continues in Chapter 4:
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© P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
