Sleuth Home - Ask Shady

Sleutherapy

Seems like lots of youse out there might be getting sick of looking at twisted deeds, and find yourselves axing questions about the souls of others, and yourselves.

R Anstett asks, "Who is Barry Grant?", and Daphne Dangerfield wonders, "What do you know about Daphne Dangerfield?"

Normally I don't answer no rhetorical questions, nor do I go in for this introspective mumbo jumbo naval gazing palava. Nor, for that matter, do I cares too much about the people behind the faces, behinds the names. My business is makin' cold hard cash, and if I was you, and I offered to holds your hand for a while - well... afterwards, I'd be checkin' my wrist to see if my watch was still there.

But since you axed, allow me once again to wax all philosophical like.

R Anstett, do I care who Barry Grant is, or was?! And, bein' that it's a moot point, as I hear he left Sleuthville for Splitsville, my answer is still the same: as long as he was paying his debts to yours truly, heck no! So, why do you?!

He mighta been Little Red Riding Hood with a basket full of goodies for Grandma; he mighta just been another Wolf in Grandma's clothing; word on the street says many things about Mr Grant, who he was, and / or is... but as my sainted Granny used to say: "Innuendo? Isn't that just a Spanish suppository...?" Think on that if youse will.

And Daphne, I don't know nothing 'bout you, cept to say that yer real easy on the eyes, and your money spends as good as anyone else's. But my friend with the crystal ball, now he tells me you oughta steer clear of guys named Rodney if you wanna get any respect. But that's it. Pay yer debts; keep your nose clean; stay outta Shady's way.

What do you know about yerself? What do any of us know! Only thing for sure is both o' youse probably need to get one o' them sighkiatree couches real fast.

Me, I never trusted no-one I wasn't talking to from a barstool.

With that in mind, and a book some college chick once gimme about a guy named Frood or Fried (half-baked more like it) in hand, I ain't even gonna touch yoyofoshow's question about who my daddy was. Yeah, he liked his bourbon, and OK so occasionally he put on a wig and lipstick and made me call him Mr. Bernice, but that aint had no lastin' effect on me... but if you come across a pair of size 13 black pumps, just drop me a line.

Now, Chaussettes Chatoyantes, I don't know if youse needs to know the answer to: "Is crunchpatty ... crunchy?"

Personally, I doubt it. I overheard his missus sayin' he ain't never even hard no more. I don't know what she was meaning there, but if he ain't hard, he certainly ain't crunchy.

Last one o' these before I get a couch of my own and start collecting $75 per hour on top of my regular fee: Ophelia Jones axes, "Who is Captain Rex Belphegore?"

Well Ophelia, turns out he's a guy who maybe coulda used a ride or two on that couch. He got his first taste of murder when he killed a simple goatherd on the Greek island of Crete at the tender age of 12 over the price of some souvlaki and since then has put together a bloody resume at nursing schools on 3 continents. That's why I never supported no schooling for women. It always ends badly. My friend with the crystal ball predicts he's gonna change his name to Daryl Dragon some time in the 1970's after he meets a dame named Tenille.

You know Big Mama gave me dis gig to answer some pressin' question, but I am wonderin' if some of youse, even though you are Dicks and thus naturally disposed to stickin' your beaks in wheres they don't belong, wouldn't be better doing what it is you are meants to be doin': that is, catching the criminals of the seedy Sleuth underworld, rather than spendin' so much time lookin' up each others skirts to see what color petticoat the other has on.

Me and the other constituents of the Shady Brotherhood, we is just that, a Brotherhood. Sure you might consider it more a Den of Thieves, but we is loyal; we sticks together; and we watches each others backs (and fronts, and anywhere else a weapon might be concealed). We do our fair share of feudin' and a fussin', and some of it ends in the pourin' of concrete I admits, but at the end of the day, we is a 'family' of sorts.

Can youse all say the same?

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