Day 161

Dear Diary,

Well, like I said I would, I rested my eyes over night ‘n’ let my little grey cells do the thinkin’ for me, and wouldn’t you know it, but the minute I woked up this morning the first thing wot came into my mind was to go back to the four dead bodies ‘n’ examine ‘em on the inside. So that’s wot I done. And do you want to know wot I discovered? You’re gonna laugh when I tell you, but first of all you gotta hear wot my little grey cells told me to do in the way of forensical procedure. They said before anything else I should unzip ‘em all to air ‘em out a bit. And after they was aired out ‘n’ smellin’ fresh as a daisy I should pick ‘em up one by one ‘n’ give ‘em a vigorous shake. Naturally I axed “Wot the fuck for?” and I was told because that’s wot I’d been told to do. Well, right then ‘n’ there I got on my uppers ‘n’ said this ain’t no autocratic dictatorship ‘n’ I don’t gotta snap to attention or else have my balls chopped off, to which my little grey cells chuckled ‘n’ said “Don’t press your luck,” or somethin’ like that. Anyways, I was tempted not to pick a fight – at least not for the time bein’ - and get on with my investigatin’, but then somethin’ occurred to me which made me change my mind. And do you want to know wot it was? It fuckin’ occurred to me that them fuckin’ little grey cells is inside o’my carburettor. In other words, they fuckin’ works for me ‘n’ not the other way around. And furthermore, I was getting’ sick ‘n’ tired up to the top o’my gullet of sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ ‘n’ lettin’ power-hungry dumbfucks fuck up my life and ruin the countryside with incendiary bombs ‘n’ explodin’ shit ‘n’ flea markets wot sells nothin’ but non-biodegradable plastic crap made by slaves, and it was high time I stood up for myself. And so I took a deep breath just to steady my nerve-endings ‘n’ I addressed them little grey cells wot lives in my head, ‘n’ I said, “Look here you little pustules on the end o’my dick, shut the fuck up or you can eat my shit ‘n’ die.”
Well, Dear Diary, you could’a heard a nuclear test explosion, that’s how quiet it got. And then my little grey cells started in a a’wailin’ ‘n’ a’gnashin’ their teeth ‘n’ a’tearin’ their clothes ‘n’ sittin’ on low stools ‘n’ sayin’ kaddish. I listened for a second ‘n’ then I thunked to myself “Have I missed something? Wot’s happened? Has someone died?” So out of respect I put on my little beanie wot I keeps in my glove compartment for such occasions ‘n’ also a prayer shawl ‘n’ I axed who’d died ‘n’ did I know him ‘n’ did they want me to bring a covered dish dinner for twenty-seven?

Well, my words must’a soothed my little grey cells where it hurt, on account of the wailin’ stopped ‘n’ even some of the womenfolk stopped their ululatin’, which I must admit was a relief ‘n’ a blessin’ because that particular kind o’communicatin’ makes me want to eat my drawers. No sooner’n it’d growed quiet than one of the larger of my little grey cells drew apart from the others ‘n’ with his head bowed in respect he doffed his hat and introduced hisself as the eldest of the elders ‘n’ their official spokesperson. ‘Course, I’d knowed right away he was wot you’d call a senior statesman and the most respectable of all of the little grey cells, on account of he were dressed in a long frockcoat ‘n’ pin-striped trousers ‘n’ spats ‘n’ the hat wot he’d removed from his head was one o’them old-fashioned beaver stovepipes. As I looked at him I thunked to myself he resembled nothin’ so much as a venerable crane, ‘n’ so without thinkin’ (somethin’ wot overcomes me nearly every other minute, much to my chagrin), I bowed my head just as he had did and addressed him as “O! Ancient ‘n’ Wise Misther Crane.”

The aged ‘n’ venerable Little Grey Cell (notice I’m now capitalisin’ Little Grey Cells now I know they’s got union representation) folded up his hat like a concertina and polished his pince nez. “You may call me Lulubelle,” he said. “My rates are a euro a day plus seventy cents VAT and may I take my annual leave in advance startin’ this afternoon?”

I looked down at him for a minute, all the time thinkin’ how very small he was and wouldn’t it be fun to squash him like a bug. But then I rememberated he was one of my own personal little grey cells ‘n’ even if’n he was as crazy as a coot, I did have a investigation to investigate ‘n’ I might want to call on his services one of these days. And so against my better judgment I concluded that perhaps I should play along for a bit to see where our conversation led, ‘n’ whether this particular garden path might be a pleasant ‘n’ agreeable destination.

And so, havin’ thunked all of that ‘n’ comed to conclusion I wouldn’t lose nothin’ by playin’ along, I replied, “Pleased to meetcha Lulubella, ‘n’ you may address me as Misther Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus. And would you be so kind as to tell me wot are the services I should expect to receive in exchange for your so generous ‘n’ onerous fee?”

“My services are simple enough,” said Lulubelle Litte Grey Cell, “Providin’ you remunerate me promptly as well as on time and in full, I guarantee I shan’t do nothin’ at all.”

“Nothin’ at all?” I responded, a little more confused than I had been two seconds before. “You shan’t do nothin’ at all?”

“Precisely!” said the oldest of my little grey cells, bowin’ lower’n before and with a grave expression on his tiny wrinkled face.

By now I was getting’ tired of this conversation, on account of it weren’t getting’ us nowheres at all, ‘n’ so I figured “What the fuck?” Why not come over all anal-retentive ‘n’ see wot happens. And so I axed Lulubelle in a pernickety tone o’voice, “Are you implying you ain’t gonna do anythin’ at all or that you ain’t gonna do nothing, and how much do I gotta pay you for you to go away ‘n’ leave me alone?”

Well, if’n I was hopin’ the Little Grey Cell was gonna get all huffinstuff ‘n’ storm off to torment someone else, I was mistaken. “You ain’t gonna get rid o’me me that easy,” said Lulubelle. “You seem to forget I’m one o’your brain cells ‘n’ I live together with all the other brain cells inside o’your head. Not only that, but I’m the best you got, so you gotta treat me right if’n you wants to go on thinkin’. But I warn you, my dear Misther Bus, the last time a bus told his brain cells to fuck off, he ended up a Ford Transit.”

“Fuck,” is all I gotta say, Dear Diary. Fuck ‘n’ fuck ‘n’ fuck a duck ‘n’ serve it up for supper. Once again, I’ve wandered into a blind alley ‘n’ lost my way, ‘n’ I don’t know if’n Ill be able to find my way home again. I should’a knowed not to axe by little grey cell a question. I should’a knowed that since he’s livin’ in my mind, he’s the one wot invents all the questions in the first place, as well as all o’the answers. And now I’ve got him mad at me ‘n’ I’m afeared he won ‘t cooperate in solvin’ the mystery of the four dead empty bodies, and I ain’t even got as far as examining their heads yet. I’d say I gotta think, like I usually says, but if’n my brain cells aren’t gonna help me out, I can’t even do that. Plus, it’s just come to me that Lulubelle’s organisin’ a work stoppage or at the very least a work-to-rule or a go-slow. Never mind. I’m gonna pretend to go to sleep. I gotta trust he and the others won’t find another head empty enough to take ‘em in, and he’ll decide I’m not so bad after all. You know, like any old port in a storm. If not, I’ll just hafta say so endeth the last thought I’ll ever have ‘n’ let it go at that. You’ll know wot’s wot by wot I have to say tomorrow, ‘n’ if’n I talk like a Ford Transit you’ll know the worst has happened.