Post humorous: A not so ordinary detective tale.

By Byron Levene
Legal disclaimer: This work is a work of fiction. Any similarities it has between events and people that may be real or not, are silly coincidences, but since this book is being written by a Jungian then that is not true and it all bears resemblance to everyone. Names uses may have been changed, but not that much, this is not to protect the innocent, merely to avoid getting sued, or pissing people off that i dont want to piss off. However since i have no money and care not for the opinions of anyone, other than my own, this is also not true. Nobody was harmed during the writing of this manuscript—now that is bullshit, did I harm anyone whilst writing it? Maybe not, did any of the characters get harmed whilst the manuscript was written?, most likely, did I use the manuscript to beat anyone with? You know I did... Go fuck yourself!


The phone was playing its ringtone. Biro could tell this was happening and attempted to regain consciousness. It was dark. Biro answered the phone. “Biro... Its Mat... sorry to be the bearer of bad news--” the voice on from the phone said. Mat?, Bad news?, Biro tried to work out weather he was asleep, passed out, or so drunk he just seemed to think he was either passed out or dreaming. “Mat--” Biro said, still trying to calculate his current level of consciousness form the state of consciousness he had just been arrived from by the noise of his mobile phone playing its ringtone. It was Korn. “Steve, Steve Sinclair, he's dead” Mat said in the rather jolly and uplifting tone Mat could help but not display, even in times so inappropriate as to when giving notice of the passing of one of his friends and colleagues. And this was one of those times. Steve was Biro's philosophy tutor at university, well sort of. Biro met Steve at the university tavern. Biron was not a student of philosophy, he was a student of film and IT, but wanted to pick up a second year philosophy unit dealing in hermetic and occult ideas so he enrolled himself in a first year philosophy unit to get an understanding of how things are actually done in university, since the discipline of both film and IT have no use for the old school academic ideas such as assignments and exams. Mat taught physics and chemistry at the other end of campus to the school of arts and culture and should have therefore not have had anything to do with philosophy tutors or undergraduate, alcoholic, narcotic abusing film students. Which Steve and Biro were respectively. Mat met Biro at the university tavern. Biro assumed Mat had met Steve there and never really questioned that thought. Faculty members like Steve and Mat often spent time between classes at the university tavern, Biro often spent time instead of going to classes at the university tavern. Sometimes he would give in and take his pint to class, but this was often discouraged by university staff. “how--” Biro was starting to understand that the room was dark because it was dark and not just because he had lost track of consciousness some time in the not too distant past. “Overdose, Heroin...” Mat said to Biro as he stumbled in the darkness looking for the light switch. “Jesus” Biro said aloud, “I didn't think there was any good smack around at the moment” Biro didn't speak it, thou he thought it loudly enough that anyone in the room would have heard. Mat was not in the room he was on the phone. Biro started to put pieces together in his head, 'Steve, University, Mat, Overdose, Dead, Heroin...', forgot about the light switch that was hiding somewhere in the darkness and opened his bedroom door into the kitchen. The rest of the conversation consisted mostly of the usual pleasantries of 'how are you?' and 'how is the family?' from Biro who had momentarily forgotten the original purpose of the call. “Jesus” Biro said to the fridge. “wurrrrrrrrrrr” replied the fridge. As punishment for its insolence Biro opened the fridge and took out a beer, opened it and decided the microwave would be a better listener. “Jesus... overdose...” Biro said to the microwave. The microwave said nothing. This was a good sign— it meant Biro was not schizophrenic, or maybe he was schizophrenic and the microwave was ignoring him. “Heroin...” he continued to the microwave, who by this point would be flattered to receive so much attention if it were a person and not just a microwave. “... I didn't think there was any.?”

2. Biro's fridge was a lot like Biro himself; large, cold, full of useless information and constantly spouting psycho-gibberish. Not that wurring when spoken to was psycho-gibberish, I was referring to the newspaper cuttings Biro had over the years posted on his fridge door. And not that storing old harddrives, tightly wrapped in static bags, stacked on a shelf in the fridge was considered storing useless information. Not to Biro anyway. Fifteen year old excel spreadsheets from a company that has long since gone bust, that Biro's only relationship with was to steal there computers after trading had secede. Other than the old hard drives the fridge contained little else: some beer, a jar of mustard, a civilization that had evolved from whatever evolved from whatever grew on an old block of cheese, and his mobile phone—which usually inhabited less arctic environments. Biro woke up to a muffled version of Gnarls Barkley's 'Crazy'—a ringtone reserved for a certain individual. And individual Biro didn't want to be woken by. Biro knew he was being woken up this time and was not just experiencing difficulties with consciousness. He knew he was being woken up because he had been dreaming. He knew he had been dreaming because women didn't let you do those sorts of things to them, in public. He didn't want to be woken up at all because women didn't let him do any sorts of things to them at all and this was as close has he believed he was likely to get, at least for the near future. It was too late. Too late to answer the phone, the music had stopped and it was starting to beep letting its operator know that they had missed a call. Too late to go back to dreaming about giving golden showers to semi naked young ladies whilst waiting for a bus. Too late to be sleeping in. Biro got up, stumbled out the door of his bedroom, into the kitchen where on the table were his cigarettes. He lit one and moved automatically toward the sink, a pool of filth surrounded by used dishes and cutlery piled high like victims of an ethnic cleansing campaign launched by the the food they had lived so closely and peacefully with in the past. The food had one this battle, but the war was long. Biro grabbed a dirty wine glass, still holding its last few drops of Shiraz, the last of its blood not to have been shed on the battle field. He tipped the dregs of wine into the brown liquid that filled the sink, rinsed the grass under the tap for a few seconds, emptied it and filled it again with water. Biro thought about retrieving his mobile phone from its icy dungeon. Then decided that it could stay for a second or two more. A more urgent need had arisen, dreams of golden showers and running water caused Biro the need to empty his bladder. He placed the glass, still stained with rings of Shiraz, on the kitchen bench and went to the toilet. Not to be out done by the fridge, and its postings of nonsense cut out from the newspaper, the toilet door also has its token newspaper cut out blu-taced to its facade. Unlike the fridge, this was not an article of minor interest, or an overly sensationalist headline, or even a headline with certain letters or words removed to make it seem sensationalist. No, on the toilet door, cut out from a picture accompanying an article about Chinglish or Chinese English, was a picture of a disable toilet sign from Peking, in both its Chinese and Chinglish translation: Deformed Man Toilet The door to the toilet closed.

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