A Work of Fiction in 7 Parts: Murder on the Edmonton Express – Part V


Yep, you read the title correctly.  Queenie saved my sorry @$$ back there in the airport lounge.  You shoulda seen him.  The little guy was a mix of Elton John, Liberace, Chow Yun-Fat and Bruce Lee.  Wearing nothing but a yellow, glittery orange boa, high heels and a spandex purple tutu, he leapt in from I-know-not-where and beat the $#!t out of everyone!  It was fantabulous, I tell you.  I felt I was back in Las Vegas, gambling my life away and the Lounge Act manager shows up describing to me the entire fight.  Heck, I wish I laid odds down on Queenie.  Instead, I phoned my bookie with a trusty cell phone I stole from the Big Dick himself (Richard Nixon, I might add) and ended up losing a quarter million because I bet on Huey, Dewy and Lewy – the terrible trio as they are known in the Cartoon Wrestling Association of Zany Yellow Birds Federation.

Anyway, there was Queenie, my hero!  He leapt through the sliding glass doors with a yell that made me have a bowel movement I never thought I could have.  I disappeared back into the washroom to clean up while leaving the door open to see my little man’s actions. That’s the problem with Queenie – he always gets excited when a brawl is going on. He carried a Howitzer, rounds of ammo he slung over his shoulders and, in his purple tutu, began to spout “Jose Can You See?” from the successful musical “America: the Beautiful” that never lasted past opening night on Broadway. Granted, the song made it to the top spot in the World Pop Charts for over seventeen years way back in the 1300’s.  Huey, Dewy and Lewy he turns into skewered Chicken slices by shoving a sword through all three of them, plucking them and throwing them into the giant fireplace next to the tarmac where Mr. Christie’s plane crashed only moments before, thanks to a bazooka used by my wife-to-be Sodium.  They tasted pretty good, considering Queenie had no time to sauté the lot of them.  He didn’t even use spices.  Only after adding a few choice peppers I found in an unlocked safe in the back of the airport did we enjoy lunch later.

Queenie, after skewing the trio, jumped the Big Dick himself and…. uh …. well… I better not explain what Queenie does with Big Dick… uh… well… never mind.

Fantom Phish appeared behind me after I stepped out of the washroom.  He too was eager to jump into the fight.  He wore this cool looking Versace low-cut polyester sea-print disco shirt and extremely tight cream coloured dance-pants.  Wow.  Holding a knife and grenade he grinned at me.

“Hey, Pep. Queenie said there was a great party going on down here and invited the entire congress of the US here to witness him playing show off. Look out!”

Phish saved my @$$, too, joining Queenie in that small list of friends I would give my life too.  A moment later he threw his knife behind me and I turn to see Beaker collapse, the MiB from way back in Part I.  The man, bleeding to death, looks up to me with his Frog eyes (I mentioned he was French) and spouts one word.

“Timex”.  His eyes rolled up and then he melted. I was right!  The thin, giant of a man was really an alien from another world, disguising himself to record our abilities and talents.  No one can pull a hat down over old Pep-Shi’s eyes, I tell you.

Anyway… Phish looks at me, wondered if I was ok, only after swinging his fist as large as a sledgehammer into the face of the Chairman of People’s Republic of Iraq and sending him flying into Queenie’s path. The small man stopped fighting for a lengthy debate on the finery of the Long March of Mao-Tse Tung, joined in by the House of Congress and Sodamn Insane of Iran. Needless to say, after cleaning up the mess Queenie made and setting up a recording studio for the debate, Sodium Chloride and I took off for parts unknown to settle our little tete et tete over who loves each other more… That part of the story was deleted as my editor, Sodium actually, says some things are best left as tantalizing acts of mysterious fiction…. uh, excuse me, she’s nibbling on my ear and uh… Well, you know what that means…

“C’m here, Sodium… I want to”


… Wow! Whotta night! if I could explain in words what Sodium ended up doing with ketchup, strawberries and marzipan, well, WoooWoooo! Come the second day of our honeymoon (yup, we got married while Queenie was still busy in his debate) there came a knock on our door. Slipping on a kimono I walked over to the door and opened it. I screamed. Beaker was standing there, a hole in his chest and a smile on his face.

“Hello, Secret Agent Pep-shi. I am here on orders of Mr. Christie whom escaped from your death trap at JFK international Airport. He demands you show up at the Mountain Dew Consortium offices in Boulder, Colorado, after showing up on the high level bridge in Edmonton. You are to meet with my esteemed leader.  Bring your friends. It will be exciting!”

I turned to look at Sodium who slid up behind me, wrapping her arms around my stomach and nibbling on my ear. Beaker paid no attention, his eyes a glassy, hypnotized look in them. I realized he was being mind-controlled from a distance and checked him out head to foot. I found a metal device implanted in his head and looked back at Salt, smiling.

“This thingamajig is called a whachamacallit, trademarked by Hershey Corporation. I do believe we shall face our esteemed dastardly villain of this whole epic!”

Salt smiled, licking her lips lasciviously toward me. “Oh, Pep! The way you talk!! Can I show you position 119 in this book? You might like it!”

I looked. I liked. We tried…. Can I say the rest is censored?


About jsmeraka

A writer and all-round contrarian, I've worked in and out of government and the private sector, shared radical thoughts on political and global change and aimed to live on the fringe of political and creative thought. That doesn't mean I do. I just hope so.
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