The Curse of the Maharajah's Diamonds (Part One)

(The Adventures Begin.....................)

To be honest, I've never been to India: but I had to grab your attention somehow.

Truthfully, although perhaps lacking in exotic location and unimagineable riches, the story I am about to unfold may yet have you riveted to your seat (cough). Although, in order to avoid misleading you further, I have to admit there isn't a Marharajah in sight, nor any mysterious diamonds lurking about in this missive, either. However, to be fair, there is a lot of cursing; and I've replaced the latter, both strategically and euphemistically, with acceptable terms where necessary with terminology such as: Oh my / Pass me that hammer, Sonny / Good Heavens, I seem to have trapped my Tail in the Hinges of Your Gate / God Bless my Boomerang, etc., that may earn a little merit from you, Dear Reader, as your peepers scan the humble offerings below.

Right. Back to this week's attempt at suspense.

A certain Mrs. Marjorie Rickenbacker (widow of mysterious provenance, ardent cookie maker and toxic gossip), who resided in a 50s style, red brick, 3 - bedroomed mausoleum with pink curtains at the end of Idaho Road, was rumored to be stoking fires in her back yard piled high with errant frisbees, tennis balls, stray kites and the like, along with the obligatory disgarded KFC wrappers that had found there way into her billowing flower beds.

In short, there were a lot of angry kids and parents in the neighborhood, and subsequently plenty of grinding axes pointed at Mrs. Rickenbacker's marrow patch and rose-covered porch. In order to prevent an altercation (and a possible lynching), I was tipped off  by my trusted informant, Little Louey, a shitzhu (don't ask) from downtown Detroit to help get to the bottom of the matter.

After much deliberation, I decided I must investigate further to see what I could come up with; hopefully, in the process, turning any results into a potential scoop with a major daily newspaper and lots of dough. Following an adequate lunch of half a Tuna Melt and three Bonios, I Prepared myself to confront the suspect (a la David Caruso) on her front porch dressed modestly in standard army issue fatigues, a skateboard helmet, diving goggles, and Teflon kneepads (me, that is: not Mrs. Rickenbacker), clutching only a Zero Bar (for energy) in one hand, and my trusty dictaphone poised to record the interview in the other.

Breathing steadily, I composed myself and knocked confidently at the screen door, taking only a brief moment to adjust the straps on my chin-guard and bullet-proof vest before, cautiously,  pressing down on the record button.


To be continued...