HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR (Part Two)

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

I drove out to the docks with this youth in tow. We’d’ve been there in no time, but I held us back by ten minutes when I stopped to purchase a spray deodorant for him, to keep his overwhelming malodour at bay. Naturally, he set fire to it and shoved it down my throat. Good kid, I thought. He had spunk.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked

“I don’t have a name. Names are mainstream.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why do I keep hearing about Edgar Cunt being at the docks? What could the docks possibly have to offer for a successful punk rock...” I hesitated at the next word “...singer?”

“I don’t know shit, geez. Maybe he couldn’t hack it no more. It’s a tasking lifestyle, being a punk.”

“Tasking my ass. You should’a been in ‘Nam.”

“You were in ‘Nam?”

“No, but the social stigma for conscientious objectors is damn-near intolerable.”

He looked at me with disgust. I couldn’t fathom why.

“What’s the scoop, then?” I asked “Who’s your man around here?”

“He’s here somewhere. Maybe behind that crate...”

“Why would he be behind a crate?” I said. He looked at me silently. Guess the answer was pretty obvious, I just didn’t know it. Maybe I’m not so cut out for this business anymore, I thought. I stepped behind the crate to investigate and felt something connect with the back of my head. Blacked out.

When I awoke I was greeted by a waft of what smelled like a juxtaposition of incense, marijuana, and semen. I tried to get my bearings in the darkened room, grasping at whatever I could find. Eventually I caught a light-switch and it flickered on. It was a lava lamp. I wondered what kind of godawful pit I’d been imprisoned in, but no answers immediately came to mind, so I decided to sit on the beanbag in the corner of the room and wait for somebody to come get me.

The noxious fumes had just about got to me, and I was reclining back in a golden slumber when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Opened an eye with trepidation. A dude with crystalline locks of excessive hair was gazing down at me.

“What’s the deal with all this kidnapping business?” I said “You’re lucky I’m no prude; this could be considered impolite in certain circles.”

“Word on the street is that you’ve been snoopin’ about after Edgar Cunt.”

“Snoopin’ I sure have been. I’m fuckin’ Snoop Dogg here.” He didn’t seem to get the anachronistic reference, and I’m not sure I did either

“Uh...well...I’m here to tell you...”

“Wait, you’re here to tell me? Is this not your place? Surely I’m here so you can tell me...well, whatever information you’re on the verge of divulging.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Richards. I’ve got an arsenal of Emerson, Lake & Palmer records, and I’m not afraid to use them,” he snapped.

I shuddered as I noticed the record player in the far corner of the room “Whaddya want from me?”

“I want you to leave this case be. Tell your honey from the band there was nothin’ you could do. Edgar Cunt and the Piss Merchants are history.”

I’d never hit a man so hard as I hit him that moment. What kind’a man did he think I was? One who gives up on a case? No dice. ‘Specially not when there’s some prime punk pussy involved.

With stars spinning around the enforcer’s unconscious head, I entered the main room of the complex. It was sordid. Chicks fuckin’ dudes. Dudes fuckin’ dudes. Chicks fuckin’ chicks. All the combinations. All of them seemed to have beards like overgrown rhododendron bushes, especially the chicks. Ghastly sounds emitted from the expensive speaker system; endless, meandering guitar solos. A lady looked up at me from the carnal carnage on the floor. She had fine hairy prickles with large orange hips. I think she nodded, then she went back to fuckin’. Fuckin’. Fuckin’. Too much fuckin’. As I say, I’m no prude, but what I’m talking about just ain’t decent. I wondered how long it’d take ‘til my interrogator ceased to be out cold and he and his ELP LPs caught up with me. In the bedlam of the speaker system, the guitarist tired of his display of virtuosity, and presumably slipped off the recreate the scenes of this establishment, leaving the drummer to take over. Any sane human being knows that a drum solo is a signal that it’s high time to get the fuck out of there. At that moment, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” I yelled. The guests were too stoned, and too engrossed in orgasm, to notice that none of them had any idea who I was. I opened the door.

“Oi oi. Anyone want some ket?” asked Will Corston

“Will?” I lowered my voice “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, y’know, doin’ the rounds, shifting the product. What brings you to Laurel Canyon?”

“Ah, so this is Laurel Canyon. It’s a long story. I was kidnapped. I think Edgar Cunt might be here.”

“Oh, dawdy fucking kaka.” boomed Will

“STOP!” the man who had tried to force me off the investigation was charging towards me, gat in his hand. His friends just carried on fuckin’ “You shall not leave this place!”

Corston flipped his piece into my hand, and I shot the bastard in the chest. He collapsed to the Persian-carpeted floor, his freak flag flyin’ no more. His friends kept fuckin’, although one of them was now buying some ketamine from Corston. I decided to do what I do best; investigate. Perhaps this madman’s dying words would provide the information I so desired.

“You yuppie punk rock scum” he croaked, as I towered over him

“Hey, I still favour the Hard Bop era.”

“’Fore the Piss Merchants reared their ugly heads, my group, Carter, Carter, Burrows & The Aliens were the hottest band on the Strip.”

“Looks like you got refrigerated.”

“This new generation, man...I don’t get it...”

“Hold your tongue or I’ll cap you once more, and this time it’ll be final. And don’t you ever call the Piss Merchants ugly again. Their bass player is a very attractive woman. Where’s Edgar Cunt?”

“He’s upstairs” he coughed “In the laundry room.”

“Thanks. Got any last words?”

“I...don’t think a triple-album is self-indulgent...”

And with that, he said his goodbye to this world. Can’t say it’ll be worse without him. Upstairs, I released Edgar Cunt. I knew it was him because, when I asked him, he spat in my face and kicked me down two storeys of stairs.

“Fancy giving us a ride, Will?” I asked, nursing my wounded bones

“Sure thing, mate. Where to?”

“Back to the Bedlam Cellar. I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

On the drive back, Corston sold Edgar Cunt two ounces of ket, which they proceeded to consume in their entirety throughout the drive’s fifteen-minute duration. Eschewing the traditional concept of parking on the edge of the sidewalk, Corston drove into the door of the building, throwing us out of the car windscreen. Exhilarated, I took a snort of the horse tranquilliser, for which Edgar nailed my arm to the hubcap. When I released myself, I gazed around the club; people were dancing with great enthusiasm, drinking their drinks, listening to their music, and I noticed a number of other crashed cars dotted around the room. Then I saw him; the punk rocker who supposedly had no name, responsible for leading me to what could have been an untimely death or, at the very least, a particularly unpleasant ménage-a-trois.

“Hey, cunt!” Edgar looked around at me. I assured him “Not you.” I threw a piece of glass from the shattered windscreen at the man who’d betrayed me. He yelped. “Call yourself a punk? I thought sadism was your forte. The only sorta punk you are is the kind that gets ass-fucked in prison.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah?” I remarked through gritted teeth

“Oh yeah.”

In a move that shocked him, I ripped off his safety-pin decorated denim jacket. Underneath lay something that nobody would dare to display in the Bedlam Cellar; a Pink Floyd t-shirt. The whole room went deadly silent.

“I...er...you know me, I’m like Johnny Rotten! I just, er, forgot to write ‘I hate’ before their name. Silly me! D’oh!” he gulped

Nobody spoke. It was so tensely silent, that you could hear a safety-pin drop. After a minute or so, the leader of the band onstage screamed “Let’s get ‘im!” and stage-dived head-first into the crowd. In a matter of moments, vigilante justice was administered on the conniving Prog-enthusiast. As she emerged from the top of the angry mob, the woman of my dreams appeared to wink at me. Then she levelled the broken bottle out of sight, and he was finished.

Two years later, Lana told me that the Piss Merchants were seeking to embrace a more New-Wave direction, with a prominent jazz influence, and I joined the band on tenor sax. I still do odd detective jobs but that’s more a hobby now and, besides, since we married I mainly associate with those in the Punk Rock community. Those folks know how to get it done without me. I still think Emerson, Lake & Palmer are fucking awful.