The Last Detective Alive

The Last Detective Alive

John Swartzwelder

Language: English

Pages: 165

ISBN: 0982273622

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

One of a series of comedy/science fiction novels featuring slow-witted detective Frank Burly, by John Swartzwelder, the writer of 59 episodes of The Simpsons.

(Unfortunately, no plot summary available anywhere I can find. I'll write one after I've read it.)

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Apparently, the little fat guy I’d argued with on the street—Mather—had found someone who was willing to swear that I had turned her into a noisy little girl. When I was brought face to face with my accuser in court she looked like a little girl, all right. She said she used to be the Governor of Connecticut until I came along. “Jesus!” I said, impressed. “And you say I did this?” “Yes.” “How?” She said I’d been having concourse with the Devil, naturally, that’s how these things were always

planning to. Once I had managed to explain the concept of food to one of the cavemen, using sign language, he explained that we were the food. Everything ate us. Not the other way around. I made the sign language sign for: “What?” And he replied with the sign language for: “You heard me”. I decided maybe I should move on to some other time period. I didn’t like the food chain around here. It seemed kind of backwards to me. Before I left, I showed some of the cavemen the picture I had of Blinky.

could see it. It was Blinky. “You!” I yelled. He took off, and I took off after him, howling with triumph. Finally, after all of these millennia, I had found the son of a bitch who… but he had already disappeared again. “God damn it!” I said. I stood there cursing a blue streak, while Robin and his men covered their ears. This was very frustrating to me, as you can imagine. It was also very familiar. I went over and examined the spot where Blinky had disappeared. Sure enough, there was

“They’ll still be gullible tomorrow. Have another drink.” And they’d say: “Good thinking, Frank,” and the party would start up again. Because no one was pushing it anymore, interest in the Revolution started to fade. At the same time, the contamination from the future was starting to annoy everyone more than tea ever could. Not only were the people from 2010 taking all the best seats at the restaurants, and arguing about things nobody had ever heard of yet, and trying to sell everybody in town

mansion on the biggest and snootiest hill in Central City. His lawn was the size of a football field. His driveway was part of the interstate freeway system—a main part. You couldn’t drive from New York to Los Angeles without going through his garage. His front door was the size of a battleship. His servants were as big as trees. He had a big place, that’s the point I’m trying to get across here. I was going to exaggerate the size of his place, but I decided I didn’t have to. I was ushered into

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