Archives par mot-clé : Commissioner B. goes south

What’s up?

Ecce Homo, La vie du site, , , , , ,

Nah, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear about the latest nonsense spouted by the peroxide blonde psycho under the thumb of BMW, or the latest dirty tricks of his buddy, the Israeli crook and child killer (Reporters Without Borders has just declared that the Israeli army is currently “the worst enemy of journalists.”) I don’t want to hear about the paranoid ramblings of the botoxed Kremlinite, or the ethnic/ religious massacres that are decimating the African continent. I don’t want to hear any of this bullshit, most of which is caused by submission to the god of Money. I’m like Lieutenant Castagna. I just want to crack up reading my collection of Kebra, by Tramber and Jano.↓

 

The building Casta had just parked his Clio 3 at was nothing like the dilapidated condo that housed his two-room appartment with a view on the ring road. He hesitated before going up to pay his compliments to his partner’s in-laws! Better phone first. Lise picked up before the second ring.

“I’m down here.”

“Coming.”

Casta had received Comba’s phone call around noon. He was still in bed,  almost forgetting about his liver thanks to the whole “Kebra” series he was doing again. Tramber and Jano! The crème de la crème of 80s comics. “Trapped like a rat”, “Kebra gets angry”, “Star Loser”, “Hounded by shame” (by Jano without Tramber)… He had them all!

Captain Combaluzier wasn’t known as a contender for the “laugh of the century” award, but the tone in which he had asked to “speak to Lieutenant Jean-Noël Castagna!” Spooky!

“It’s me, Captain. What’s up? What’s going on?”

 

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Thai break

Graffiti, , , ,

Watch out for that ICE, Joe! You’re talking too much! You’re lucky to be just another awesome character in an even more awesome book by F.Y. Richard ↓

He was genuinely pleased to see Joe. He knew a good guy when he saw one. And Joe’s cooking was definitely worth the trip. Now the fact that Amandine’s former student’s family restaurant was located at the corner of Jacques Dorset Boulevard and « massage alley » also played a part. He waited for the Khao Niao Ma Mouang, a dessert that Joe mastered to perfection, before letting his “work commitments” resurface. As the restaurant owner refilled his cup for the umpteenth time, he pushed forward his first pawn: “By the way, Joe, although I only followed the case from afar, I understand that you lost a neighbor  last year? A pity, really! After this sumptuous meal, a digestive massage at the Phuket Sun would have been very welcome!”

That was a rather heavy pawn, to be sure! Momentarily taken aback, Joe didn’t shut himself off like a Bangkok oyster. Instead, he chose to bounce back. “A digestive massage!  Commissioner sir! I have the weakness of thinking that my cooking rivals the lightness of a hummingbird alighting on a frangipani flower!” Then, in a more serious tone: “Regarding the Phuket Sun, what can I say except that you can’t hide an elephant’s corpse under a water lily leaf? Everyone here knew that sooner or later it would end this way. If Frémaux Street has such a bad reputation, it’s because some of my fellow citizens…” Joe paused. Wasn’t he straying a little too far from the code of silence that was de rigueur in his profession? His voice dropped to a whisper. “…Encouraged in their abuses, it has to be said, by…” Now he was about to criticize the inhabitants of his adopted country!

B., not at all shocked—quite the contrary—gave him a hand. “…By local perverts. Honourable scum, let’s not mince words, my dear Joe!”

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Nobody’s perfect

La vie du site, ,

A pair of boobs like Ingrid’s didn’t come in every bra! Too bad her older brother was a Gendarmerie officer! She had reassured him right away, though:

“There’s a gendarme and a gendarme. Oscar doesn’t always confide in me, but I know he’s, well, broad-minded. You need to be broad-minded when you have expensive tastes! You, for example, if you want to keep a chick like me…”

“Melons like yours you mean? ‘Oscar’! What a name. What got into your parents?”

“I’m sorry, but ‘Achilles’…”

“That was my grandfather’s name. He was an artist. He taught me to pick my first locks. He just shouldn’t have been a boozer, that’s all.”

“You mean your gramps, his heel was his liver?”

“?”

Achilles was better at burglary than general knowledge. Ingrid had to explain to him that the ancient Greeks—he didn’t want to hear about the modern ones—celebrated a guy by the name of Achilles. “A kind of Marvel superhero, as it were. When she’d plunged him into the Styx, a river that made local bathers immortal (provided they were completely immersed, his mother had had no choice but to hold him by the heel.”

“As long as she didn’t hold him by his willy…” In addition to her legendary breasts, Achilles found it flattering to sleep with an intellectual. Not to mention that over the years, his collaboration with her Oscar of a brother had proved more than fruitful for both. At first, of course, Oscar had been discreet about his extra activities at the barracks. But between brothers-in-law or almost, sooner or later, secrets come out. “You’re a broad-minded gendarme, I’m a thief who’s anything but ungrateful. Why not explore the coincidence in our respective best interests?”

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La vie du site, , ,

The grave is plain and simple. The natural stone slab is beginning to take on a patina, with greening at the corners. In the center of the rectangular headstone erected perpendicular to the slab, a name is engraved in capital letters: “PALMER”. At the very bottom of the headstone, in smaller letters, on the left reads: “Orpah 1967 – 2010” and on the right: “Jethro 1929 – 2012”. Head bowed, eyes closed, fingers intertwined at stomach level, Ohad recites a short prayer in an almost inaudible voice, of which B., standing slightly back, can only grasp the conclusion. “He’s not here; he’s risen, just as he said he would ”. Then he turns to the cop: “Are your parents still with you, Commissioner?”

“No, they ‘re not.” B.’s eyes linger on the inscriptions at the bottom of the stele.

“She was much younger than him, is that what you’re thinking?”

 

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Commissioner B.’s Christmas dream

La vie du site, , ,

Hey, Juchremans! Russia’s attacks on Ukraine are ramping up, Israel continues to “defend” itself by annexing the West Bank, under the tender although (ever so)slightly disapproving gaze of its genocide partner, itself closely monitored by the BMW team, world’s fossil fuel emissions rise and rise but, thank God, Kim Kardashian’s shapewear brand Skims have reached their all time best, hitting $5bn valuation!

Meanwhile, Commissioner B. has had a strange Christmas dream…

*     *     *

That Christmas morning, Commissioner B. had an excuse for feeling sluggish. Two, in fact. The first, purely metabolic, was the empty bottle of “Teeling Brabazon Bottling Series 1” sitting on the coffee table next to an empty glass. As a rule he didn’t drink much but, coming home last night, he needed to get rid of the smell of disinfectant and hospital medicine that Dr. Doux and… “Hot Lips” (see second excuse) had generously passed along to him in Edelman’s overheated office.

The second excuse was the relentless flashbacks of a mind-boggling Christmas dream. A dream inspired by one of his father’s favorite movies, a masterpiece of anti-army dark humor that he himself had discovered with gleeful delight years after its release: “M*A*S*H.” In his remake, the scene where O’Houlihan, the psycho-rigid nurse, ends up getting laid by major Frank Burns (“Frank! Kiss my burning lips!”) took place in the straw of a nativity scene! With him in the role of “Frank Melchior » and Janique Goulard as “Hot Lips.” “Gaspard” Edelman and “Balthazar” Doux didn’t miss a thing, the bastards! They even encouraged him to honor harder and harder the cheeky girl, whose cries of recognition filled the sacred stable.

However, at one point, he had had doubts about the real meaning of his partner’s increasingly loud display of emotion. “Hot Lips” was desperately waving an arm toward the baby Jesus, whose face was turning blue. The divine infant was choking! So much so that, sacrificing the promise of an orgasm she had been eagerly anticipating a second earlier, Janique “Hot Lips” Goulard had energetically pushed him away and rushed to the rescue of the Son of God. Grabbing Baby Jesus by the feet she had shaken Him vigorously, so that He would spit out the indigestible pacifier. That was when it had become obvious that the Sacred Baby was wearing soccer cleats…

 

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