The Last Detective Alive
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.)
yelling, misunderstanding things, and getting angry—three things at which I excel. The night time hours were the same except it was darker and colder while you were yelling, which gave you something extra to yell about. Not a great life, I’ll grant you, but not bad. Money for food and lodging wasn’t easy to come by in this time period—every coin had to be made by hand, and the government was as lazy as I was, so there wasn’t a lot of it around—but I managed to pick up a few bucks here and there.
wear was drafty, undignified, and a terrible temptation to practical jokers. I don’t want to go into a lot of detail here about this, but I’d like to know who has been supplying the hospital patients with firecrackers. When the doctors decided I was more or less recovered, and had determined that they had gotten as much out of my insurance company—Ed’s Insurance—as they were ever going to get (Ed had shot himself), they released me. I walked slowly and still a little painfully out of the
thing never made a lot of sense anyway, let’s rebel against this. Of course, this sudden shift in public opinion alarmed the Founding Fathers when they heard about it. The Revolution against the British must happen! If America didn’t gain its independence, there wouldn’t be these wonderful ten-dollar bills and five-cent stamps. And the Founding Fathers’ wives were already planning on how they were going to redecorate the United States. The Founding Fathers would be awfully unpopular at home if
through them, while he taunted me, and the guards whacked both of us with clubs to get us to settle down. While I was still trying to reach Blinky—I couldn’t quite do it, but I almost could. If only I could make my arms just a little longer… yes, they were starting to get longer now, I was sure of it… just another five feet more—there was a sudden disturbance outside the prison. The guards stopped hitting us and ran to the window. Cavemen, Roman gladiators, ancient Egyptians, and all sorts of
special days. I asked about the painting—who painted it, and how could I get in touch with the model? They said it was a Rembrandt, painted in 1643. I said I didn’t understand. They told me to take an art course. I said I might. After I had glanced at the painting one more time, and then taken it off the wall again and shaken it vigorously, hoping Blinky might fall out of it somehow, the security people grabbed me again. They showed me the door, then threw me through it. I said: “I’ve been