Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants Read online

  you don’t recognize me.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Failure, as a detective,

  maybe you should know that there are chick-

  ens and roosters roaming all over Key West.

  And they’re not mine. They’re just here.”

  “Good God,” I mutter. “How dangerous is

  this lawless island?”

  “Not dangerous at all,” says Lighthouse

  Larry. “As far as I know, you’re the only person

  who’s ever fallen to the ground and threatened

  to sue when a chicken brushed past his leg.”

  “Fine. Then I shall offer once again to com-

  promise. In lieu of $63,000,000, I shall accept

  free admission to the lighthouse for my intern

  and myself. A ten-dollar value. And a reduc-

  tion of $62,999,990 from my last offer.”

  “No,” says Lighthouse Larry.

  “You, sir, are an outrageous affront to the

  legal system. I know my rights.”

  “Good. Then have you thought about suing

  the chicken?”

  I ponder that.

  Chickens are arrogant.

  And they need to be taught a lesson: Stay

  away from humans. We have rights.

  So I turn to my intern for assistance.

  And he is feeding a chicken.

  We are followed home by every chicken and

  rooster on the island of Key West.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” I inform my

  unpaid intern.

  “I didn’t know they’d follow us,” says

  Emilio.

  “Yes, well, they have. And the important

  thing now is to not show fear. That’s when

  they pounce.”

  “Why would they pounce?”

  “To take our wallets.”

  But as soon as we get to our rented home,

  there is a loud squawk from one of the chick-

  ens and an abrupt flapping of wings. And in an

  instant, all of the birds are running in every

  direction.

  And when I look back upon the verandah

  of our house, I see why.

  The return of my furry Arctic friend is an

  unexpected development. For he has not com-

  municated with me since his hasty flight to

  Cuba.

  I examine his person to determine if he

  has been starved or mistreated by his Cuban

  hosts.

  But he is fatter than ever.

  And chomping on a Cuban cigar.

  “Surely you’ve returned because you’ve

  heard about the vicious threats upon my per-

  son,” I tell Total. “Well, the rumors are true.

  I’ve been threatened. And my life is hanging

  by a proverbial thread.”

  Clearly stunned, Total says nothing.

  “Just know this,” I assure my former busi-

  ness partner. “I am in no way afraid. Though

  I am concerned that my unpaid intern may

  not have the physical capacity to protect me

  against gangs of roving assassins.”

  I look around for Emilio Empanada.

  And find him singing a lullaby to a chicken.

  I return to my polar bear.

  “Thusly, I’ve decided to bring you back

  into Failure, Inc.,” I tell Total as I pace the

  verandah. “Not as a name partner, or even a

  partner, but as a corporate bodyguard. Muscle,

  if you will. Your job will be to preserve my

  life against all threats, foreign and domestic.

  You’ll receive health benefits and perhaps

  even dental coverage.”

  I stop pacing and turn back to look at him.

  But he is not there.

  It is then that I hear his large girth bound-

  ing down our home’s old wooden staircase, like

  tropical thunder ripping through the Keys.

  And when he reemerges onto the veran-

  dah, he is holding a large bottle of SPF 100

  sunscreen.

  “You swam all the way back from Cuba

  because you forgot your suntan lotion?!” I

  shout.

  He nods as he slathers the suntan lotion

  all over his furry shoulders.

  And before I can say another word, he is

  galloping down the street and onto the beach

  and into the blue-green waters of the Gulf.

  Angry, I yell out to his departing silhouette.

  “I hope it’s not waterproof!”

  Bereft of my polar bear’s protection, I realize I

  have precious fewer hours to live. I must find

  my nemesis before he finds me or risk the end

  of my once-promising life.

  But manhunts are expensive.

  And I am short of even the ten dollars

  I need to climb to the top of the lighthouse.

  So I put my detective mind to work, and

  within minutes, I have the solution.

  “We will sell this to the masses,” I

  announce, holding a sheaf of papers overhead.

  “And we will make millions. Perhaps billions.”

  “What is it?” asks Emilio Empanada,

  looking up from his book, The Flame of the

  Fireman’s Desire.

  “I am calling it Timmy Failure’s Wisdom-

  Filled Guide for the Uneducated People Who

  Don’t Know Very Much.”

  “Hmm,” says my unpaid intern. “Maybe

  we should work a little more on the title.”

  “The title’s not important. The point is

  what’s inside the book.”

  “And what’s that?” asks Emilio.

  “Scenarios that test your detective skills.

  Each one is multiple choice.”

  “What kind of scenarios?” asks Emilio.

  “Here,” I say, handing him my master-

  piece. “You may read it for free.”

  (Note from Timmy: As a bonus to you, the

  reader, I am excerpting parts of the book here.

  You do not have to pay extra for it at this time.

  But if you do read it and gain wisdom, please

  mail me a check in the amount of $1,000.)

  Emilio looks up from my wisdom-filled

  guide.

  “Give me your honest assessment,” I tell

  him.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” he says.

  “That’s a demerit,” I announce.

  “But you said to give you my honest

  assessment.”

  “No one who says they want your hon-

  est assessment actually wants your honest

  assessment. Especially if it’s critical.”

  “Okay, but the answer says it can’t be the

  guy in the white cap because he was smiling.

  Though nowhere in the scenario do you say

  he was smiling.”

  “Yes,” I answer. “That part must be

  assumed.”

  “Timmy, I don’t think you can—”

  “Stop,” I say. “You do not understand

  great literature.” I flip through the pages.

  “Read this next scenario instead. It may be

  more suited to your reading comprehension

  level.”

  Emilio begins to speak. But I stop him.

  “Let the genius wash over you,” I tell him.

  “I am a once-in-a-generation writer.”

  Emilio stands in silent awe.

  “Now I will bang out a few more of these

  scenarios on my mother’s laptop,” I tell

  him. “And when I am finished, your work

  will begin.
Publicity. Promotional tours. The

  works.”

  “Timmy,” he says, “this really doesn’t

  sound like a good—”

  “Start with a local bookstore here in Key

  West. Organize a signing. Promote it heavily.

  I’ll even do the talk-show circuit if I must.”

  Emilio rubs his eyes.

  “And work on your attitude,” I tell my

  unpaid intern. “It’s very negative. Remember:

  If you are determined to succeed in life, noth-

  ing can stop you. Except maybe a truck.

  Because if a truck runs you over, you’d pretty

  much be stopped.”

  And immediately, I visualize that as an

  inspirational poster.

  “Get ten thousand of those made,” I tell

  him. “I want to see that poster in every book-

  store in this country.”

  I pat him on the back for encouragement.

  And at that moment, I realize that there is

  nothing standing between me and success.

  And then I am hit by a truck.

  “Corrina Corrina is on the phone!” my mother

  shouts from the other room.

  I stand, mouth agape.

  “Surely this is some kind of cruel hoax,”

  I say as I enter the room. “Informing me that

  my mortal enemy has telephoned our vaca-

  tion abode. And right in the middle of critical

  business.”

  “Shhhh,” my mother says. “She’s gonna

  hear you.”

  So I pick up my mother’s cell phone.

  “Failure, Inc.,” I say into the phone. “Now

  with expanded operations in the Florida Keys.

  Dominating the detective universe as always.

  With whom am I speaking?”

  But no one answers.

  “Oh, wonderful,” I tell my mother. “So it

  was a hoax. Well, I for one was not fooled. But

  I hope you enjoyed the unpleasantness you

  caused.”

  “What are you talking about?” asks my

  mother.

  “Mother, Corrina Corrina is the Evil One.

  An unethical detective who joined the Dark

  Side and brought dishonor to our craft. She is

  a thief. She is unpleasant. She is rude. She is

  deceitful. She is ruthless. She is corrupt.”

  “Timmy—” my mom interrupts.

  “I’m not finished, Mother,” I answer before

  continuing. “She is pathetic. She is egotisti-

  cal. She is underhanded. She is psychotic. She

  is a fraud. And she has tried many times to

  destroy my detective business. And if that’s

  not enough, I do not approve of her saucy

  hairstyle.”

  “Timmy, Corrina Corrina is not on the cell

  phone. She’s on the videophone. On the laptop

  right in front of you.”

  I look at the kitchen table. And there, for

  all to see, is the Evil One.

  Spying.

  “Hi, Timmy,” says Corrina Corrina, wav-

  ing from the computer screen.

  “ARRRRGGGGGHHHH,” I scream. “How

  did she get in our house?!”

  But my mother is no help.

  So I lunge for a jumbo box of Mr. Froggie

  Flaky Flakes.

  “What are you doing, Timmy?” asks my

  mother.

  And ignoring her, I pour the Mr. Froggie

  Flaky Flakes all over the floor.

  “Timmy!” yells my mother. “What in the

  world do you—?”

  But before she can finish her question, I

  thrust the now-empty box of Mr. Froggie Flaky

  Flakes over the laptop’s screen.

  “There!” I announce triumphantly. “Now

  she will no longer be able to canvas our house

  for valuables.”

  “Timmy,” my mother interrupts, “when

  you are done with your phone call, you are

  going to pick up every single piece of this

  cereal, and then you and I are going to have a

  little talk.”

  “Fine,” I answer. “Mistakes were made.

  Though I blame you for the security breach.

  And I should probably get credit for saving

  your valuables from impending thievery.”

  My mother walks outside, slamming the

  door to the verandah.

  “I think your screen cut out,” says Corrina

  Corrina.

  “It did not ‘cut out,’” I inform the Damsel

  of Darkness. “I have outwitted you. Now speak

  your piece. For you will get no valuables from

  this abode.”

  “Okay, well,” she stumbles along, “Mr.

  Jenkins has picked me to be his teacher’s

  assistant for summer school and—”

  “Oh, good God,” I interject. “This has

  debacle written all over it.”

  “And as teacher’s assistant,” she contin-

  ues, “I have to make sure that each student

  picks a history book to do a book report on.”

  “Fine,” I answer, eager to get her off

  the videophone. “Give me the shortest book.

  Perhaps the length of a bumper sticker.”

  “Well, the shortest book is Thomas Paine’s

  Common Sense. But Nunzio Benedici chose

  it. And we can’t have two students doing the

  same book.”

  “Fine, give me the next shortest book.

  And hurry. I do not have time for this trivial

  conversation.”

  “Well, you see, that’s sort of the bad news,”

  says the Mistress of Mendacity. “All the short

  books are taken. In fact, all of the books are

  taken. Except one. Shelby Foote’s Civil War

  trilogy.”

  “Good,” I answer. “I’ll take it. Is it pam-

  phlet size?”

  She takes a moment before she answers.

  “It’s three thousand pages.”

  If you ever become a famous author and want

  to kick off a book tour in Key West, Florida, do

  not hire Emilio Empanada to be your promo-

  tional manager.

  For if you do, the massive, stadium-size

  crowds you are expecting will look like this:

  That’s right. There is nothing there.

  Because there is nobody at this book

  signing.

  “You have embarrassed me profoundly,”

  I inform Emilio Empanada. “I should never

  have put you in charge of promotion.”

  “Wait,” says Emilio. “Here comes some-

  body.”

  It is true. Our first customer. The first of

  perhaps millions.

  “Hello, sir,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “I suppose you would like to shake the hand

  of Timmy Failure, author of Timmy Failure’s

  Wisdom-Filled Guide for the Uneducated People

  Who Don’t Know Very Much.”

  “Actually, I was just wondering—do you

  fellas know if this place has a bathroom?”

  “To the left in the back,” says Emilio

  Empanada, much too cheerily.

  “Oh, good,” I tell Emilio as the man walks

  off. “You can direct people to the bathroom.

  Perhaps that could be your next job after I fire

  you as my promotional manager.”

  “Timmy, the promotional stuff was hard,”

  says Emilio Empanada. “Nobody would even

  let us use thei
r bookstore.”

  “Yes, well, what do you call where we are

  now?” I answer.

  “The sidewalk in front of a bookstore,” he

  says. “Until they catch us.”

  “A bookstore is a bookstore,” I remind

  him. “And you’re lucky I found this place.”

  “Yes, but we are here without permis-

  sion,” says Emilio. “On a card table we found

  at our rental house.”

  “You need to worry less about the law

  and more about why you did not promote this

  event properly.”

  “What did you want me to do?”

  “Inspire people!” I shout at my promo-

  tional manager. “Like this.”

  “Timmy, you cannot put that sign up over

  the store’s window.”

  But he is wrong. For I immediately inspire

  people.

  “What are you boys selling?” asks an old

  woman.

  “Timmy Failure’s Wisdom-Filled Guide for

  the Uneducated People Who Don’t Know Very

  Much,” Emilio answers. “Ten dollars per copy.

  A hundred if you want the author here to

  sign it.”

  “And three hundred if you’d like me to

  pose for a photo with you,” I add.

  “And is that why you have that table out

  here?” asks the old woman.

  “Yes,” I answer. “To sell books to the many

  fans like yourself.”

  She smiles as she opens her wallet.

  And we immediately make a sale.

  “I can’t believe you sold her the card table,”

  says Emilio Empanada.

  “I didn’t sell her the card table, Emilio,” I

  answer. “I sold her five copies of my book for

  fifty dollars. The table was a bonus gift.”

  “Yeah, but she said she would just recycle

  the books.”

  “Of course she said that. She’s old. What

  she meant to say was ‘cherish.’”

  “Still,” says Emilio. “You’re giving away