Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants Page 3
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