A year ago now I wrote three short stories for a short story class, and I released the first two, Substitute Fish and Don’t Kill The Rooster last year when I couldn’t think of anything to write. I dragged my feet on this one because I really liked it but wanted to edit it and do something with the dozens of ideas I had about this character. Expect to see more of him in the future, I’ve got lots of stories to write with him.

Blunt Force Trauma
From the Case Files of Dale Ulysses Monroe, P.I.
Published with assistance from
John J Skrip and associates

March 7th, 2017

Rain splattered against the window and lingered momentarily before being washed away by a wholly new abstract concoction. I could hear the raindrops popping and sizzling off the white-hot surface of that dumbass neon sign across the street. I would describe that sign as “Offensively red”. Some sort of refraction process transformed the light shining angrily at me and projected a peculiar epileptic rainbow onto me and my desk. I grunted irritably. 
I got up to close the blinds and took in the smell of my pumpkin candle as it wafted through the room. I arrived at the window just in time to see a brick-like blur fly towards me, shatter my window and break my goddamn nose. I looked down at the now-bloody blur laying at my feet. It was in fact a brick. My face began to scream in pain, while I kicked into gear. I picked up the brick, grabbed my coat, and stumbled down the stairs.
In my seven years as a P.I. I had not yet met a displeased client face-to-building material. I was pissed. Someone messed with my flawless bone structure and they needed to die. I hit the street and through the squall, I could vaguely make out a congregation of frat-cats loitering a few doors down. They were buzzing about in a panicked frenzy, and I heard one of them shout something drunk and aggressively racist.
“Hey, bozos!!!” I hollered. I waved the brick at their damp, confused faces. “Anybody lose a brick?!”
A kid in a yellow fedora took off running. The others scattered as I gave chase. I rounded the corner as the rain came down harder still. Then I felt something large hit me square in the side of the head. Not a brick this time. This felt more fist-like, Like a fist. I experienced half a second of blinding, soul-crushing pain, and passed out. 

March 8th, 2017

I was in a motel room laying on a lumpy, moth eaten bed. The sun was shining in at me through the window and the floor was conspicuously covered in explosives. Several bundles of explosives were connected to a master cord, which was attached to a detonator that was in my hand. 
I thought hard about the night before, which was still very much a blur of rainwater and early incoming concussions. Either I’d gotten way too drunk again or somebody was trying to frame me. I got up, straightened the blankets, and wiped the prints off the detonator with my shirt. I surveyed the room. The alarm light on the emergency exit door was turned off. Lucky. Easy exit. I glanced out the window and confirmed I was on the first floor. I grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and used it to open all the cabinets and drawers. I needed to make sure there was nothing concrete tying me to the bombs, and nothing is what I found. Whoever set this up was an idiot. 
I smelled the sulfur before I heard the sirens. Well, not really. My nose was broken. That was a metaphor. The cops were close. I bolted out the back door and into the woods, speeding past dozens of pines, and soaking my trench coat and forehead in sweat. I didn’t stop until I saw the highway and promptly collapsed into the grass. After about a minute, I forced myself back to my feet and gathered the little energy I had left to throw myself into the middle of the road just in time to get hit by a free spirit driving a Chevy Silverado. Finally, things were going my way. 
The spirit’s name was Mark and he said I was in Nebraska. I asked him if he could bring me back to Duluth. He wasn’t heading that way. I checked my back pocket. My wallet was still there, but I was missing a gift card for my favorite frozen yogurt place. Bastard. I keep at least five grand on me at all times in case things like this happen. I offered him a grand, and Mark spontaneously remembered that he was in fact going to Duluth. I threw in an extra $500 so he’d remember to drive the whole ten hours and I could catch some shut eye. 

March 13th, 2017

Mark brought me to my office, where I threw together some clothes and files and drove off toward my cabin, (It’s way up in the outer regions of is  this  a, good joke?) to lie low for a few days and let things cool off. When I was less terrified of getting bricked, I drove back to Duluth to figure this out.
Usually, when I’m on a case, the first thing I do is go annoy my snitch, Tony. But I need to be drunk to tolerate his nonsense. I stopped at the local watering hole. They were a tad busy for 11:30 AM on a Monday. Across from my usual spot at the bar, four sweaty jocks were throwing back drinks like the planet was about to explode. Three of the guys had flattop haircuts. The fourth guy was wearing a backwards baseball hat. They were yelling about something.
“I’m telling you, they’re just as good now as they’ve ever been, if not better.” Flattop #1 was upset. He ran his hand through his blonde flattop and slammed it on the table. Hair grease flew from his fingertips. “The original Wiggles have nothing on these new guys!”
Flattop #2 scoffed. “Have you heard any new Wiggles songs? Do you rock out to ‘Do the Pretzel’ or ‘Dorothy Pas De Deux’ when you’re feeling silly?” He rubbed his own brown-colored flattop while indicating for Flattop #3 and Backwards Hat to chime in.
“Nah, man.” Flattop #3 shrieked at Flattop #1. His black flattop shook with fury. Backwards Hat shook his head.
Flattop #2 rolled his eyes. “None of their recent songs are any good. The best Wiggles songs are the classics, like ‘Fruit Salad’ or ‘Hot Potato’.”
At this point, I did my best to tune them out and focus on my drink. After about twenty minutes or so Flattop #1 stumbled over to the bar. I felt his inebriated, buggy eyes staring at me. He had a big gold ring on his right hand with some sort of symbol on it. I reached out my hand to greet him.
“Hi. My name’s Dale.” I said, woozily.
Flattop #1 did not respond. His right fist flew towards my face, and I collapsed again.

March 14th, 2017

I woke up in another motel room. This bed was smaller, more firm. The mattress was the kind you’d throw on the street even if your cat didn’t piss on it. I was surrounded by what appeared to be seven black duffel bags full of cash. The sirens were already wailing in the background. I didn’t have long. Despite myself, I smiled. I had a lead. I just needed to not get arrested. 
Yet again there seemed to be no evidence pointing to me. It was doubtful Flattop #1 was the point guy on this, and I didn’t see Backwards Hat as a criminal mastermind type. He had more of a daytime TV chef aesthetic going on. Whoever was pulling his strings had clearly never framed someone before. This room had no back door, but there was an air vent right outside the tiny, smelly bathroom. I kicked in the grate and weaseled my way in. I crawled by five different motel rooms, each with their own depressing soundscapes. When I passed by Room #3, I heard a gunshot. I don’t know who fired it or who got hit, but it meant the cops would be busier, so it was music to my ears. 
I headbutted my way through the final grate and crawled out to find two kids sitting on a bed watching TV. They glanced at me, not reacting or registering that my sudden appearance in their lives was at all abnormal, then they looked back at the TV. I ran to the door, made a joke about how they should keep an eye out for weirdos, and left.

March 15th, 2017

I found a different free spirit to drive me back to Duluth. She told me I was back in Nebraska. Why Nebraska? When I got back to the office I saw the glass shards on my floor. Stupid brick gave me more work to do. But I was on a case, I’d deal with it later. I wheeled out my chalkboard. I think best when my writing utensil is scraping loudly against a large vertical slate of porcelain enamel. 
I wrote down all six things I knew about the case so far: Brick, motels, bombs and money, Nebraska, The Wiggles. The Wiggles… Right before Flattop #1 knocked me out, I heard Flattop #2 give him crap about a new Wiggles tattoo. What else did I know? 
It felt like I was missing something. I rubbed at the knot on the side of my head. There was an indent on the bump. It felt like a symbol. I touched the knot on my forehead and it felt the same. Same grooves, same symbols. Flattop #1’s ring popped into my head. Odds were it had been the same guy both times. Good help is hard to find. If only I knew what the ring said. A lightbulb flashed in front of me, before popping and showering my office in glass shards yet again. That one isn’t a metaphor, my office is falling apart. 
I went to the bathroom to look at the bump. The rest of my face had not taken my recent exploits in stride. I may have survived two smash and grabs (and a brick), but my right cheek now looked and felt like a rotten banana peel. The symbol on the indent looked like a helmet and some letters. In my bruised mind I flipped the letters around. FDNY. Fire Department of New York. I called Tony.
“Hey, Tone! It’s noon! Get your ass up and tell me what you know about any current or retired firefighters in the area that do grunt work. Specifically one who’s got a tattoo of the current Wiggles lineup on his left bicep.”

March 17th, 2017

I knocked on the door of Kenneth Carlton, AKA Flattop #1. He opened the door and looked at me with no small amount of confusion. I was wearing a football helmet.
“If you agree to have a civilized conversation and not cave my skull in, I’ll take the helmet off. I’d prefer if you’d agree, I can’t hear for shit.”
Kenneth nodded and beckoned me in. I hung my helmet on the hat rack and followed him in. His apartment wasn’t big, but it was homely and peaceful in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable. He sat down in a massive armchair and grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge next to it.
“Nice place,” I lied.
“Thanks. Lisa, my wife, says I should go into interior decorating.”
“But you prefer kidnapping, don’t you?”
Kenneth looked guilty. He gestured towards the sofa across from him. “Sit down, please.” 
I sat. “Why didn’t you take any of my money?”
It didn’t look like this thought had occurred to him before. “Because that would be mean, I guess?” He didn’t seem sure.
“Right.” I adjusted myself in my seat. “But why my fro-yo punch card?”
He smiled sheepishly. “You can have that back, I haven’t used it yet.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said.
“Can I ask you a question?” He asked.
“Shoot.”
“How did you find me?”
I pointed to the bump on my face. “I used my head.”
He squinted at me intently for a moment before a look of recognition came over him. He looked at his ring. “I’m not the only former firefighter in Duluth,” he said.
“That wasn’t the only clue I had to go off of.” I leaned forward and clapped him on the left bicep. He winced and lifted his sleeve to reveal a slightly puffy drawing of four people in colorful long sleeve shirts. “Next time you kidnap somebody, try to not let them get a good look at you. Also, avoid getting shitfaced with your bros at your victim’s favorite bar. So. I know you’re working for someone else because you clearly have no idea what you’re doing. Tell me who and why or your wife’s gonna learn how you’ve been supplementing the income.”
“You’ve got it wrong, man.” He was much quieter than he’d been in the bar, more vulnerable. “Money’s tight. I quit the Fire Department five years ago because my asthma was getting worse. I work at the gym down the block now. It pays well enough, but sometimes I have to do a small side job to make ends meet. I’m sorry I hurt you.” He whispered that last part.
“Just tell me who hired you and we’re square,” I said.
“He’s just some Wall Street guy that asked me to frame you for some serious shit. His name is Elliot Olson.” Kenneth paused to see if I recognized the name. I didn’t. It could be an alias, but I doubted it. “I don’t know why he hired me, I just assumed you pissed him off somehow. The guy’s unhinged though. His girlfriend is nice. She was there when we met up. But I would be careful with him.” Kenneth sipped his beer.
I thought for a moment. “He said nothing about why he was after me?” He shook his head. “Is there anything else at all, any little things you remember about him?”
Kenneth concentrated. His brow furrowed. “Oh, yeah! His girlfriend said something about divorce papers? It sounded like he might have been married to someone else when they started seeing each other. I don’t know how that helps you though.”
I connected some dots in my head. Things were beginning to make sense, but I needed a little bit more. “Kenneth, that’s exactly the kind of info I was looking for. When’s the last time you two talked?”
“He called yesterday to yell at me for messing up again. He wants me to nab you a third time. He’ll be there this time to make sure you don’t run. But I’m gonna call him and say I’m out. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“No, don’t call it in, do the job.” I smiled.
“What?” The firefighter was confused.
“If you say no he could just kill you and find someone else. You said the guy’s not all there, we don’t know what he’ll do. But if you get me face to face with him then we can end this, and you can go back to yelling about children’s performers at bars in the middle of the afternoon.” 
“Okay…” He wasn’t convinced.
“You don’t have to help me if you’re not comfortable with this.”
“No, I’m in.” He gulped the rest of his beer and grabbed a new one.
“Great,” I said, eager to get started. “I just need you to do a few favors for me. Do you have his girlfriend’s phone number?”
“No. Why?” Back to confusion.
“It’s fine, you don’t actually need her number. He just needs to believe that you have her number. This is how we catch him off guard.” 
I explained what I was thinking, and we spent a couple hours planning our next moves. I’ll reveal later on what favors I asked of him. I could say it now, but I want to build some dramatic tension. Writing these case files can be annoying, but my memory is crap and I have to write them. So I gotta have fun somehow, right? Anyway, I left before Kenneth’s wife got home and walked up to the roof of his apartment building to enjoy a solitary smoke amongst the city lights. There isn’t a better view on this entire idiotic planet than skyscrapers at night. 

March 23rd, 2017

After our brainstorming session I went back into hiding for almost a week. I couldn’t just walk up to Kenneth the day after and let him grab me. It needed to look natural. Olson couldn’t know something was up, which meant I would have to get beat up again when I was least expecting it. This was my least favorite part of the plan, but I wasn’t gonna make it easy for him either. I proudly strolled down the street with my football helmet firmly on my head. I was on my way to do recon for a case I’d taken pre-brick. The client called and woke me up that morning to loudly question why they were paying me daily to do nothing at all. I had no witty response on hand. 
I heard a muffled shouting noise coming from behind me. What was that? Stupid football helmet. I couldn’t hear anything. I turned around. There was nobody behind me. The street was suspiciously empty. I took the helmet off.
“Did somebody yell something?” I asked.
“I asked why you were wearing a football helmet.” Kenneth popped out from an alley about seven feet in front of me. He smiled, apologetically.
“Dick move, man. Clever, but dick move.” I braced myself.
“Yeah, I know.” He walked towards me.
“It’s okay, just maybe don’t hit me in the face this ti-”

March 24th, 2017

“Wake up, idiot!!!”
I opened my eyes. This motel room was easily the worst of the three. It was smaller, darker, and colder. But somehow, this was easily the comfiest bed. It felt just right. I surveyed my surroundings. Kenneth was lying on the ground to the left of the bed, sporting a large gunshot wound in his stomach that hadn’t been there when he knocked me unconscious. I started to yell, but then I saw the other guy.
Elliot Olson was standing in front of the bed. He was tall and spindly, with curly silver hair. He wore a thick purple turtleneck, shiny black leather pants, and what looked like soccer cleats. It was quite the outfit, and he did not pull it off at all. He was also holding a miniature gun, which was aimed at my face.
“You’re a very hard man to frame, Mr. Monroe.” He sat down at the desk in the corner. “I bet you’re surprised to see me again.”
“I’m surprised for sure.” I chuckled, despite myself. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
Olson looked offended. “What do you mean, you’ve never seen me before? You’re kidding, aren’t you? This is a time-honored detective trick that you’re doing to mess with me, isn’t it?” He began to shout.
“Nope.”
“Elliot Olson. Does that ring a bell?” He waited for me to recognize him.
“Never heard of you.” This was partially true.
“YOU RUINED MY LIFE, JACKASS!” He was shaking. He gripped the gun with both hands to steady himself.
“I’ve done that to a few people. So what, you murdered someone or stole something and I helped put you in jail? No that’s not it, you’re new to all of this. This is probably your first time holding a gun. I’m going to bet you were cheating on your wife and she hired me to get proof. You were mad that I took the photos, so you hired this guy to help frame me so you could get revenge.” I tried not to sound smug as his anger turned into shock. “Your plan has failed twice already. But instead of cutting your losses and moving on, you thought you’d kill that guy and try to frame me for it anyway?” 
“That’s about it.” Olson lowered his voice in a way that almost made him sound menacing. “My wife left me because of your photos. I lost my job because I was embezzling. That has nothing to do with you, but it’s still frustrating. The only things I have left to live for are my girlfriend and my hatred of you. So in a minute I’m going to call the cops. I’m going to make sure you can’t leave. And then I’m going to go on my merry way.” Now he sounded smug. “But I gotta say, you almost made my plan sound stupid.”
I rolled my eyes. “If you love your girlfriend, why do you care that your wife left you?” I wanted to rile him up, though I was curious. “She already thought you were cheating on her, she just wanted proof. So why are you mad at me?”
“I LOVED THEM BOTH!” He screamed at me, spit flying in every direction. I stifled a laugh. The angrier he got, the funnier it was. “You helped take that away from me, so now you pay. And honestly? For a second I considered letting you go. But you’re being such a prick, I don’t think I will!” He cocked the gun.
“You know what’s ironic?” Olson didn’t seem to care. I pointed at Kenneth. “I recognize that guy. His wife also hired me to make sure he wasn’t cheating. I found him with some red-head.”
Olson’s eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed. He stood up. “Don’t move.” 
He walked over to Kenneth’s body and took his phone out of his pocket, keeping the gun pointed at me. Olson used Kenneth’s thumb to unlock the phone. 
“Good thing you didn’t shoot his hands off, huh?” I grinned at Olson.
I couldn’t see what he was doing with the phone, but based on context I’d say he went into Kenneth’s messages and found the week’s worth of gooey ‘I love cheating on my life partner’ texts we’d sent each other (Favor #1). He saw that these texts were supposedly from his girlfriend, and then looked at Kenneth’s texts to his wife, who had sent him “incriminating photos” of Kenneth with another woman. In actuality it was Kenneth’s wife in a red wig, and she thought they were doing a weird kinky roleplay thing (Favor #2). 
Now, if Elliot Olson was a remotely intelligent human being, he would have noticed that the texts to his “girlfriend” started less than a week ago and that Kenneth slipped up a few times and called me Dale. He would have looked closer at the photos from Lisa Carlton and realized that the woman in the photos was clearly not his girlfriend. But Elliot Olson was not a remotely intelligent human being, which is why I figured he’d be distracted by all of this just long enough for me to make my move.
“Elliot, you know what animal I hate?” I watched him closely.
“No, what?” He wasn’t paying attention.
“OCTOPUS!!!” I yelled pointedly. 
Before Olson could react, Kenneth grabbed his legs and pulled him to the ground. His gun and Kenneth’s phone fell by the door. I rolled off the right side of the bed and reached under the frame. I grabbed the sawed-off shotgun I’d had Kenneth hide earlier (Favor #3). I jumped back up. Elliot had kicked Kenneth away and gotten his gun again. He shot me in the chest. I winced and stayed standing.
When I didn’t start bleeding, he shot me again. I shot him in the elbow. He dropped his gun and fell to the ground, wailing from the pain. I’d punched a mean hole through his arm and there was a whole lot of blood coming out. I pointed my gun at him and placed my left pointer finger in front of my lips.
“Shhhhhhhh. People might hear you.” He stopped crying immediately. I ripped my shirt open to reveal a bulletproof vest. Kenneth grabbed Olson’s gun and did the same. He had a pack of squibs strapped to his stomach. I had Kenneth borrow the vests from an old cop friend of his (Favor #4). I figured he would try to kill Kenneth, I could use it to my advantage.
“Now here’s what’s going to happen, Elliot. Someone in an adjoining room would have heard those gunshots and called the cops by now. When they get here we will not be here, and we never were in the first place. Tell them you were cleaning your gun and it went off. Confess to the bombs and money while you’re at it, too. Now promise you won’t mention our names to the police, or I will blow your head off. How does that sound?” I was bluffing, but he was terrified. He nodded. “I want you to say it, Elliot.”
“I promise, I promise.” He whimpered through the pain. 
“Great! That’s good to hear. Hey, before we go, this motel wouldn’t happen to have an ice machine anywhere, would it?” Olson shook his head. Kenneth grabbed his phone.  “Ah, That’s a shame. My head is killing me. Anyway, sorry your wife left you. Have fun in prison.”
Kenneth and I walked out the front door, got in his car and drove off. We passed the cops on our way out of town. I exhaled. After an hour or two of silence, I looked at Kenneth.
“Next time money gets tight, come to me. You can always help me out with a case or something.”
He beamed. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”
“I make a lot of people angry and I don’t want one of them hiring you. My window and face couldn’t take it. Your first job is to clean up the glass on my floor.”
Kenneth chuckled. “Copy that, boss. You mind if I play some music?”
I said no. According to the car, a song called ‘Goodbye from Wiggle Town’ began to play. I closed my eyes.