A Pataphor Collage Prose Poem:
The Fatman always flings facts
He was as hard-boiled as a baked onion on an Antarctic jet stream; intellect shone through every layer of thought – his silent partner wore sunglasses, and carried a mime’s smile in his pocket. The Fatman rolled into the room spotting the clues lounging on the sofa: they curled up and tried to hide behind the pillows and the doilies. So obvious – he just grunted his questions…. they slapped them in the face – they spit out teeth, alibis, a foie gras of faux pas.
“Judas, that Ahab, loved very much.”
“Yes, The Marquis loves all kinds of spices, especially in Paris!”
“I got married to a beautiful woman in just one month.”
He responded on a dime, keeping his balance, between a quarter and a shot of rye, “The result is a myriad of burgers – because the burgers don’t ride on fish. In this world you can’t afford any comfort.”
Peculiar looks stared at him in a puzzled defiance of a deafening silent soliloquy, “There are many things I don’t understand. Does anyone buy it today? A pelican can can-can, but where did the parrot go when the masquerade melted into the meringue? ”
He twisted their excuses into hypermetrical hubris that topped off their hypotactic cocktails, “About what – Easy to remove with Articles for Hobby Schools; Find suggestions for robots.”
Their faces fell to the floor, slipping beneath the rugs, trying to ignore the facts. Dust bunnies and pointed petards left them grasping their bare faced lies in their bone-headed fists, with a flatulence of knuckled contradictions. The sweat pooled around the room and floated them and the chairs out into the outer hallway and venting vestibule, washing all down the steps and into the wailing paddy-wagon; it was a sad day, that was a certainty, as the cackling cracked concrete walls twitched with window casements gleeful as a curmudgeon’s cough.
The Fatman always flings facts, suffocating the crime scene with unvarnished truth and butterflies.