CASE NUMBER ONE

THE CASE OF THE PREDESTINED SHEGAH RUNAWAY

CHAPTER ONE

When I got to the office, I noticed someone sitting in the waiting room. As it turned out, it was a man and a very lonely man at that; his wife of some twenty odd years had recently left him and departed for parts unknown. My job was to find her and somehow convince her to come back. But was it a case of it was meant to be or was it a case of it was not meant to be? Such were the conundrums of a TPE (Theological Private Eye).


First, an introduction is in order. My name is Nick Neercassel and I work for God. The pay is bad, so are the benefits; the hours are long, but the pension plan is out of this world (literally). If you have a problem that is theological in nature, or even semi-theological, I’m your man. I’m easy to find because I’m always where you need me to be. My cell phone has spiritual connections and the tower is so high it reaches the second heaven. Now I’ve never been to the third heaven, but I hear the cafeteria line there is always full.


My soon-to-be (if so ordained) client was named Hiram Hickok (no kin to Wild Bill). He was from a small town in North Carolina and he was a desperate man.


“Mr. Neercassel…” Hiram began to speak.


“Call me Nick, Hiram,” I interrupted. I always liked to put these working relationships on a first name basis.


“Ok. Well, Nick, my wife has gone and left me, and what surprises me more than anything is that she did it even though I was practicing Shegah with her.”


Now I’ve been around the theological block, so to speak, but I had never heard of something called Shegah. I asked Hiram, “How do you spell that?”


“S H E G A H.”


“What does it mean?” Facts were important to a conscientious TPE.


Hiram seem a little bit flustered but he plowed ahead. “It’s a cut-rate version of Shagah.”


Shagah was also not on the theological radar screen but I figured it was best to let Hiram continue. Any more interruptions might send him into a catatonic state.


“I bought It from this guy out of Georgia who pulled into my driveway driving an old beat-up van. His name was Orson Xanadu and his sales pitch was, “Why buy Shagah when you can get the same results from Shegah for only $19.95?”


It seemed like a good time to ask. “Now, Hiram, what kind of results was this Xanadu guy promising?”


“A perfect sex life with my spouse as well as spiritual simpatico.”


“How was Shegah going to do this?”


“Well, for the $19.95 you got this wooden pedestal. The idea was that every morning you were to lift your wife out of bed, stand her on the pedestal, and kiss her feet. Then repeat at night before going to bed.”


“How long did you wife put up with this before leaving?”


“Two days.”

CHAPTER TWO

Her name was Myrtle, and according to Hiram, had a body built like Moscow (Idaho, that is.) She apparently was very fond of potatoes. She had other desires as well but none of them seemed to be of the sexual or spiritual side of life. Hiram had hoped Shegah would rekindle the passion in their marriage. Instead it had sent Myrtle running out the door.


But to where?


Hiram seemed to have no clue. I tried to pump him for some information but his mental and emotional condition was such that he was no more use to me than a blank sheet of paper. Maybe less, because at least a blank of paper had potential for some great prose or poetry while Hiram looked to be at a literary dead end.


I decided it was best to send Hiram home where he could rest and recuperate. I told him to put the pedestal out of sight or even better, break it into pieces and use them for firewood. Maybe Myrtle would still be with him if he had done that to begin with; I didn’t tell Hiram that but in his hearts of hearts he must have already known it.

CHAPTER THREE

The theological game is not for the faint of heart. Just the vocabulary alone will drive you up the wall. Words should explain and define things but in theology they’re more often used as means to bewilder and confuse. Contrary to popular opinion, the theological private eye is just an ordinary human being. Sure, he has some connections that are extraordinary, but only because he’s willing to make use of them. The search for Myrtle, as in most all TPE searches, would include both natural and supernatural elements.


My usual modes of transportation were motorcycles but since of all sixteen of them were in the shop undergoing one kind of a repair or another, I decided to use instead my Flying Belt. No, not a real flying belt, but an SUV built in a small Eastern European nation that shall remain nameless. It only had 750,000 miles on it and was good for at least a million more. The secret was to keep ethanol out of it. Whiskey was OK in a pinch; hence the name Flying Belt.


Investigating the whereabouts of any human being is a tricky business. I was good at it though. I guess that’s why God made me a TPE. It was my destiny so to speak.


Realizing that Hiram would be out of the loop for a while, I decided to begin my search without him. First would be Orson Xanadu’s home base in Georgia. I plugged in my GPS (God Positioning System) and headed due west. Four hours later, I arrived at what I thought might be Orson’s residence. A beat-up van was sitting in the driveway so I felt pretty good that I had found the right place.


I knocked on the front door and a medium sized man wearing wireless glasses and a goatee appeared. I asked him, “Are you Orson Xanadu?”


“I certainly am and just who are you?”


“Neercassel, Theological Private Eye.”


“One of those, huh?” The contempt seemed to drip off his tongue.


I was feeling tough and was in no mood for his sarcasm. “Look here, Xanadu, I understand you’ve been peddling some kind of sex gadget. Do you remember selling one to a Hiram Hickok of Sunseretta, North Carolina?”


Xanadu fidgeted a little then replied, “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”


“Not good enough, Orson. I need a straight answer and I need it now.”


Xanadu this time fidgeted a lot, but still managed to show some bravado: “Why do you want to know?”


“Because it didn’t work. Hiram’s wife, Myrtle, didn’t like the attention and skedaddled.”


“That’s not necessarily my fault, Mr. TPE. Maybe she was predestined to leave and the Shegah was incidental to the action taken.”


“What do you mean predestined?”


“Post-Modern Pseudo-Freudian theory purports that Shegah Runaways fall into two categories: Regular or Predestined. If Myrtle was the latter, then it’s not my fault she left Hiram. If she was the former, then all I can say is sorry.”


“I’ve got a feeling you say sorry a lot.”


It was becoming obvious that this Xanadu guy was not going to be much help so I bid him adieu and got back into the Flying Belt. For some reason, the GPS was pointing toward Ohio.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ohio in the summer is not that bad a place to visit. Not nearly as hot as the South and since the Flying Belt had no air conditioning the cooler air was most welcome. Still, I had to wonder. Why had the GPS sent me here?


Ohio did hold a few memories for me though. It was the scene of my first encounter with a Tappdancer. For theological neophytes in the reading audience, a Tappdancer believes that life is both absolute and relative. I don’t want to get too bogged down in details, but suffice to say the absolute/relative viewpoint is one that answers all your questions. If you don’t believe me, just ask a Tappdancer.


I suppose I should explain the derivation of the term Tappdancer. Tappdancers were followers of the late Alonzo Von Tapp, founder of the Aztec Publishing Concern located in Southern California. Von Tapp was the first and last man to translate the Greek New Testament into Aztec. When asked why he did such a thing, he replied, “If I don’t do it, who will?”


As I was driving down a rural Ohio highway I spotted a picnic area and decided that both the Flying Belt and yours truly needed a break. So I pulled into the rest spot, got out of the SUV, and ambled over to an empty picnic table where I sat in the shade and enjoyed a cool breeze. As it so happened, a tall man with a knapsack came marching out of the adjacent woodlands.


I recognized him immediately.


“Why, if it’s not ol’ Red McDervish! What in Sam Hill (TPEs like quaint old expressions) are you doing here?”


“Well, Nick, I only live about thirty miles from here; just part of my daily 100 mile run slash walk slash crawl . The more intriguing question is: what are you doing here?”


“I’m on the hunt, Red, for a Shegah Runaway.”


“A regular or predestined one?”


“More and more it looks a predestined one. As much I hate to admit it. The GPS is acting weird, sending me in all kinds of directions.”


“The predestined ones are rare and, “ Red then added, but really didn’t need to, “hard to find.”

CHAPTER FIVE

It had been good visiting with Red, but the GPS was beeping again. Next stop? Chicago.


It was an interesting choice. Just a few months before in ‘THE CASE OF THE ROCK THAT GOD COULD NOT MOVE’, I had visited Flat Rock, North Carolina (learning everything I could about rocks was essential to solving the case), and finding myself with a couple of hours down time I decided to visit Carl Sandburg’s mountain retreat where he and his wife (who was an expert on goats) spent the last years of their lives. And now I was headed for the city that Carl made famous with the following poem.

CHICAGO

HOG Butcher for the World,

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,

Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;

Stormy, husky, brawling,

City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I

have seen your painted women under the gas lamps

luring the farm boys.

And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it

is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to

kill again.

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the

faces of women and children I have seen the marks

of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who

sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer

and say to them:

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing

so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on

job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the

little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning

as a savage pitted against the wilderness,

Bareheaded,

Shoveling,

Wrecking,

Planning,

Building, breaking, rebuilding,

Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with

white teeth,

Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young

man laughs,

Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has

never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.

and under his ribs the heart of the people,

Laughing!

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of

Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog

Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with

Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

Now if you read that poem carefully, you should be able to feel the palpable tension of the subtle interplay between the relative and the absolute. Who knew Carl was a Tappdancer?


Meanwhile, I see some skyscrapers in the distance…

CHAPTER SIX

I turned on the radio and on the air waves were the mellow consonants and smooth vowels of an announcer talking about the weather.


“It’ll be partly sunny today reaching a high of 88 degrees but lake winds late in the afternoon will give us a cool twilight.”


It was none other than Stan Marriott, and if I correctly recalled my Wikipedia facts, he once hosted a radio show along with the creator of Shagah. He might just be the reason I was sent to Chicago so I thought I’d stop at the radio station and see if he had few minutes to chat with me.


Luckily he did.


“Stan, do you still have contact with him?”


“No, he moved out west a few months ago. Haven’t heard from him since.”


“Did you and he part on good terms?”


“That’s none of your business!”


“Now, Stan, be calm about this. You know TPEs have a ‘License to Interrogate.’”


“Oh, yea, Nick, sorry. I’ve been up since 3 am. Radio work will kill you.”


“No problem, Stan. Well, if you think of anything relevant, call me. You know my number.”


“Still got that heavenly connection?”


“A TPE doesn’t leave home without it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chicago had been a bust. Or had it? One follows the trail that one is given. Sure, there are dead ends aplenty, but there are also many dead ends on the scalp of an old Broadway hoofer. Too many bright lights and hardwood floors will do that to you. Sometimes it’s best to travel by night.


And so I did. Leaving Chicago, the GPS was pointing west. No particular destination; just a direction. After several hours of such meandering, I pulled into a small Iowa town and decided it was time for a cup of coffee and a donut. While sitting at the counter, the door opened and in walked Ron Paul, a GOP presidential candidate.


“Howdy, Ron, “I piped in when he came near me.


“Have we met? You seem familiar.”


TPEs get this a lot. I think it must be the result of some kind of aura that’s a by-product of our celestial cell phones.


“Not in this life.” I cryptically replied. “But I do have a question for you. What’s your take on Shagah or Shegah, for that matter.”


“Shegah’s not worth the paper it’s wrapped in. Shagah, on the other hand, is a solid free market product, well worth the $29.95 retail price.”


“Have you used it?”


“Don’t ask me. Ask my wife. She’s the gray haired lady standing in the corner with a smile on her face.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Now the discerning reader is asking the following question: why is Neercassel trying to find the creator of Shagah? After all, Myrtle left Hiram because of Shegah not Shagah. The answer is simple. Myrtle left Hiram because Shegah was not Shagah. If that’s true, and my TPE instinct tells me it is, then the question becomes: where would Myrtle go to find Shagah resolution? This answer is also of the simple variety. She would go to find the source of Shagah.


That meant to find Myrtle I also had to find Mr. Shagah. It also meant that every wife whose husband had bought Shegah instead of Shagah also had done the same thing as Myrtle.


It was the Shegah Runaway Syndrome. But was Myrtle a Regular Shegah Runaway or a Predestined Shegah Runaway? And if she were the latter, was it my destiny aka fate to convince her that her husband, even though he had been too cheap to spend the extra ten bucks for Shagah, had made a honest mistake, and not only that, also persuade her to give him a second chance, this time of course, with the real thing?


Definitely a tough assignment, but God was not in the habit of giving TPEs easy ones.

CHAPTER NINE

Leaving Iowa, I traveled in a southwest direction, staying off the Interstates. Not because I love the bucolic bi-ways of America (even though I do; TPEs have their aesthetic side) but because Flying Belts are banned from Interstates. They tend to break down at unpredictable moments as well as release untold amounts of carbon dioxide. There are even some scientists who blame Global Warming entirely on Flying Belts. I disagree, of course, but my boss has instructed me to stay out of such controversies. “Your plate is full enough,” He’s told me time and again. Of course, that admonition would bring me more satisfaction if it was said as I was walking away from the Upstairs Cafeteria Line.


Speaking of time, does it flow forward or backward or is it stuck in neutral? Does God move with time or does He does hang like a cloud over it? Does time really exist? Maybe one of these days I’ll be given an assignment that will end up being called 'THE CASE OF TIME IN A PERRIER BOTTLE' or something like that but for the ‘time’ being the only time I’m concerned with is whether or not I’ll have time to save Myrtle before she’s gone from Hiram for forever.


Speaking of forever, there are stretches of highway in the Western United States that seem to go on that way. I was driving on such a stretch and my mind wandered to the Tappdancer absolute/relative version of life. Probing deeper into my subconscious mind I brought up into my conscious mind a couple of classic passages from two Von Tapp acolytes.


First on the absolute viewpoint by D.G. Leary:


“Total presence breaks on the univocal predication of the exterior absolute the absolute existent (of that of which it is not possible to univocally predicate an outside, while the equivocal predication of the outside of the absolute exterior is possible of that of which the reality so predicated is not the reality, viz., of the dark/of the self, the identity of which is not outside the absolute identity of the outside, which is to say that the equivocal predication of identity is possible of the self-identity which is not identity, while identity is univocally predicated of the limit to the darkness, of the limit of the reality of the self). This is the real exteriority of the absolute outside: the reality of the absolutely unconditioned absolute outside univocally predicated of the dark: the light univocally predicated of the darkness: the shining of the light univocally predicated of the limit of the darkness: actuality univocally predicated of the other of self-identity: existence univocally predicated of the absolutely unconditioned other of the self. The precision of the shining of the light breaking the dark is the other-identity of the light. The precision of the absolutely minimum transcendence of the dark is the light itself/the absolutely unconditioned exteriority of existence for the first time/the absolutely facial identity of existence/the proportion of the new creation sans depth/the light itself ex nihilo: the dark itself univocally identified, i.e., not self-identity identity itself equivocally, not the dark itself equivocally, in “self-alienation,” not “self-identity, itself in self-alienation” “released” in and by “otherness,” and “actual other,” “itself,” not the abysmal inversion of the light, the reality of the darkness equivocally, absolute identity equivocally predicated of the self/selfhood equivocally predicated of the dark (the reality of this darkness the other-self-covering of identity which is the identification person-self).”


Pretty self-explanatory, heh? Now to the relative viewpoint by Stephen Tyler (not the one from Aerosmith and American Idol):


“It thus relativizes discourse not just to form — that familiar perversion of the modernist; nor to authorial intention — that conceit of the romantics; nor to a foundational world beyond discourse — that desperate grasping for a separate reality of the mystic and scientist alike; nor even to history and ideology — those refuges of the hermeneuticist; nor even less to language — that hypostasized abstraction of the linguist; nor, ultimately, even to discourse — that Nietzschean playground of world-lost signifiers of the structuralist and grammatologist, but to all or none of these, for it is anarchic, though not for the sake of anarchy but because it refuses to become a fetishized object among objects — to be dismantled, compared, classified, and neutered in that parody of scientific scrutiny known as criticism.”


The ‘fetishized object’ could be referring to the Shegah pedestal but I’ll leave that up to the TOS (Tappdancer Outspoken Scholar) guys.

CHAPTER TEN

The road just kept rolling and I was getting a little drowsy but just then I heard the ringtone “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” and I put the celestial cell phone to my ear. It was the Big Guy and he was laughing. I also heard another voice laughing in the background.


“What’s up, Boss? Did I miss my appointed (check-in) time?”


“No, Nick, Alfred Einstein is here and we thought you could use a laugh. That’s one tough case you’re on.”


“Don’t you mean Albert Einstein?”


“No, it’s Alfred, his cousin, the musician. We were just being amused by something Albert wrote back in 1926 or thereabouts.”


“Read it to me.”


“ ‘The word god is for me nothing more than the expression and product of human weaknesses, the Bible a collection of honorable, but still primitive legends which are nevertheless pretty childish. No interpretation no matter how subtle can (for me) change this.’ ”


Ouch. “Where’s Albert now?”


“He’s at the back of the cafeteria line.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was fairly late the next morning when I arrived in Colorado. I stopped at a convenience station where the Flying Belt found fulfillment and I found release. After buying a canister of chocolate milk, I settled back into the SUV and gave the Shagah residence slash office a ring. A female voice said “Good Afternoon. Shagah Incorporated. May I help you?”


“Is Mr. Shagah in?”


“No, he’s out of town on business. Can I help you?”


“Perhaps. I’m Nick Neercassel, Theological Private Eye, and I’m looking for a Shegah Runaway.”


“Regular or Predestined?”


“Looks to be about a 90% Predestined.”


“Well, I don’t know if I can help you but I’d be willing to try. Have you had lunch?”


“No.”


“OK, then let’s meet at the Tokyo Grill on South Priddy St. Can you find it?”


“No problem. I’ve got a very good GPS.”


As it turned out, the lady on the phone was Mrs. Shagah herself. She had no clue on the whereabouts of Myrtle but she did tell me where Mr. Shagah was currently located. He was in Hollywood meeting with some producers who wanted him to star in a series of movies about a secret agent who worked directly for God. She even showed me part of the correspondence that outlined the proposed projects:


'LICENSE TO SIN' Thrill to the exploits of Agent Oh! Oh! Heaven as he battles the forces of Relative Evil with deprecating (both self and otherwise) humor, biting wit, and confirmational bias. But it won’t be easy as his foe, Churches R Us, doesn’t plan to go down without a fight.


'NEVER SAY FOREVER AGAIN' Double Oh! Heaven travels back in time to early 17th century England where he manages to infiltrate His Majesty’s Secret Translation Service. An argument ensues, and Double Oh! shouts at the scholars ‘You’re just not outspoken enough!’ Double Oh! had been insisting the word eonian should replace the word forever in the upcoming Bible they were translating but the scholars were sure heads would roll if that happened because King James preferred the word forever. Later, in the story, Double Oh! meets Will Shakespeare and comments how he likes the way Will uses fate in his plays.


'DIAMONDS ARE EONIAN' In this terse, tense, and taut tertiary thriller Double Oh! Heaven is on a mission to prove that diamonds are not forever but no one is buying it. Even the scholars at the Aztec Publishing Concern are reluctant to agree with Double Oh!’s assertion. As one Tappdancer says, ‘Relatively speaking, diamonds are forever even if absolutely they are not.”


'LIVE AND LET DIE IN THE LAKE OF FIRE' In this other worldly spectacular Double Oh! Heaven visits the Lake of Fire and discovers that it’s not quite the way he thought it was. ‘Where’s the Fire?” he asks the False Prophet upon which the False Prophet replies, ‘Oh, we don’t light the fire until supper time.’


'TOMORROW HAS ALREADY HAPPENED' Is the future set in stone? Double Oh!’s latest assignment is to go there and find out. While there he meets and falls in love with a female spy and it turns out his next movie was to be “THE SPY WHO LOVED ME IN THE FUTURE” but it had to be canceled because when it was found out the future was set in stone tomorrow became yesterday and no movie named “THE SPY WHO LOVED ME IN THE FUTURE” had been scheduled to be made in the past.


“Wow. Do you think they might need a TPE to play a part? We work for God too.”


Mrs. Shagah raised an eyebrow and replied, “I’ll let Mr. Shagah’s agent know.” She then continued, “It’s a shame he had to go to Hollywood at this point in time because we were just on the verge of releasing a new product.”


“Oh, that so? What is it?”


“It’s called Shagah Plus. It’s Shagah for men with more than one wife.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I had just crossed the Rockies when the cell phone went off.


“Is this Nick Neercassel?”


“Speaking.”


“Hey, Nick, don’t you recognize my voice? It’s your old buddy, Sony Allsurethinger.”


I don’t know about the old buddy part but I knew who it was. Sony was on the Board of Trustees at the Aztec Publishing Concern in Desert Country, California. We had crossed paths in 'THE CASE OF THE MARTIN LUTHER DOPPELGANGER'.


“What’s up, Sony?”


“We heard you were on your way to California.”


I wasn’t surprised he knew my whereabouts. The Tappdancers had a network of agents all across the continent.


“That’s true. Hollywood, to be exact.”


“How about stopping off at the Concern first? We have some information that might be germane to your case.”


Sony hung up.


Ok, a slight change in plans. So what. The investigation business is one of twists and turns. Oftentimes you just had to go with the flow. Something smelled like Denmark though and I was thinking hard, real hard, about this latest turn of events. What did the Tappdancers know and how did they know it? I thought they were friends with the Shagahs but Sony’s tone hinted at betrayal. Was Mr. Shagah up to no good? And was it no good in an absolute sense or a relative sense? One thing was certain. It wasn’t in a common sense.


I spent the whole night and the next day driving and arrived at the Concern at 5 pm. As I drove through the gate of the Concern, there was a rundown feeling to the buildings that had not been perceptible in my earlier visits. I actually saw a coyote running through the strand of cottonwood trees in the eastern section of the compound and as the sun set over an ocean that I could not see, only visualize in the broadest of terms, I realized with a touch of melancholy, that I had traversed a continent, yet was no closer to my real destination.


Sony welcomed me at the door and led me to the Board Room where in the Absolute Chair sat D.G. Leary and in the Relative Chair sat Stephen Tyler (not the one from Aerosmith and American Idol). Sony asked me to sit at one end of the table while he sat at the other end in careful balance between the Absolute and the Relative.


Sony spoke, “Thanks, Nick, we really appreciate you stopping by.”


“How did you know I was in the neighborhood?”


“Lance Straightpoint told us.”


I was a little taken aback. “Straightpoint is working for you?” Lance Straightpoint had been one of the most celebrated TPEs in the business before losing his license as well as his religion in 'THE CASE OF THE ANCIENT ROCK STARS.'


 “He was freelancing, so to speak. Get it? Ha Ha” No one laughed harder at his own jokes than Sony.


I hadn’t slept in 36 hours so it was rather hard for me to be amused. “Alright, why don’t you get straight to the point? Ha Ha.” My laughter was sardonic in nature as well as sarcastic.


“I hear you, Nick. We here at the Concern are concerned. We believe the Shagahs are in cahoots with the Polygamists to take over the Concern.”


Now I had to really laugh. “What the heck are you talking about? Why would the Shagahs, who are on the verge of a big Hollywood deal, want this rundown place?”


Stephen Tyler (who was not from Aerosmith or American Idol) spoke up: “You’re looking at this place from the relative viewpoint…” and Leary jumped in, “But you should be looking at it from the absolute perspective.”


“Which is?”


Sony then replied, “We’ve got gas.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“We’ve all got gas,” I replied, “but what’s that got to do with this case?”


“No, not that kind; it’s the natural kind that’s found underground. The Concern is sitting on a fortune.”


A TPE is tempted by many things but money is not one of them. However, since this supposedly had something to do with the Shagahs I felt I had to listen to what the TOS guys had to say.


“But Mr. Shagah is right now in Hollywood on the verge of making a Hollywood deal worth millions.” I said.


Sony replied, “That’s all a ruse. Actually, he’s holed up in the law offices of the Clampett Brothers in Beverly Hills, deviously devising plans to legally declare us mentally incompetent.”


May not be that big a stretch; a thought I thought but did not vocalize.


“I guess Straightpoint told you all this.”


“Yes, he’s posing as a paralegal in the law firm. They liked the fact that he was born in the Ozarks.”


“Does Lance know how they plan to proceed against you?”


“They plan to call us Idle Babblers and say ever since Mr. Von Tapp died we’ve allowed the place to deteriorate.”


“But that’s true, isn’t it?”


“Well, yes, but if we can hang on long enough to reap the natural gas profits, we’ll be able to renovate the place. Old Man Von Tapp would be pleased. If he was still alive, of course.” ( Lance told me later that the Concern’s new found wealth also meant opening a new branch in Oahu.)


“But you also mentioned that the Polygamists were involved in all this. How so?”


“They’re bankrolling the Shagahs.”


“Why in the world would they do that?”


“Because the Shagahs really own Shegah and because Shegah produces runaways, and because the Polygamists are naturally interested in increasing female supply, they saw an opportunity and they seized it by cutting a deal with the Shagahs. It’s really very simple. The Shagahs produce Runaway Shegahs and the Polygamists make a home for them.”


“Both Regular and Predestined?”


“Of course.”


“Where are these Polygamists located?”


“Somewhere in the Alleghenies.”


I stood up. It was time to go but this time I was headed east.


“Where are you going?” cried out Sony, “We need your help!”


“Sorry, TOS guys, I’m already on assignment. Lance, though world weary, a little seedy and currently a non-licensed TPE , is still a good investigator. You can count on him.”


And with that, I was out the door, and back in the Flying Belt.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

From the desert out West to the Alleghenies in the East was no mere distance even as " ‘that which is caused cannot be free, and that which is free cannot be caused’ is no mere tautology.” W. Scott Fitztaylor . Indeed, as usual, W. Scott was right on the money.


I was backtracking, of course, but TPEs do that all the time. It’s the nature of the beast and in this case the beast is human nature. Predictable and unpredictable at the same time; if it was too predictable then anyone could do the job; if it was too unpredictable then no one could.


It was to be a long journey but a fast one. No breaks except the kind caused by hunger and thirst and the kind caused by the results of quieting the hunger and slaking the thirst; in other words: bathroom breaks. Speaking of that, I was reminded of a verse in the Bible. It’s found in the Book of Deuteronomy, Chapter 23, verses 13 & 14 (contrary to popular belief, TPEs do read the Old Testament):


“Among your weapons, you must also carry a stick to dig with. Then, when you relieve yourself, you must dig a hole and cover it up. This is because the LORD your God is there with you in your camp to save you and to help you defeat your enemies. So the camp must be holy. Then he will not see something disgusting and leave you. “


Yes, friends, it was the beginning of the TPE Corps. Our first job was to make sure the Lord didn’t step on crap when he visited his Chosen People. Later, we inspected outhouses. Now our main job is to inspect crappy ideas. Some things never change.


Thoughts such as the above kept me company as I once again crossed the Rockies, then the Great Plains, then the Mississippi River, then Western Kentucky and Southern Ohio. The land began rising and I knew the Alleghenies were near.


It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t slept in almost 72 hours. I knew I would need to be fresh and alert to deal adequately with the Polygamists and rescue Myrtle. I decided to stop on the edge of the western slope of the Alleghenies and take a power nap. Before nodding off, I checked the GPS and discovered I was only about 10 miles from the Polygamists’ Secret Camp slash HQ.


I woke up several hours later feeling refreshed and ready for whatever lay ahead. The sun was peeking over the mountains to the east and a day was dawning that promised to be hot, sunny, and Hemingwayesque. I put the Flying Belt into first gear and slowly pulled out into the mountain highway. The road ahead was steep, with many curves, but the curves were fair and good and curvy. They were curves that deserved to be nominated for Curve of the Year. One such curve, though, proved to be almost the end of me. I was doing an easy twenty-five mph when all of a sudden, a tractor trailer truck came roaring around the curve from the other direction. The truck driver had obviously miscalculated the sharpness of the curve. His truck was halfway into my lane and to avoid a head-on collision, I jerked my steering wheel to the right. And went sailing off the cliff…

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

And so the Flying Belt and I found ourselves floating down toward the ground. It seemed like a good idea to make a call.


“Any advice, Boss?”


“Pray.”


It was good advice and I took it. But even still my soul was in distress. Was this the end? Then, just when it seemed like all was lost, I heard these heavy grappling sounds on the sides of the SUV. And then, in what seemed much longer but was probably only a second or two, the Flying Belt and I were sitting safely on the ground. Had a miracle occurred?


As I slowly recovered my senses, I heard some voices in the vicinity. When I looked outside my window, three men were approaching the SUV.


“Hi there, Neighbor, “ the man in the lead spoke.” Close call.”


“I say! Are you three men responsible for the fact that I’m still breathing and able to move and have being?”


“We sure are. My name is Tom Jones and the two men behind me are my sons Tom, Jr and Jerry.”


“Nice to meet you. I’m Nick Neercassel, Theological Private Eye. Just how did you save me, by the way?”


“Well, that curve is a daily danger so men from the camp take turns manning it for events such as yours. We have grappling hooks attached to bungee cords. We’ve become pretty good at hitting our targets as they cascade down the cliff. If I do say so myself.”


“Well, I’m mighty grateful and the Flying Belt, my SUV, is too.”


“You’re more than welcome. Now what brings you to these parts?”


“I’m looking for the village of Polygamia. Have you heard of it?”


Tom replied, “Heard of it? We are it. I founded Polygamia.” Tom then looked at me more carefully and said, “What brings you here?”


“I’m looking for Myrtle Hickok, a Shegah Runaway.” Tom said nothing and I said, “Aren’t you going to ask whether she’s Regular or Predestined?”


“You don’t believe in that Post-Modern Pseudo-Freudian BS, do you? There’s no such thing as a Regular Shegah Runaway. There are only Predestined Ones. ”


I hadn’t considered that possibility. Everywhere I went people asked me the Regular or Predestined question and I just assumed both types existed. But as a Certified TPE I should have known better than to have assumed anything.


Tom was nothing if not gracious and invited me to the village to see if Myrtle was one of the women there. Women outnumbered men 4 to 1 so it took me a while to check all the women out. No Myrtle. I began to wonder if I would ever find her.


Before leaving, I asked Tom if the 4 to 1 ratio was a little taxing on the men. He said it was but he was under a long-term contract to Shagah Incorporated to handle all Shegah Runaways and could do nothing about it. He sighed.


I had reached the end of the metaphorical investigated road. It was time to head home.

EPILOG

Sleep was out of the question so I drove all night and reached my home slash office in the crossroads village of Goodsite, South Carolina around ten the next morning. Before collapsing into bed I called Hiram with the bad news. He took it pretty well. Actually, too well.


“I thought you would take it a litter harder than this, Hiram.”


“But Mr. Neercassel, I mean Nick, Myrtle is at home. She got back three days ago. I would have called you but our tower doesn’t reach the second heaven.”


I started thinking I had already gone to bed and was having a nightmare. It took all my willpower just to simply ask where she had been after all. Hiram replied,


“Well, that’s the funny part, Nick. Let me tell you a little story. Myrtle’s mama named her after Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and all her life Myrtle has wanted to go there and learn the Shag, which is the state dance. You know how cheap I am. I never would take her. Finally she got fed up with my inaction and decided to go to Myrtle Beach all by herself. And you know what, Nick? I’m glad she did. I’ve never seen so her happy. Now what do you think about that, Nick?”


My TPE Code of Ethics would not allow me to say what I really thought. I did manage to ask him,


“But what’s that got to do with either Shegah or Shagah?”


“Absolutely nothing.”

THE END