Crime Novel Extract

Here's the first installment of my new novel that I'll inevitably not bother finishing. It's a searing crime novel I've cleverly titled Man Solves Crime In America, No?. I don't want to blow my own trumpet - PARP! - but I reckon I should win an award for this magnificent bit of English Literature ...

Detective Chief Inspector Roland O’Dolenz was Mickey Dolenz off of The Monkees’s brother. Well that hadn’t stopped him being one of the Metropolitan Police’s finest Detective Chief Inspectors, though he did occasionally have to take the day off to attend Monkees concerts and sign autographs from the select group of autograph hunters who specialised in the signatures of the rich and famous’s brothers and sisterers’s’s (?).

“You rat bastard son of a bitch, O’Dolenz!” roared Detective Sergeant Wellington Skellington, O’Dolenz’s partner, “Thanks to your maverick approach to the law, you’ve let Harry Slumberlumber the Porn King slip through our fingers! I had him, Roland, I had him right there in my fingers’s (s).” Skellington opened a can of Lilt, as you do.

“What can I say?” laughed Roland, rolling a small piece of plasticine into a worm shape with the palm of his hand, “I’m a loose cannon, Skellington. I don’t play by the rules, I break ‘em. Harry Slumberlumber’ll feel the long arm of the law soon enough, don’t you fucking worry about that. I’ve got a plan … y’see, I reckon, if we … oh fuck, the phone’s ringing.”

The phone rang in the office, like.

“Roland O’Dolenz?” said Roland, answering the phone that I’ve mentioned in that sentence up there, “Some may call me ‘unorthodox’, but I like to think I’m 'un-horse-thodox'. “ “Hello, Roland, it’s Mickey ‘ere. Mickey Dolenz, off of The Monkees?” answered Mickey Dolenz off of The Monkees. Roland rolled his eyes, rolled up his trousers, rolled up a roll-up, and swatted a fly with a rolled-up newspaper. He was on a roll. “Look,” he said, “how many times do I have to ask you not to ring me at work, love?”

“I need a shit,” said Wellington Skellington, cupping his palm over his trouser buttocks and letting the warm ‘guff’ of a fart run through his fingerers’s. “Well off you go,” Roland said, affectionately thinking of that time he’d spent doing something similar whilst on duty as an officer of the law, oh yes.

“It’s our mam, Roland,” said Mickey Dolenz off of The Monkees, “She’s tooken a turn for’t worse and is asking for you. On her death bed, like.” “Oh shit … huu … huu … huu … MOTHER!” Roland O’Dolenz threw the receiver to the floor and ran from the office. “No one dies on Detective Chief Inspector Roland O’Dolenz’s’s watch, NO ONE!” he roared on his way to the airport (Gatwick).

“Four pound fucking fifty for a fucking biscuit and a cup of fucking coffee? You robbing fucking Arabs!” thundered Inspector O’Dolenz to the thieving bitch at Starbucks’s in Gatwick Airport prior to his flight to go see his mother in America after his brother Mickey O’Dolenz off of The Monkees had rung him up when he was at work trying to explain his plan to Detective Sergeant Wellington Skellington before the phone rang and Wellington Skellington had gone for a shit after farting into his hand, “You should be wearing a mask, you thieving shitbags! I’ve half a mind to arrest you for daylight bloody robbery, d’ye hear?”

“It’s Fair Trade coffee,” answered the woman out of Starbucks’s what had just sold the Inspector his coffee and his biscuit. “Is it?” asked Roland.

Later, O’Dolenz got to America. AMERICA.

“Right then,” said Detective Chief Inspector Roland O’Dolenz, “here I am in America – as you can all see by the adverts for U-Haul trailer hire, that lorry that’s just driven past with ‘TAB cola’ written on the side, and the fact I’m stood next to The Bandit, off of Smokey and the Bandit.”

“Hello, this bit’s definitely in America,” said The Bandit.

“Roland,” mother whispered, “Roland, is that you?” Roland approached the bed where his mother lay dying. “I’m here, mother,” he said. He looked at his mother’s withered frame, her tits a shadow of their former self since The AIDS and the cancer of the anus had taken their toll. “Are you OK, mother? Well? Are you? Eh?”

Roland’s mother looked at her son. “I’m dying, Roland, dying. Dying of …

Pancreatic cancer of the second anal gland
Polysistic ovaries, dropsy of the hand.
Anal hee-bee-gee-bees are dancing up my spine
My vagina’s out of kilter, my tits are out of line.
I’m little more than water now my lungs have liquidised,
And The AIDS up my particular have buggered up my thighs."

"Oh, Mother," Roland said, "And I thought you just had a cold."

Tune in next week as Detective O'Dolenz has something happen to him ... IN AMERICA.