A Bigger Sleeper

The image below is a page from a children’s coloring book. I wish that I could say it was done by a younger ME, because I admire the look of the clothes of the figures in the foreground; but the truth is that I don’t know who did the coloring — my mom used to teach a Bible Class to kids in church, and this picture was found in a folder that was saved from those days: so the artist could have been anyone.

I myself did make one edit; for there was a problem with the original image: there were huge thick zigzags of black crayon obscuring the composition’s focal point. It really looked bad, trust me (it looked like it was trying to make an argument). So I quickly flipped thru the stack of junk-ads that came in the mail today, and I cut out a picture of an item that was being sold by a hardware store, and placed it over the area that was problematic.

What I like about this revised image, with its superimposed cutout, is that it gives off the impression that all of the children — both those inside & outside of the frame — are congregating around and revering this purchasable item. But they’re not doing so in a jokey, sarcastic way: they’re very sincere.

Dear diary,

I just wanna be honest with you: I have two ideas for today’s entry, and I don’t really fancy doing either of them. The first idea is to follow up on yesterday’s entry, which ended with me mentioning an idea about writing an...

Actually, I hate repeating myself, so I won’t explain it again: if you’re curious about it, you can go look at it. (“But how do I access the end of your entry from yesterday?” a heckler asks. — Well, here’s the answer: If you’re reading what I’m writing here in book form, then you can just flip back one page. You don’t need to read any more than the final paragraph. Alternatively, if you’re skimming this on a computer screen or any other sort of electronic device, then I can’t help you.)

The point is that, at the end of the entry in question, I mentioned possibly continuing a memory-experiment that I began there — however, now that I’m here in the future, I’m more inclined to rebel against my own former self. I guess I’ll play it by ear, as I write this morning; & we’ll see what happens...

The second idea that I have for today’s entry is to consider what it’s like to have a garden that doesn’t grow anything. I wanna ask: How long should one labor at one’s dirt-plot if it’s not producing any crops? I can’t get anything to grow, except the two trees that were already there when I stole this land.

So let me try to satisfy both ideas by taking a novel-based movie character, placing him back into medium of text, and making him navigate an awful garden plot. We’ll call him Private Detective Sam Philip:

Now let’s summon this Detective Philip to the center of our garden, where we will imagine that General Powell is waiting for him, reclining in a hammock. The General has requested to meet with our Private Detective — he summoned him on the telephone. The only details that the audience needs to know about General Powell is that he is wealthy and powerful, and he spends all day in this greenhouse, in his hammock, which is tied between two fruit-bearing trees: he does nothing but lie there.

“Greetings, Detective,” sez General Powell, when Sam Philips appears. “Can I offer you a vial of hooch, or perhaps a cigar? I’m no longer allowed to enjoy such things myself — Doctor’s orders: enjoyment is strictly off-limits for us old Puritans. So I just sit here all day between my two trees: one is an evergreen and one’s a palm (don’t eat from that one there). I am the Devil. I created this world. Our domain here, this Greenhouse, is a cutout from the Garden Major, which never grows anything. You see, I commanded my slaves to build a mansion for me to live in, and now I have my hammock here, where I lie all day, partaking of my fruit-bearing trees: one’s called ‘knowledge’ and one’s called ‘life’. God stole my memoirs for his life-story when he wrote his Scroll of Genesis, cuz he’s not an original artist. If he were an original artist, he wouldn’t need to copy; he would invent his own garden out of better dirt than I have access to. Oh, I’m sorry; I forgot to introduce you to God — he’s the brilliant old man with the white beard who wanders around this greenhouse occasionally, tho most of the time he politely remains invisible. But, like I said, I’m not allowed to have any fun, so I’m forced to take my fun vicariously. So if you’d like, I’ll ring for my Christ and he’ll bring you some hooch in a vial, and I will watch you drink; he can also bring you a cigar, for I would love to see you smoke it. I will look on with longing: just as a vampire does when you cut yourself by kicking against the pricks; yet poor Dracula is prevented from pouncing upon you & sucking your leg, as you’re in public and he’s supposed to be incognito.”

“Sure,” sez Mr. Philip; “I’ll have a vial of hooch and a cig.”

“Excellent,” sez the General.

Now a slave comes in with a tray and offers the refreshments to our Private Detective.

“So, tell me,” sez Detective Sam Philip, “what did you call me out here for? On the phone, it sounded urgent.”

General Powell explains how he wants to resolve the debt that his daughter Sophia owes to a group of Roman Creditors. — While he is speaking, a radiant, majestic, white-bearded God enters and whispers in Detective Philip’s ear:

“Psst! look at those two trees that the General’s hammock is tied to and hanging from,” sez God. “Give ear now and listen: This man does not want you to partake of the one right there, the tree of life, because it represents my son Jesus the Christ, who offers endless existence to anyone who wants it — for this General here, in the previous episode (the one that aired before you tuned in), took captive my boy Jesus and is now using the lad as his manservant: he’s the same one who delivered you your drink. So I advise you to ignore the warnings that Monseigneur Powell will bark at you, and simply reach forth your arm and partake of that tree over yonder, as well as the other tree that you’ve been eating from all along, so that you can experience the admixture of life and knowledge, all at once! — there’s no reason you should have only one without the other. Now be wise and follow my advice.”

“These debts that you mention,” Detective Philip addresses the General, “would you say that they’re from gambling?”

“I would not,” sez General Powell. “I believe that they are the result of the greedy ambition of the Roman Creditors. My daughter Sophia never partook in any fun — she was raised correctly! — therefore the debts are the result of her seeking schooling, and also purchasing a domicile.”

“Where does she live?”

“Well, actually the domicile that she purchased is not exactly a personal residence; it’s (how shall I put it) a type of rental unit, for use with her profession. She’s out in the hallway right now, and her sister’s up in her room, drinking lunch from a flask — they both live right here with me in this Greenhouse Mansion.”

Our Private Detective looks around and notes that there’s a door at the left which leads into a hallway where Sophia can be seen waiting. She is biting her thumb seductively. Jesus the Butler is standing there too. They are apparently waiting for Sam Philip to enter their scene.

Detective Philip tips back his drink and finishes it. Then, one after the next, he takes the remaining potions from the wooden vial-holder and swallows them as well.

“I’ll see what I can do,” sez the Detective. He lifts his hat to the General and begins to leave.

“But Mr. Philip, we haven’t yet discussed your fee—” the General croons.

Detective Philip holds up a banknote between two fingers and winks, “I took this,” he explains, “from your inside pocket while I was gathering fruit from your trees.” Here he kicks the wheelbarrow at his side. “This should tide me over until I get hungry.”

A close-up of the General narrowing his eyes does not reveal enough about his state of mind for us to conclude one way or another how he might feel about this “trickery”. He either grasps that he’s been had, or all is going according to his plan.

Detective Philip enters the hallway and is accosted by Sophia, the General’s younger daughter. They exchange flirtatious banter. Sophia then vanishes, and the Butler approaches. Sam Philip stops him by physically pressing his hand against the man’s chest.

“There’s another daughter, I was told,” says the Detective. “Where might she be?”

“Ms. Veevee is in her room, upstairs, just as the General explained,” sez Jesus Christ the Butler.

“Looking for me?” announces Ms. Veevee from the top step of the staircase. She then waves her arm impatiently: “Might as well come on up and take a look. I have some information that contradicts almost everything that you think you now know.”

“Sounds intriguing,” sez Sam Philip. He slips the banknote, which he had stolen from the General, into Jesus’ breast-pocket, while winking; then bounds up the stairs.

Ms. Veevee pours herself and Philip a drink, while she explains that her sister isn’t what she seems, and her father isn’t what he seems either. She mentions the name of a man who owns a photography parlor, and the name of a man who owns an automobile repair shop. Sam Philip grabs her wrist and speaks some words slowly, directly to her face. We almost believe that they’re going to kiss, but he abruptly lets go of her hand and flings her away.

When Private Detective Sam Philip is leaving the Greenhouse Mansion, his car is shown driving down the dirt road. (The exterior of the garden is still quite barren.)

*

The Detective parks outside of the photography parlor (the one that Ms. Veevee warned him about). Immediately, he hears a scream and a gunshot. He gets out of his car; then, on second thot, he re-enters his car. Sitting in the driver seat, he stares at the parlor where the noises came from, biting his lip, apparently wondering what to do. Finally he opens the door and begins to walk to the entryway of the parlor.

He tries the door. It’s not locked; but when he attempts to open it, it hits an obstruction & won’t budge more than an inch. So he puts his shoulder into it, and forces the door open.

Looking down, he sees what was blocking the door: it is a dead body. He checks its pulse; then he leans down and places his ear against the corpse’s chest.

A giggle is heard.

The Detective looks up and sees Sophia smiling, reclining on a throne.

“Snap out of it, you’re on drugs,” sez Detective Philip.

Sophia crosses her legs and continues to giggle.

“You’re coming with me,” sez the Detective, and he grabs her arm and yanks her down off the seat. While he’s dragging her toward the door, he notices there’s a statue of a falcon which, from the loins downward, is covered in newspaper, and a panel at the back of its head is open, and there’s a little shelf inside the bird’s skull which holds a miniature canister, like the kind that are used to store film reels.

“I better take this too,” sez the Detective, as he snatches it. “Could be that this film has valuable evidence on it.”

Sophia sez nothing but just keeps giggling.

“Shut! Up!” Detective Philip scolds Sophia. Then, after staring at her confusedly for a few moments, he adds: “And put some clothes on.”

Detective Philip drives Sophia home in his tan Monte Carlo. He visits the room of Ms. Veevee again and tells her not to ask about her sister, no matter how much he (Private Detective Samuel Philip) hints that she should beg to know more info — no: it’s too dangerous; it’s better that Ms. Veevee should remain ignorant of the murder and the pornographic filmstrip; that way, if the authorities question her, her denial will be plausible.

“But Sam!” exclaims Ms. Veevee, after sipping her beverage.

“No more ‘But Sam’s — this is serious,” declares Detective Philip.

*

The Detective returns to the site of the crime. It is raining now. He gets out of his tan Monte Carlo and uses a newspaper to shield his hat from the pouring rain. He checks the door — it’s still open. But, lo: the body has been removed.

Here there’s a commercial break, for we’re watching our memory of this theatrical engagement on black-&-white television, in the days before the invention of home videocassette players. There are five or six 30-second advertisements, and then the story resumes:

For a few moments, accompanied by an orchestral score, there appears a still frame of the male and female stars of the picture looking into each other’s eyes with fearful concern.

It is now the next morning. We hear the familiar tinkle of a welcome bell on a business’s front door: Ms. Veevee, with uncharacteristic timidity, has entered the office of Private Detective Samuel Philip. She is clutching a manila envelope to her chest.

“What do you have there,” Detective Philip points to the envelope.

Ms. Veevee extends her arm gracefully and hands it over. The Detective opens it and rifles thru its contents. There are a number of photos of Sophia, very tastefully posed.

Ms. Veevee takes a seat atop Detective Philip’s desk.

The Detective swivels in his chair, so that his head is closer to Ms. Veevee’s right knee. He snaps his fingers to get her attention:

“Go ahead and scratch any itches that you have,” sez Detective Philip, “while I make this phone call.”

“Who are you phoning?”

“Every week, around this time, I always make at least one prank call to the police department,” sez the Detective. “It’s a professional tradition.”

“May I help?” Ms. Veevee asks, while caressing her leg.

The Detective very gradually smiles: “Sure.”

*

After another commercial break, Detective Philip visits the home of a local tycoon. Distinctly thrice he slams the gargoyle knocker at the man’s apartment, and a woman answers the door. Detective Philip shows her his gun, and she smirks and invites him in.

The tycoon is angry that the woman has allowed this strange man inside his plush residence.

“Who’s behind those curtains?” sez Detective Sam Philip, motioning toward the adjacent room.

Out steps Ms. Veevee. She has a look of annoyance on her face.

“I tried to distract you away from the scent of our trail,” she sez, “but it looks like you found us anyway.”

Now the doorbell rings. Everyone stiffens up.

“You answer it, cheesecake,” sez the tycoon to the nameless woman.

The woman walks very slowly toward the door. She turns the handle and cautiously opens it. We hear a gunshot. The woman drops to the carpet.

Detective Philip rushes to the entrance, but the gunman has fled. He then dashes into the hallway and looks right & left to see if there’s any trace of the killer. He notices the panels of the elevator on the far end of the hallway are sliding shut. Philip hastens forth and quickly jams his foot between the closing panels, to block them. They slide back open and reveal a young gunman sulking at the back corner of the elevator. Private Detective Sam Philip grabs this youth by the lapels, gives him a shake, and snatches the firearm out of his hand. The young gunman then reaches into his coat, pulls out another firearm and aims it tremblingly.

“Well,” sez the Detective, “since I’m collecting guns today, I might as well take this one too.” And he karate chops the man’s arm and deftly retrieves the gun from the floor where it dropt.

Detective Philip then shoves both barrels of the confiscated rifles into the belly of the gunman, and nudges him forcefully, so that the youth must pace backwards down the hallway and into the apartment, where the tycoon and Ms. Veevee are standing with tense, worried looks.

“Watch your heels, punk,” Philip sez as they reach the place where the dead woman is lying; “there’s a freshly smoked snake on the floor behind you. Oh, wait, on closer inspection, that’s no snake: that’s a canary! What do you think of that, hmm? Well, I guess it’s better to be a canary than a rat,” and he glares at the youth. Then he turns and faces the occupants in the room:

“Bordy here admits that it was he who was behind the blackmailing,” Detective Philip announces. “I chased him down, and he tried to nix me in the elevator, but I confiscated his heat. Both pieces: he had one in each claw.”

The gunman tries to look smug.

“Isn’t that right, chump,” sez the Detective; then he prods the young man in the back with both firearms, which he’s holding now in one hand.

The man hangs his head. “Thou sayest,” he mutters.

Then the police come and take the gunman down to the precinct for questioning.

*

After another commercial break, Detective Philip visits the casino where Ms. Veevee sings. He places a bet at the roulette table and wins big-time. (“I got the whole farm on green double zero, pal — spin it good.”) Then, while walking back to his car with his winnings, some rogues try to mug him, but he blasts them to kingdom come.

[NOTE: “to blast someone or something to kingdom come” means “to destroy someone or something by using a gun or a bomb”.]

Her shift being over, Ms. Veevee now slinks into Philip’s tan Monte Carlo and explains that she’s been having some money problems of late, hence that last surprise-attack.

“Oh, I see,” sez Detective Philip; “so it’s your sister who’s got the school debt and is being extorted by pornographers, while you yourself owe a fortune to this here casino. Do you really think that you can pay it off by doing nightclub routines, like singing? I mean, don’t you think you’ll eventually have to sublimate your act by adding a striptease?”

“No,” sez Ms. Veevee, “my sister is the one who is bad with money. I’m good with money. And I already have a risqué part of my act, where I remove my evening gloves in an alluring manner. They’re long black gloves that go all the way up to my elbows. Throughout the last two verses of my popular number, I remove those gloves, one at a time, really slowly, while I’m singing: I feign as tho taking them off gives me physical pleasure — starting with the left glove, I roll it down, little by little, till my forearm is bare; then, during the next verse, I do the very same thing with the right. Last of all, once they’re off, since the gloves are made of this shiny, stretchy material, I hold each one and twirl it around like a slingshot, then I pull it back like it’s a crossbow, and fling it into the crowd. I do that with each glove. It’s really sexy. People shower me with tips. (Women love me almost more than the men do.) I don’t think I need to strip all the way — after the third verse, during the song’s finale, I turn my back to the audience and pretend that I’m going to undo the zipper of my dress; but then the music stops, so I spin back around and shrug as if to say ‘Well, we’re outta time, folks; if the song would’ve continued for another few moments, I’d have disrobed entirely, but we can’t argue with fate; therefore, goodbye, until we meet again!’ — I can’t foresee any need to go farther than that.”

Detective Philip pulls up in front of Ms. Veevee’s house, to drop her off. (It has one of those driveways that’s like a little road that curves in a ‘U’-shape, so you can park right in front of the main entryway.) Carrying her in his arms, he positions her gently in her bed. Then he drives himself back home to his own apartment. When he walks in the door, he flips on the light and finds Sophia sprawled out on the sofa in a translucent negligee.

“I’m afraid you’re all out of hooch,” she giggles.

Detective Philip ushers her out of his apartment.

*

On the morrow, Ms. Veevee telephones Detective Philip very early, before the sun has arisen; so it’s still dark outside when he sits up in bed to answer the call: thus his face appears silhouetted against the open window, and we see the cherry of his cigarette glowing against a backdrop of lesser stars. Ms. Veevee informs the Detective that he can close the case, for everything is solved now. “I am speaking on behalf of the General,” she explains. Purportedly her father is now absolutely content; he is singing hymns in his hammock at Greenhouse Mansion, for all debts have been forgiven. She claims they found a way to resurrect Julius Caesar, and therefore the Roman Oligarchy is no more.

“Stop looking for the bad guys,” she pleads. “They’ve all been apprehended by volunteer crimefighters — so we can rest now. My sister has vowed to look for a superior career and marry a chauvinist. Let’s move to Mexico, just the two of us. My father is willing to pay you a heap of cash, on one condition: that you quit this case and never think about it again. I’ve already wired the money into your account.”

“How much is it?”

“Enough. Believe me. One might even say that it’s too much.”

*

The last commercial break is twice as long as the previous ones. When the dream resumes, we see that Private Detective Sam Philip is being roughed up by the tycoon whose party he crashed earlier. When the tycoon abandons him for dead, Detective Philip crawls offscreen. He eventually enters the executive suite of a business establishment. Being out of strength, he leans against the door. Noticing muffled noises, he places his ear against the door and tries to listen to the goings-on in the next room. The sound is clearer now: it’s the voices of two men arguing. Suddenly the voices stop. The Detective now carefully and quietly opens the door about a quarter of the way, so that he can fit his head thru and get a look at the scene. A bad man is poisoning a semi-bad man by pouring some sort of nectar in his ear. The former leaves the latter for dead.

Philip now waits a few moments after the bad man leaves; then he hastens over to the poisoned man and shakes him until he awakes out of his coma. Detective Philip pleads with the dying man to reveal the geo-coordinates of his boss’s headquarters. The man expires in Philip’s arms, after making the disclosure.

The man’s information proves to be untrustworthy. Detective Philip pulls up in his tan Monte Carlo at the specified address, but there’s not even a building there: it’s just a vacant lot. Noticing that there’s a hardcover novel lying at the back of the lot, in the far left corner, we try to make out its title, but it’s too far away; plus it’s sorely out of focus.

*

Philip now drives to the auto-repair shop that General Powell mentioned in the beginning. He steers directly into the ditch outside the front of the shop, on purpose, and he also deliberately punctures his tires with his own pocket-knife so that they all need changing. He then approaches the repair shop afoot and bangs his fist three times on its wooden gate: bang, bang, bang!

“Let me in!” cries the Detective.

Some shady character answers from the other side of the gate:

“We’re closed for the holiday.”

“What holiday? It’s mid-August. There’s no holidays in August.”

“We worship Christmas here, year-round.”

“Ah, come on, man,” sez Detective Sam Philip; “just reopen for a spell, out of pity for an unfortunate traveler. Look: I got a bum leg, a bum knee, a bum hip; I’ve been following bum hunches all afternoon; and now I’ve got a car in the ditch, plus four tires that need some T.L.C. — can’t ya give a sucker a break? I promise I won’t bite ya.”

The gate slides open cautiously.

“Remove your loafers and leave them on the welcome rug,” mutters one of the shop-goons. “We’ll change your tires and then you vamoose, got it?”

“Understood,” winks the Detective while lighting a cigarette.

So the repair guys get out their large iron tools and pose as if they’re ready to begin to work on Philip’s vehicle.

“Is that a tan Monte Carlo?” sez the vampirical Thug Boss, pointing at the car with flat tires in the ditch outside.

“Yes,” answers Philip.

“What year is that hunk of trash?”

“Seventy-seven,” answers Philip.

Just then, all the repair-shop goons discard their grease-stained coveralls that had been serving as work uniforms, thus revealing that they are actually Roman Senators. The Detective tries to get a good look at their faces, but they are all wearing black hooded cloaks and anonymous masks.

“Here we go again,” sez Detective Philip.

The Senators encircle Philip as the scene fades to black.

*

When Detective Philip regains consciousness, he finds himself tied with thick rope & lying on the floor of a living room. Looking up, as soon as his vision comes into focus, he sees two beautiful women on the sofa: one has a face that is completely new to him, and one is Ms. Veevee.

“Untie me, will ya? And get me a telephone.”

Ms. Veevee stands up, and her companion on the sofa gives her a chastising look.

“Come on, Mrs. Jee; help me disobey orders: for I like Detective Philip. At least he’s nicer than our stupid vampirial Thug Boss — I can’t figure out why you left your husband for him.”

So Mrs. Jee, after a moment of hesitation, joins Ms. Veevee in trying to untie Detective Philip’s ropes. Soon a noise is heard.

“We better hurry,” sez Ms. Veevee.

“Here,” sez Mrs. Jee; “let me use this knife. I can hear my husband’s footsteps nearing the house. You’ll never untangle those knots in time — I’ll have to cut them.”

“You aren’t seriously going to try to slash my bonds with a kitchen knife, are you?” sez the Detective. “Listen, angel: thrust your hand into my side pocket and use the blade that you find there.”

So Private Detective Sam Philip is released from his captivity. After grabbing the jet-black telephone that Ms. Veevee hands him, he dials a number as fast as the rotary wheel will allow. We hear a ring-tone, signifying that the call has been initiated. The footsteps of the Thug Boss, which have been growing louder as he’s been approaching the scene, now halt abruptly, and we hear his annoyed voice speaking from just outside:

“Hello? I’m answering from my cordless, so make it snappy.”

“Hello, Mr. Mars? This is your friend, the owner of the casino. Come and meet me right now. This is urgent. I have the film negatives.”

“Where should we meet?”

“How about the photography parlor. That way, you’ll be able to get there before me and look the joint over, maybe hide a couple of your gumen to ambush me when I arrive; cuz you’re coming from Iowa, whereas I’ll be leaving from Wisconsin in about fifteen minutes.” Here, Detective Philip dabs his bloody lip with a kerchief.

“OK, roger that,” sez the vampirial Thug Boss Eddy Mars.

Mars arrives at the photography parlor with four strong men, who set up an ambush outside. But the joke’s on him, for Detective Philip is already inside the parlor, waiting. (He’s nervous, yet dedicated.) As soon as Mars enters, Detective Philip steps out from the shadows and kicks the door closed. He informs Thug Boss Mars that his friend Sophia and Ms. Veevee are both engaged to be married to him: Detective Sam Philip. Therefore, one week from now, the twain shall become, respectively, Madame Philip the Younger and Ms. Philip-Veevee.

“Oh, and by the way, I called the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and the whole U.S. Department of Defense,” announces the Detective. “They’re on their way.”

Now sirens crescendo from the distance, while aircraft and helicopters begin to congest the sky.

Private Detective Sam Philip, in one final stroke of bravado, tells Thug Boss Mars that he thinks he hears his (Mars’) little conspiracy of Roman Creditors calling his name from outdoors, “like little birds that need to be fed.” So Mars stupidly believes him & walks out the entryway like a fool, where he is stabbed to death by his own team of black-cloaked Senators. Philip then whistles for all the government departments, agencies, and bureaus that he notified, and he tells them to come on out & do their duty:

“The coast is clear, boys.”

So they all step out from the shadows where they were hiding. And all the planes and choppers descend from the heavens and land in the driveway and on the roof.

Detective Philip hands over to them a huge file of incriminating photos proving that Mars was the one who actually did all the bad stuff that they themselves were being blamed for. Then he shows them how to dispose of Mars in a way that will appear to the public as if Mars committed suicide.

“I’ll dump him in the river.”

— Officer Duke (from the 2013 film Wrong Cops)

So they all thank Detective Philip and wave goodbye. The marriage of Samuel Philip to Sophia the Whore and Ms. Veevee takes place one week from that fatal day, just as he prophesied (“It is I who am the harlot, and the holy” [see: “The Thunder—Perfect Intellect” on pg. 77 of The Gnostic Scriptures, annotated by Bentley Layton]). All three return to live with General Powell, their father, in the Greenhouse Mansion.