Beware Of Yellow Liquids

It was a cold and rainy morning. The wind howled…oh, wait. That’s Metro…he’s looking to come in from the cold…and the rain. Hang on….I’ll let him in….now, where was I?

Right….cold. Rainy. Morning. The weathermen couldn’t explain the freakish turn the weather had taken…temps in the fifties…in July?? Not that anyone was listening to the weatherman…(for whoever does?)…for there was an honest-to-God MYSTERY to be solved…right here on Daisy Lane! For there…in the middle of the tree-lined street…in between Mrs. McClosky’s former-prize-winning Azalea bush (now browning and dying of some strange, yet un-named malady) and Mrs. Plotsky’s blue recycling bin (filled to capacity with an obscene amount of wine bottles…and covertly brought to the curb by Mr. Plotsky under dark of night, lest anyone discover his wife’s fondness for Merlot) was the unconscious (and presumed dead) body of a yet-unidentified man. At the end of the street sat the unoccupied truck of “Clankston Recycling-Too Lazy To Take Your Bottles In To Be Redeemed? Well, We’re NOT.”

“That’s not the usual Clankston guy,” says Mr. Jeannotte, nudging the presumed-deceased dark-blue-uniformed-body with the toe of his ratty brown mule slipper.

“How would you know, you old fart?” asks Mrs. Peterson. “You take all your bottles to the Piggly-Wiggly…we can hear you cursing out that blasted bottle machine from here. You’ve got some mouth on you…you kiss your dog with that mouth?”

“Okay…settle down, you two. Did anyone think to call for help?” asks Brad Hayes, sweat glistening on his brow as he pauses to catch his breath. Brad is the newest resident on Daisy Lane…tall, handsome and blue-eyed, he’d just inherited his great-aunt Martha’s place at the end of the street. After a few deep breaths of air, still perspiring from his four-mile run down the still-sleepy neighborhood streets, he reaches down to pull his cell out of his sock to call 9-1-1. Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Nalty take this opportunity to catch a glimpse of Brad’s rear package, while Mr. Jeannotte scowls at them in disgust.

Five minutes later, Officer Sherry Pimblake rounds the neighbors up for questioning. “Has anyone seen anything unusual?” she asks.

“Describe unusual,” says Mrs. Plotsky. “I saw a two-headed chicken once on Animal Planet.”

“I think she means this morning, Gladys” chides Mr. Plotsky, patting his wife affectionately on the knee.

“What about you…Mr. Hayes?” Officer Pimblake asks coquettishly, wiping her sweaty palms on her blue trousers. (For she found Brad’s blue-eyed stare both mesmerizing and unsettling at the same time)

“Please. Call me Brad,” he says…flashing her a brilliant mega-watt smile. “It was your typical morning…I came out my front door and began my run, jumping over Mrs. Plotsky, who was throwing up on Mrs. McClosky’s Azalea bush. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

At that moment, the paramedic came to speak to Officer Pimblake. “He’s in bad shape but he’ll make it. Seems he’s been poisoned…we found high levels of accumaideacortizziplene-hydrosulfate-amalougous-sulfide in his blood. It’s odd, because this bacteria is normally only found in one rare tropical bird’s feces from the Amazon….I can’t imagine how he could have come in contact with it, much less ingested it.”

All the neighbors GASPED…and turned with horrified faces towards Mrs. Peterson, who just happened to have a rare Yellow Shouldered Amazon Parrott, named Clarence:

“Adele? Is there anything you’d like to tell us?” asked Brad Hayes, fixing her with a gentle, yet scintillating gaze.

“Oh, ALL-RIGHT! So, I put Clarence’s piddles in my half-empty Fresca bottle! It’s not like no-one else hasn't ever done it!” Mrs. Peterson yells, flashing them all a dirty look in disgust.

“But WHY, Adele?” asked Mrs. Plotsky, who was just starting to drift off when she heard the shouting.

“BECAUSE THAT IDIOT JEANNOTTE WAS PILFERING SOME OF MY SODA BOTTLES AND TAKING THEM TO THE PIGGY-WIGGLY, THAT’S WHY! I KNEW THE CHEAP BASTARD WOULD DRINK ANY LEFTOVER SODA IN THE BOTTLE, RATHER THAN THROW IT AWAY…SO I PLANTED THE POOP,” she shouted indignantly.

“One time! Back in 1957…I happen to grab ONE OR TWO BOTTLES out of your damn box to give me an even three dollars in returns…AND YOU TRY TO HAVE ME POISONED, YOU LOONY OLD BAT?! Now I’m GLAD I’ve peed in your POOL every night for the last 30 years!” Jeannotte yells back.

“Well, how was I supposed to know that the stupid Clankston guy was gonna drink my leftover pooped-up Fresca?! WHO DOES THAT, anyway?!” Mrs. Peterson yelled, glaring at Jeannotte.

“I believe what we have here is a clear case of misunderstanding,” says Officer Pimblake.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Plotsky asks, a look of bewilderment on her sweet, wrinkled face.

“Well, I believe that Mrs. Peterson here has a little bitty crush on Mr. Jeannotte here…and maybe she was just looking for a little attention….,” she trails off, looking expectantly first at Mrs. Peterson, then at Mr. Jeannotte.

Mr. Jeannotte seems to deflate before their eyes as he wipes his eyes with his hand. “Aw, crapper…So maybe I have been hoping you’d ask me what to do about the weird yellow water in your pool…but ya never did ask, Adele. Ya just kept swimming in it…pee and all.”

“Aw, Harold….I never knew you felt this way…” Adele answered vacillating between gagging over her pool water and being secretly thrilled at Harold’s 30-year attraction.

“I think we’re done here,” Officer Pimblake says crisply, rising and heading for the door.

“You want to grab something to drink?” Brad casually asks as she walks past him and out the door.

“Sure,” she answers happily, turning back to flash him a brilliant smile. “Anything…as long as it’s not Fresca.”

Happy weekend, all!