The sun hung blood red over the Hollywood Hills and the last dying gasps of day staggered weakly down Highland toward Santa Monica. This was slightly perplexing to meteorologists of the time because it was also foggy and rainy and a hot, dry Santa Ana wind was blowing in from the west.

Sal, oblivious to the current debates within the innermost circles of atmospheric physics, leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly at the pebbled glass door in front of his desk. ‘Sal Leno,’ it read. ‘Private Dick’ And beneath that, in a slightly smaller script: ‘Saab Enthusiast.’

There was a sudden sound like the whip-crack of a leather belt and the glass in the door was shattered instantly. Thinking he’d been shot, Sal clutched his chest and sank to the floor. His life passed quickly before his eyes ? a strange mix of raucous night clubs, questionable dames, and broken down cars.

After a bit of self-reflection, though, he realized that he was, in fact, fine and he slowly got to his feet. Standing before him was a tiny troll of a man wearing a white linen suit and enough perfume to make Ann Coulter smell like a lady.

“Eh…Sorry,” said the man in a heavy French-Canadian accent. “I always seem to be doing zat when I close doors. Must be ze growth hormones. De toute facon, I believe I can be of some assistance to you.”

Leno sat down heavily in his chair and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He fished into his pocket for a cigarette but, before he could reach for a match, the strange little man in front of him had his arm extended, holding a blazing Seinfeld lighter.

Sal took a long drag on his cigarette (‘Ahhhh…Menthol.’) and growled, “I don’t like French Fries. I find them a little too…greasy.”

The miniature man winced a little and then said, “You misunderstand me, Monsieur Leno. I am not French. I am Canadienne. And more importantly, I am a psychologiste. My name is Docteur No. But you can call me Seb.”

“Yeah? Well whaddya want, Doctor No? I’m busy here tryin’ to solve a case.”

“I’m here to clear up zis whole Pete M. business,” said the shriveled shrink as he pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his brow. Sal couldn’t help noticing that the monogram read: ‘A.P.’

“May I sit down?” asked the doctor.

Sal motioned to an empty wooden chair and then listened to the doctor’s story, astonished. “So you’re saying this Pete guy never existed?”

“Zat is precisely what I’m saying,” said the pint-sized psychologist. “He was created as a marketing tool by a Christian t-shirt company but zen some zing went horribly wrong.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Sal. “I’ve read his website.”

“Non, non,” said the frighteningly wrinkled little man. “Worse zan zat, even.”

“What could be worse zan zat?!” stammered Sal.

(To be continued…)

Posted by Pete M. at June 17, 2005 10:37 PM