The Forgottle

Somebody left garbage on the grassy verge today. I busted out my garbage camera, which I use for garbage pictures, and here. Here. It’s garbage.

Fruit punch, unopened. Why would a person leave that? You’d think they’d want to drink it, a hot day like today. The funny thing is, I spent most of the day staring out the window, and I didn’t see whodunnit. I’m like the Lady of Shalott up here, except instead of a mirror, I’ve got a great picture window, and instead of knights, I’m peeping on litter louts, or the evidence of their passage.

Y’know, this would make a great premise for one of those slightly underwhelming mystery novels I was talking about: THE CASE OF THE BOTTLE OF BRIGHT RED LIQUID, PROBABLY FRUIT PUNCH, FORGOTTEN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF KINGSWAY AND GLADSTONE—or, for brevity’s sake, THE FORGOTTLE.

I found the Forgottle on a Thursday. It was afternoon going on night, the sidewalk splashed red with sunset. I was fresh from the 12 Kings, walking off a plate of jerk wings, and that bright cherry glint caught my eye….

Oh, no. No, no, no. Too hard-boiled by half. We need someone less world-weary, more Postman Pat than Dirty Harry.

On a wide, bright street in a proud green city, nestled in the skirts of the great Rocky Mountains, there lived a long-nosed inspector. He had a big black dog and a wide white grin, and he kept old breadcrusts in his pockets. He loved to feed the birds, and his name was Edgar Bight (not Bite, if you hear the difference. Bight. Bite. Bight.)

Faugh. That one sounds like a Nazi. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something alt-right going on there. Booooo, Inspector Bight.

I knew something was up with that bottle. I walked by it three times: on patrol, then at lunch, and at last on my way to the Orpington robbery, and if I’d stopped even once—

There’s no sensible way to finish that sentence.

Somebody forgot a bottle of something red.