Rescue Rangers: The Case Of The Excruciating Hangover

I woke up in a cold sweat, my head pounding, my eyes blurry and raw.  Slowly and painfully I crawled out of the empty ketchup packet I use for a sleeping bag, looking for a bathroom and some Gatorade.

Gadget was already awake, cleaning up after last night’s amphetamine fueled holocaust of sex and violence, which is how we like to celebrate when we solve a case.  And with Fat Cat finally behind bars after his latest attempt to poison the city’s water supply, we really cut loose.

Gadget was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet where Monty had unleashed a river of vomit consisting mostly of cheese and malt liquor. As I hovered over her I could just make out the tender valley of breasts poised at the throat of Gadget’s jumpsuit. Gadget has the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen on a mouse.

Monty was asleep behind the couch, so I waved a piece of aged cheddar under his nose, causing his moustache to quiver and his entire body to involuntarily float into the air where it stayed suspended, jerking in spasms. After eating the cheese in his sleep, Monty woke up with a confused expression, his eyes bloodshot and deranged.

“Hey little buddy,” Monty rasped, wrapping his trench coat around himself. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost 1:30,” I said, batting my wings to rid them of Monty’s cheese shrapnel.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?”

I shrugged.

Just as Chip stormed into the room the Ranger phone rang and Chip’s fedora popped off of his head.

“Dale got arrested, we have to go bail him out.” Gadget sighed.

“Again?” Chip snapped on his way to the bathroom. “What did he do this time?”

Gadget shrugged and pulled on her flight goggles.

“We’re leaving him there,” Chip’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Someone has to teach Dale that he can’t just go around doing whatever he feels like!”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on the little blighter,” Monty said, smoothing his moustache and sipping an unidentified beverage he found on the spool of thread we use as a coffee table.

“That’s all you ever say. Maybe if we were a little harder on him he might get his life together!”

“Oh shut the fuck up, Chip.” Gadget muttered, taking off her goggles and going back to work on the carpet.

“Crikey, who made that mess, Love?” Monty said, tripping over Gadget and spilling her mop bucket.

Gadget glared at Monty.

Monty looked at me, “Is that true, Zipper? Did I do that?”

I didn’t feel like talking so I flew outside for some fresh air, wondering if I was really cut out to be a hard partying private detective.

About Eli Hopkins

I live and write in Portland, Oregon. Please share and comment so I can be positive that I exist!

One comment

  1. no

    lol wtf u weirdo

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