Those Damned Dirty Apes

"Arrrrgh!"

Arrrrgh, indeed.

Those.  Damned.  Dirty.  Apes.

After all this time, it was almost unbelievable (see what I did there?) to conceive they'd been lying in wait all this time just to get back into the game and attempt even more monkey business than before.

But that was their plan.  Exactly.  The three of us knew them too well.  Having tussled with them previously, what nefarious shenanigans could they be up to this time?

The fact of the matter came down to this:  A diabolical plot by a bunch of simian ne'er-do-wells deserved an equally ingenious counter measure.

"I'll be right back," I told Clark and Jeff.  I grabbed my wallet and headed for the door.

"Where's he going?" Clark asked.  "Beats me" Jeff responded "... but I bet he's got a plan."

Of course I had a plan ...

Half an hour later, I returned with an envelope in hand.

"Whatcha got?" the guys asked.  

"The easiest solution to our little Bames Jond & Company problem.  Tickets to "The Monkey," that spiffy flick currently making the rounds in theaters near us.  You know ... the one based on the Stephen King short story from back in the day.  I'm going to offer up free tickets for an evening showing to that hairy brood!  We'll make nice, invite them on a group date, settle in for the show then << BAM! >>  The local boys in blue can nab them before they've even had the chance to open a box of Banana Runts candy."

 

Brilliant!

"Problem solved.  We'll barely need to lift a finger.  Plus, being the bunch of chimps they are, dollars to donuts says they'll have whatever villainous criminal plans they're purporting to conduct tucked neatly in their coat pockets.  Nothing like catching'em red-handed!"

I got on the phone and called our contacts at the local police station to arrange everything.

Long story short, Jond and his cohorts accepted our generous invitation (probably delighted at the notion we were walking right into their hands and being so nice about it), met us at the theater and - no sooner than the opening credits began to roll - the theater lights came on and they were surrounded by the authorities.  Clark, Jeff and I just sat there, munching popcorn and enjoying "the show." 

Apprehended, we waved goodbye to them as they were ceremoniously led out of the theater in cuffs.  "We'll tell you how it ends!" Jeff offered.  "No we won't!" Clark refuted.

"Man ... that was easy," I offered.  "So easy, it makes you wonder if we shouldn't come out of semi-retirement ..."

We collectively pondered that thought then relaxed as the lights dimmed, "The Monkey" coming back on the big screen once more for us to enjoy.

Yeah ... foiling Bames Jond and the rest was easy.  Much easier than the tale of the Meta messages.  Was it genius (probably) or sheer coincidence Jeff put two and two together and tied the original message, the anagram, the sneeze correlation, Jond, et al, together?  There were still missing pieces to the story, certainly ... not to mention that other virtually identical notification from "Det Herkules Poirot."  

But perhaps, just perhaps, that's a tale for another time ...

... possibly ...

 

Bad Animals? Or, What We Did While We Were Away

If you think the news of our revived activity after all this time was surprising to you, just imagine how we felt after 7 years, 3 months and 5 days of relative calm and semi-retirement!

That's right. I say relative calm  because the intervening years have not been without their trials and tribulations, no sirree Bob. Firstly, there's been the issue of the cliffhanger we left you on back in 2017. Clark ended by saying he saw Petit's booted appendage heading towards him followed by everything going black, leading some of our loyal fans to believe he had been rubbed out by the tiny terror - but think about it for a nanosecond, if he had been, he could hardly have written about the event, could he? Nope, as he explained on Monday, he merely sprained his ankle. After explaining this to Michael and I, he re-sprained it by attempting to dance, but he put some ice on it and all was well.

So what had we, the individual members of the Unbelievables, been doing with our valuable time for the last seven years?

Michael had tried his hand at many things befitting a retired, independently wealthy man-about-town. Art, for example. Not painting or macrame or batik as you might imagine, but given his predilection for pantslessness he thought, "Why not go the whole hog and get naked? And why not let the wider community enjoy this fine Vitruvian physique, this Adonis-like specimen of a body?". So he immediately became a life model for a couple of years, shedding his garments for the benefit of budding artists in Stiletto Flats and beyond. Let me tell you, the life drawing classes of Nevada have never been so massively oversubscribed. 

"Hmm, need more charcoal."

He also got his realtor's license and opened a small office in nearby Winnemucca ""just as something to fall back on should the funds dry up", as he says. And dry up they almost did, as he developed a tiny, weeny, incy-wincy little Go Fish addiction after a trip to a casino in Washington State. 

"Do you have any threes?"

Fortunately he beat that addiction by using some of his remaining funds to kit himself out with some decent rods and tackle and took up actual fishing instead. 

All the gear, no idea.

Myself, I became an ultramarathon runner, a speedwalker and a dancehall DJ, specialising in dub reggae nights and Mantovani & Kostelanetz waltz weekends. I also got my realtor's license, but that was after I was dared to by one of my Irish drinking buddies, "just for the craic."

Clark was reticent about letting on what he'd been up to after being presumed dead, and only time will tell whether he'll reveal all (although I did see him whispering to Michael while I was brewing the tea, so maybe Michael knows something...?).

Anyway, back to the story of this mysterious Meta message. On Monday Clark told you that the lady's name was an anagram of SAINKLAIESWRU, the noise made by a person suppressing a sneeze, which got me thinking, mainly because of the book I'd recently reading.

The book was A House For Mr Biswas by V.S Naipaul, which involves a man with an "unlucky sneeze". It was published in 1961 and later adapted as a musical (although it was never produced). The musical compositions were written by Monty Norman, and one song "Bad Sign, Good Sign" had a melody that was later used by Mr. Norman in a piece of music for Dr.No. Yes, I'm talking about the iconic James Bond theme.

A lightbulb switched on in my head. It couldn't be, could it? Surely not after all this time?

Bames Jond, really? Mr. Shifter, Mr. B, and Bobo the Enforcer? 

Those fiendish chimps that tied Michael and I to a pole and written "poop" on the walls with their own poop? Those asshole apes that had violated Charley Chimp? Were they back on the loose? 

We don't know what they did to him, but he was never quite the same afterwards. That.. stare.  Chilling.

I'll let Michael tell you on Friday what happened after I shared my concerns with him and Clark, but not before I tell you the even more mysterious thing that happened - we received another Meta message. An exact duplicate of the one from Laura Wisniewska, only this time it was from a different person, and you're not gonna flippin' believe it.

Surely not, right?

We Didn't Plan This, But... We're Back

A bulletin from Clark:

The Unbelievables have been in a state of unofficially decommissioned hiatus imposed by the world’s governments due to us solving all the problems and everything being awesome now, a condition the United Nations General Assembly classifies as “hunky dory”. However, our social media resources remain intact, in case we are needed again and have to share our heroic exploits with you.

The other day, we received a communique from a Laura Wisniewska of Meta, informing us that due to some sort of copyright infringement issue, our Facebook page was slated to be permanently removed!

Us? Infringe? Or do anything illegal?? Impossible!

Suspecting that this was a fiendishly clever attempt to defraud us somehow, I immediately started analyzing the name “Laura Wisniewska”. After about 45 minutes, I had rearranged the letters to discover the phrase:

SAINKLAIESWRU

“Dear God,” I gasped. “That’s the noise someone makes when they hold their nose and sneeze.”

I knew Jeff and Michael had also received the communique but probably didn’t have time to descramble the name, so I called a meeting at our long-dormant secret headquarters. They were very surprised to hear from me, as it’s been widely assumed I was killed after being thrown through a window in our last adventure together years ago.

“Killed? Ha ha! No, I just sprained my ankle real bad. It’s fine now.” I then started tap dancing to demonstrate how well I had healed and almost immediately sprained the other ankle. I then sat down, put some ice on it and we began to discuss what we were going to do.

Played out

We tracked Negative Charge down at one of his hideouts, an abandoned Radio Shack (well, it's still open but it is a Radio Shack) at the Stiletto Flats Galleria. Wanting to waste no time, we presented Jeff's theory and asked him if he was behind it. "That's fiendishly brilliant", he said. "So much so that I wish I had thought of it. Three weeks ago. Before I signed that document. Damn it, that might have worked!" "No, it wouldn't have", Michael replied. "The fact that we're standing here asking you about it now clearly indicates we would have figured it out." Negative Charge sighed and said, "Good point. Hence the reason for us signing. We simply can't win. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go set the clocks on the VCRs." Jeff stopped him. "Wait a minute. Why do all of you seem to be so in line with each other on this, to the point where it looks downright synchronized?" Negative Charge turned and said, "I guess we're finally learning all kind of things from you guys."

With that, we returned to the Unbelievabase. "Well, I guess that's it then", one of us said. Without words between us, because at this point we're so attuned to one another that sometimes we don't have to speak aloud, we started packing things up to be put into storage in case we ever need them again. Pretty soon, the place was practically empty. Michael restored the "broken" washer in the laundromat to fully functional before taking Ulf the Unbelievadog to a boarding kennel. Meanwhile, Jeff drove a bus full of Unbelievababes over to Marissa's newly re-christened "Miss Riss's Home for Wayward Showgirls and Former Unbelievababes". It's right across the street, but Jeff does love a nice bus ride, regardless of the length.

I was the last one, waiting for a truck to pick up the last of the storage containers. That's when I heard a knock at the door. Guess who it was?

Of course.

"Henri Petit! What are you doing here? Is this when you mount your attack? You trick us into breaking down our base, separating from each other and then you move in? Well, bring it on you wee, disgusting, vile..."
Henri shook his head and said, "No, that's not it at all. I just came over because...well...since this is over now...", as he started to choke up. "OUT WITH IT, HORRENDOUS TWERP!"
"Well, all I ever really wanted was for you guys to like me, so we could hang out and be pals. It was all a cry for attention. I just admire you all so much and it was so painful, facing your rejection all the time. And now that the whole thing is over and we're not on opposite sides, I thought maybe we could, I don't know, play a game. Like friends."

He took the game out of the box and set it up on one of the crates, near the window where we saw cars driving by, their drivers oblivious to what had taken place in the amazing-yet-non-descript building they had passed so many times over the years.
"Up to four can play but it looks like Michael and Jeff aren't here, so maybe just you and I?" He looked so pathetic and small and vulnerable and ugly. I said, "Sure Henri. Why not. Now are there actual rules to this game?" He said, "Yes, they're printed on the box down there on the floor." I bent down to pick it up and looked up just in time to see him, in a pair of oversized boots, rearing back to kick me out of the window.
Then everything went black.

Are We Being Played?

Well, it's taken a few days, but we are about 95% caught up. Ever since Negative Charge presented Michael with that rather extensive legal document, the three of us and Ulf the Unbelievadog have been calling all the foes, past and present (including some we haven't even gotten around to telling you about, such as Yodelin' Bob Trevino, the half-Mexican cowboy pigeon rustler, and society pages regular Mandy Rice-Pudden, champagne thief)that signed the document stating that their criminal days were over and they were finally giving in. 

Apparently, it's back to the life of a regular charro for Yodelin' Bob.

And Ms. Rice-Pudden wants to go straight, too.

However.

Like I said, we'd called almost all of them, and so far the responses had been identical. In fact, they'd almost all been word-for-word the same. Almost mantra-like, if you want to know the truth.

I voiced this opinion to Clark, Michael and Ulf quite early on in the process and they quickly told me I didn't know what I was talking about. Three hours later, weary and in need of a break, they looked at me and said - "you know, I think you're right. It's almost like they've been brainwashed. They all say exactly the same thing, like we're talking to a bunch of cult members."

"Yeah, and who's good at brainwashing?" 

"Well, I remember a fellow who had some... minions?"

"You don't mean... Negative Charge himself? You think he set us up?"

"Wuff!" agreed Ulf.

"Alright," said Clark, "let's go see what he has to say for himself. If we're being tricked into taking things easy, I might just have to defenestrate somebody!"


I'll let Clark pick up the tale on Friday.

The Unbelievables Take A Final Curtain Call?

The phone rang. I answered it. 

"Unbelieva-Base. This is Michael ..."

"Just the person I wanted to talk to. Michael? This is Negative Charge ..."

And so began a really strange day.

Negative Charge, so-called master of electricity, wanted to come over and talk. He had some important news for us and wanted to reach out to me first, thinking I was the most level-headed of the three. (I don't know where he got that information but I went with it.) "Sure. See you when I see you," I replied.

He arrived and I invited him into the parlor. I asked if he wanted a refreshment. "What's up?" I asked.

"I'm here as a representative of the coalition of foes of The Unbelievables," Charge began. "Quite simply, we wanted to put out to you guys we're finished with our evil doing ways. It's just not worth it any longer. Every time we try to do something - take over the world, for example - The Unbelievables are right there, foiling our plans. It gets old, let me tell you. Not to mention all the time it takes to plan these things. And the expense! Whew! Talk about hitting home! Between the pocketbook and the groundwork necessary to come up with some sort of viable world domination blueprint, well ... we give. We're done. The entire lot of us. We're hanging our hats for good. And every last one of us is on board with this, too. We even have an official signed and notarized say-so promising compliance."

I was stunned ... but I didn't let it show. I just nodded and listened attentively during his spiel. But ... was it a spiel? I thought so, simply out of caution and past experiences ...

... until he handed me the document.

I took it and looked it over. There was a lot of official wording and legal promises to the page. But it seemed to be on the up and up. It was signed by each and every ne-er do well we'd come across: Mac Ramey. Bernard "The Gingervator" Bigyott. The Leapers. Günther Parsifal McParshnipp. Little Debbie. Dr. Oldschool. The Klumpmasterflash Twins. Cripes ... even that foul midget Henri Petit had signed the thing. Clark was going to get a kick out of that. In fact, I was willing to bet cash money he'd want to hear it straight from the little imp's piehole Petit was relinquishing his nefarious ways. 

"Huh," I noted. "Is this a copy for us? Because we're going to have to verify this, Charge. It's not that I don't trust you. But ... you have priors, you know."

"By all means. Do what you have to do. And yes ... that copy is yours. It's completely official. Verify everything I've told you and get back to us. Contact our attorney, there, at the bottom of the page. He speaks for all of us. He and the courts will tell you this is completely legitimate, totally above board ..."

I showed Charge out and thanked him for coming by. As he left, he turned to me and stuck his hand out.

"Of course, with our exit, I suppose this will put The Unbelievables out of the crime and injustice fighting business. There won't be anything left for you to do, I imagine."

"We'll get back to you," I replied, ignoring his comment.

But ... was Negative Charge right? Was this truly the end of The Unbelievables? 

Oddball Obsessives

As Michael correctly surmised on Wednesday, "Jeff might have a couple more we missed.". Oh, I have at least a couple. My question is, what is these people's problem? Why do most of them want to dress up as or transform into other species? For example:

DUCKY McDUCKFACE

Yes, she's had her name legally changed to Ducky McDuckface, and is hell-bent on becoming a duck, in order to "take over the world". Isn't that what they all want? However, she is not specific about what she'll do with the world once she takes it over. She just says she'll "run it her way". Well, if her attempts to turn into a duck consist of a little more effort that two Pringles and a couple of grapes, maybe we might be bothered to sit up and take notice. Until then, however, we're just gonna chill.

FRANKIE LIMON

This one time fruit seller was robbed repeatedly until all he had left was a bunch of limes (oddly enough, his favourite fruit). They stole his fruit stand and his clothes, so he now wears the limes as a sort of superhero costume, with a vow to "teach society a lesson - you don't mess with the fruit sellers". No danger to us, but we keep an eye on him as he seems to be a bit of a danger to himself.

AYE-AYE POPEYE GUY

At one point, this candy-and-tobacco addicted former crazy-golf-hut-attendant was a handsome man. You wouldn't know it now, though. The candy rotted his teeth, he lost his job at the crazy golf place... you fill in the blanks. He now makes a living as a Popeye impersonator on the streets of Stiletto Flats, doing what is probably the strangest, if not wholly inaccurate Popeye impersonation I think I've ever seen. Again, a danger to no-one but himself, he has come panhandling in our launderette a time or two, and we've had to throw him out and send him on his way with a flea in his ear.

RATDENTIST

Ratdentist is a great lover of kids' movies, and so was inspired when he saw Ratatouille, the movie about the rat that becomes a top-flight chef. "I thought, why not! If a rat can become a chef, then why not a dentist. I'a always been a passion of mine to go into dentistry..." What he doesn't mention is that he's taken to petty larceny to pay for dental college. If we can get him to go straight, we'd gladly pay his tuition, but he needs to turn himself in first.

BRENDA BLASTOV

Ms. Blastov has been experimenting for many years with creating human missiles, propelled by a variety of fuels, all of them a variation on the same theme. The idea behind it is apparently to get the humans airborne and then shoot at people below with a poison dart system. We keep an eye on her simply because she might either succeed in getting more than three feet off the ground, or blow herself up.

RAMENELVIS

Ramenelvis believes in the natural psychic-enhancing properties of noodles, and therefore wears a wig of ramen to enable him to telepathically read peoples minds. We keep an eye on him simply to protect him from getting attacked by seagulls.

 So there you have it. A few more oddballs that we simply have to keep tabs on simply to stop them from themselves.

P.S. Have you ever wondered what happened to Harry after The Hendersons? I spotted him the other day on the subway in Prague. What was I doing there? Maybe I'll tell you someday....

More Unobsessibles

We've got our eye on you, Unobsessibles

Clark hit the nail on the head about many of our foes. (Personally, I think they come from broken homes with bad childhood experiences ... but that's just a theory of mine.)

Still, you gotta watch out for some of these Bozo noses ...

Dander Puss

Oh ... he's innocent now. (I think it's a he. No judgment here.) But wait until whatever obsession he's exhibiting takes a turn for the worse. 

Can you imagine? Hairball hacking superpowers ... allergic reaction ray guns ... incessant mind control torture meowing ... rampant apathy. The list could go on and on ... and on.

Chanita Jones aka Furbelly

A couple miles over  from Dander Puss is this character. Put the two together and who knows what evil they could come up with as a team ...

Grandma Establishment

I see this piece of work doing much more than waving a cane above her head and yelling at kids to stay off her damned lawn. Don't you? (Note: Sorry for the graphicness of the above photo. Some of these wackos are blatant and uncultured.)

Natasha "Knows"

Gross. Just ... gross.
  

Melonhead

What a goofball.

Still, what could he be planning, if anything? The reintroduction of watermelon seeds to everyone's favorite summer fruit? (Scandalous!) Some sort of rind chicanery? (Unthinkable!) Melon ball panic mania? (What?!?) Who knows?

Tom Smith

(Better known as "LGBT-atarian")

What sinister dealings (or color schemes) this possible Obsessive might have lurking in the folds of his muumuu is anyone's guess. I shudder to think. *shudder*

But it's this next group we might really have to keep a closer than usual eye on. Because it's not the group itself but the brains behind the curtain, so to speak, that could drum up bad business ...

This is an example of an innocent little tyke dolled up in a Santa outfit. Cute as a button, isn't he? 

And that, right there, is the problem. Can you see the potential of this kid - or a bevy of them - being the center of attention while devious doings are afoot behind the scenes?

You betcher Bippy. Just imagine it: People's attentions distracted by all that lovablenness while crime is being committed not a stone's throw away. Despicable! Contemptible! And absolutely within the realm of possibility. The chaos and no-good-doer-y of this unnamed menace are limitless. And, with the Christmas season practically upon us, that's why we've got a bead on this viable threat.

Jeff might have a couple more we missed. Stay tuned for Friday's entry ...

The Unobsessibles

Having effectively dealt with Günther Parsifal McParshnipp (was there ever a doubt?), it occurred to me that an awful lot of our foes find themselves on the wrong side of the law due to their inability to effectively control their uncontrollable obsessions. McParshnipp with rooted vegetables. Mac Ramey with stringy fashion. Henri Petit with being a disgusting little urchin.

Yuck.

There's lots of people out there dangerously preoccupied with various things. Not all of them are criminals of course, but some of them are a mere gentle shove from becoming such. We monitor many of these folks for the sake of nipping potential problems in the bud, so to speak.

Such as...

LUDWIG VON DUCK

This guy wants to turn himself into a duck. Nothing wrong with that, I guess. Ducks are nice. He started out like this...

But recently has taken it to an extreme...

Yeah, this is worth keeping at least one eye on.

SHELLY BEENE

This is Shelly and she loves jelly beans. "Love them?", she queries. "Anybody can love them. Everybody SHOULD love them. They're amazing. They're incredible! They're the best thing on earth. In fact, they're the only good thing about this godforsaken world. I want them. All of them. I want every jelly bean there is!"

You're kidding, right Shelly?
"Huh? Oh (heh heh) yeah, just...you know... kidding."
Mmm-hmm. We're watching you, Shelly.

CAY and the KWALKERS

I can't say that we care for this kind of creepy capering about. "What's the problem", asks Cay on behalf of her little band of whatever-this-is doers. "Why, it's The Cakewalk! It's a prancing stage dance with a backward tilt. It's fun and good for your posture!" How is it good for your posture? You people look like human question marks. 10 minutes of this and anybody would be in lower lumbar agony. "Why, I never! How dare you imply that we're bitter about paying an exorbitant sum for the exsclusive rights to an antiquated form of dance that we hoped to turn into a retro fitness movement, but failed miserably, losing a fortune in the process!"

There are more just below the radar potential annoyance-providers that the fellas will tell you about later this week.

A Pretty Simple (g)Root Extraction

Free but still captive, weighing our options on how we were going to deal with Günther Parsifal McParshnipp and realizing all around us were nothing but root vegetables to use as weapons, I considered what Jeff and Clark had thought and said previously:

"... trying turn the world into a root-veg-only buffet, well, that's fascism." Which is a little bit odd coming from Jeff, being he's a big potato aficionado. And, being a type of tuber which is a form of root vegetable, well ... The distress of being captured and the added excitement of McParshnipp's digs ("I was drooling over that kitchen, let me tell you! It had EVERYTHING!") was rather overwhelming. And our new foe did lean to the extreme.

Clark's summation was a little more pointed: "You know, maybe this guy isn't completely off base here. Misguided, sure. Overly ambitious, definitely. But the world could probably benefit from more rooted vegetables ..." I mean, who couldn't benefit from a better diet that included vegetables nowadays? 

The fact of the matter, however, was we were nabbed and confined by an adversary rooted in roots.

What to do? What to do?

Then it came to me << BOOM! >> like a lightning bolt. 

"Guys, I have a plan. It's a little off-kilter but, being this McParshnipp guy is somewhat deluded* but I certain we can turn this root proclivity of his to our advantage." I detailed the plan to the guys. It was pretty simple but everyone need to be on board. "I noticed a Walmart not far away on our way here ..."

Finished detailing with the guys what I was about to do, I called out to McParshnipp's goons: "Get your boss. I need to talk to him." He came through the door a few minutes later.

"Ach, what gives?" McParshnipp huffed.

"I need to run an errand ... with your permission, of course." I told him.

He was naturally shocked at my request. "Nine, mein Herr! Are ya daft? If ya thin I'ma gonna let ya slip oute the compound, yav lost it, Jimmy ..."

"Again with the 'Jimmy' ..." Clark noted.

"Look" I reasoned "Clark and Jeff are still here. It's not like you don't have any hostages. And you can send as many of your goons with me you like. Plus ... I'll let you hold on to my driver's license. I know you know how hard it is to get those thing replaced ..." I opened my wallet and handed him my license.

"Well now ..."

"I'll be back lickety split. Promise."

He sighed heavily. "Ahll right, then. Off with ya ..."

I was back in less time than I thought. McParshnipp and the guys were waiting in anticipation. "Here." I handed him a wrapped package.

"Wot's this?" he asked.

"Just open it." I looked at Clark and Jeff. Both of them exchanged smirks.

"Ya wouldn' be foolish enough to hand meh uh bomb now, wouldja?"

"Just freakin' open it ..." I commanded.

He delicately ripped the paper of the package. He looked at his henchmen and they straightened to attention just in case. 

McParshnipp pulled out a stuffed Groot doll. You know ... Groot from Guardians Of The Galaxy.

McParshnipp looked confused. "What's this now?"

"Squeeze it." He did so.

"I am Groot!" Groot stated. "I am Groot!" The look that came over adversary was classic, just as planned.

"Mein passion has changed! I love him ... !!!" he yelped to us. "Kommit here, mein little Root! Ya've gotta wee bit of odd accent ... but I love ya, ja!" Hugging the Groot doll, we couldn't help but be a bit embarrassed for the dude. But it was a means to an end ... the end of our captivity.

He handed my license back to me, freed us, shook our hands profusely and continued going gaga over his new toy. He even promised to stop his (possible) nefarious ways and be nice.

Obviously, McParshnipp had been overtaken with joy by a kid's toy he mistakenly thought was named Root. It doesn't get any more poetic than that. 


*Note: And who of our rivals aren't deluded in some way?

Rooting out the truth

Serious tactical error by Günther Parsifal McParshnipp, locking us in a cupboard. Did he really think we wouldn't be able to get out of there? Did he not realize that by not separating us that we would come up with a plan together? Of course we did both of those things almost immediately. Once we were free and before we sprung into action, I brought up a point to consider.

ME: You know, maybe this guy isn't completely off base here. Misguided, sure. Overly ambitious, definitely. But the world could probably benefit from more rooted vegetables in our global diet. Corn and grapes in abundance!
JEFF: Corn isn't a rooted vegetable.
MICHAEL: And grapes aren't even a vegetable at all.

As frequently happens, they missed my point. And I didn't have time right then and there to explain how vegetables work, in that they grow on trees and trees have roots. So I just dropped it for the time being.

Considering Günther Parsifal McParshnipp's fascination with rooted vegetables, it made sense that the nerve center of his operation would be in the cellar of the building we were in. Sure enough, it was. We knew we had to make our way down there and smash people and stuff. As we proceeded, we found things along the way that gave us insight into the mind with which we were dealing.
In his book case...

On his CD player...

On his 'fridge behind a magnet shaped like a carrot...

And of course, buckets and barrels and bins full of veggies...

ME: I bet he root, root, roots for the home team
JEFF: Nice.
MICHAEL: Good one.
ME: Thanks!
JEFF: But what is his home team? I can't think of any roots-based sports organizations
MICHAEL: For that matter, where's his home? He's Scotch/German. How does that happen?
ME: And who's Jimmy?
JEFF: If I'm not mistaken, Haguelands Village (Burmarsh Romney Marsh Burmarsh, KEN TN29 0JR) is a farming community and known for its alpacas. It's located between Scotland and Germany. Maybe that's where he was born and raised.
MICHAEL: By Jimmy, I believe you're correct! 

He was!

ME: Do alpacas eat rooted vegetables?
JEFF: No, they're modified ruminants which means they chew cud like a cow or deer.
MICHAEL: They eat hay and grass.
ME: So, like grass... roots?

But would any of this newly-acquired info about the obsession driving our foe and his possible point of origin be of any use in bringing him to heel? Find out Friday!!