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.

Can't Cook? Won't Cook?

You probably noticed on Monday that one of the requests Michael was talking about concerned a lady who did not know what to fix her husband for dinner. Believe me, we get more and more silly requests from these unimaginative, non-creative people than you can shake a stick at (by the way, what kind of phrase is that, anyway? I mean, who are these people that just walk around with sticks in their hands, looking for stuff to shake them at? I'll tell ya who - old people, that's who. They're the ones with the monopoly on sticks and stick-shaking. And they're the ones that make up daft phrases like that, too, I'll bet.) and that is why I have taken it upon myself to publish a cookbook for all those thickies  folks out there that might be incompetent a little lacking in the cuisine department.

Yes folks, for the rock-bottom price of only $29.95, you can own this indispensable guide to not making huge mistakes in the kitchen. You can learn:

• the mantra "If you got rice, you got dinner!"
• how to use burnt toast
• get creative with spaghetti hoops
• the other mantra "Canned mushrooms are your friend!"
• what to do with that 4-year-old jar of gherkins

It's true! For only six monthly payments of $10 inc. P&P, you can get your hands on a copy of this life-saving, meal-rescuing and money-stretching book, handsomely bound in filo pastry, full of tips and tricks to ensure you never go hungry again! Lots of your questions answered! For example:

• does yogurt ever really go off?
• does cheese ever really go bad?
• when does the 5-second-rule apply?
• my dog grabbed my steak and dragged it round the garden. Is it salvageable?
• what about blue cheese? Isn't that mouldy already?

And many more!
And the really great thing about this book is, it's made from Triscuits and Weetabix all smushed up together, so even if you try the methods outlined in this book and fail (which is virtually impossible) you can still make a delicious meal by covering this book in cheese and toasting it!

All profits of this book go to a worthy cause, namely, Marissa's Home For Wayward Showgirls. 

And don't forget with every seven copies you order, you get one free! Christmas - sorted.


You're welcome, world.

(Offer not valid in KY, HI or MT. Allow 6 -8 months for delivery. )

Unbelieva-Thanks, 2015!

The holiday season is upon us once again and we're in full celebration mode. Even Jeff, who is British and legally not allowed to have Thanksgiving because they lost the war. But he simply loves the whipped potatoes too much to exclude him.

Which brings me to this week's theme: We, The Unbelievables, are going to share our favorite recipes with you! These are the actual recipes we will be using when we prepare this year's feast for Marissa's Home for Wayward Showgirls

CLARK'S UNBELIEVA-STUFFING!

INGREDIENTS

• 1 lb breakfast sausage
• 3/4 cups margarine, melted
• 3/4 cup finely diced onion
• 1 1/2 cups chopped celery
• 8 cups, soft bread cubes, divided
• 3 teaspoons poultry seasoning
• 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

1. Place sausage in a large, deep skillet; cook over medium-high heat until evenly brown, about 10 minutes. Remove sausage from the skillet and let drain on paper towels. Combine melted margarine with the sausage drippings until there is 1 cup of drippings and margarine combined.
2. Cook and stir onion and celery in the margarine-dripping mixture in the same skillet over medium heat until onion is tender but not browned, about 10 minutes . Stir in about 1/3 of the bread cubes. Pour onion mixture into a large bowl and stir in remaining bread cubes, sausage, poultry seasoning, and pepper. Mix well.
3. Insert stuffing into the turkey's gaping orifice and throw the turkey in the oven . Or use a casserole dish, cover it with tin foil, and bake in the oven at 325°F for 30 minutes. Then take off the foil and bake it another 15 minutes.
4. While waiting for it to cook, go over to Henri Petit's house and put some rotten eggs in his mailbox.
5. Get back home and take a phone call from an upset Henri Petit, saying "Why would you do that? It's Thanksgiving!"
6. Reply with "Do what, you disgusting, mewling, cabbage-headed infant? I'm over here making stuffing."
7. Hang up when he says "I saw you, you dolt! And for the thousandth time, I AM NOT A..."

This recipe serves you and 11 hungry showgirls. Increase ingredients proportionately if you have more showgirls.

The Great Freak Snowstorm Party (or, the case of the dirty punchbowl)

It was Yuletide down in Stiletto Flats
And downtown was all twinkly and sparkly
But in a top-secret location
We three fellas looked through a glass, darkly.

"This punchbowl is filthy,", said Michael.
"Who soiled it? I really must know!"
The other two of us three
Were as puzzled as he - 
But right then, it started to snow.

"Snow? In Nevada? Really?" said Clark,
"It isn't unheard of, but rare..."
I stood scratching my head.
"Let's get out the sled!",
Cried Michael. We others yelled "Yeah!"

We called up a few of our cohorts
And said "Hey everybody, c'mon!"
"The snow's coming down, let's build snowmen,
And go sledding before it's all gone!"

The first to arrive was The Kitsch Bitsch
And she made a beeline for the bar.
(No, it's not what you think,
She was mixing some drinks!)
Then she saw the punchbowl and cried "AARGH!"

"This punchbowl is filthy, who soiled it?"
We all looked at her and gave a shrug.
She stared at us guys
Arms akimbo, and sighed
"No matter, I'll just use this jug."

Some other guests started arriving
Marissa was dressed for the weather.
She looked just like Anna Karenina-
But 75 times more clever.

Laura was stunning in her teal blue coat
Accented with what looked like snow.
She said "the old El Dorado refuses to start,
So I skied all the way, dontcha know."

We all went out to the backyard
Which was blanketed thickly in white.
Guests were building snowvillains
And making snow forts
And having a huge snowball fight.

Then the band "Playgirl Club" made their entrance
They set up their gear and plugged in.
They sound a bit like Grand Funk Railroad
With a bit of Mel Torme thrown in.

The KB, our mentor, gave us a drink,
Saying "I call this an Irish Mule.
It's icy, yet fiery with ginger,
And a kick like Peter O'Toole."

(For recipe, see below)

Well, those drinks warmed us up, that's for sure,
And the party, it went with a bang.
It was getting quite late in the evening
When Clark slapped his head and went "Dang!"

"What's up buddy boy?" said Michael and I.
"What irks you? What's giving you grief?"
He replied "The punchbowl! It's my fault!"
Michael muttered, "Well, that's a relief."

Clark said "I used it to transplant seedlings,
from the garden to my terrarium.
"I just set it down when I walked back inside - On the shelf right next to the aquarium."

"No, it's my fault," I said. "Blame me, guys."
"I used it to make whipped potatoes in."
"I thought they were earthy and tasted quite dirty - 
That explains it!" said Michael with a grin.

"But I must tell you guys, I'd be lying
If I didn't explain what I knew.
I used it myself, before you did - 
Cleaning mud from the sole of my shoe."

So that was the punchbowl mystery solved
And we had a good laugh and a giggle.
Then we unplugged the band and switched on the hi-fi
(The band's music had started to niggle.)

We three headed into the kitchen
Clark made a huge batch of hot cocoa.*
I cooked up my world-famous waffles
(Jamie Oliver's recipe. Sshh! they don't know.)*

We all sat and chilled out, munching waffles,
(Which we dunked in the cocoa - yum yum!)
All the guests went back home, with a tear in their eye-
Well, that's not quite true. Not everyone.
(Hello, ladies!!!)

The next morn, the snow had all melted,
And you'd never have known it was there.
But those who were there have their memories
Of the freak snowstorm party that year.

So let's raise a glass of something,
And wish good will to all, peace on earth.
Happy holidays to all and sundry
(even villains... for what it's worth.)


*Recipes follow...

http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/chocolate-recipes/epic-hot-chocolate/

http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/eggs-recipes/griddle-pan-waffles/

Irish Mule Recipe:
-1 part good quality Irish Whiskey
-2 parts Jamaican style Fiery Ginger Beer 
-Aromatic Cocktail Bitters
-several lime wedges and juice of 2 whole limes

In a large pitcher half filled with ice, mix together whiskey, ginger ale, and juice from 2 limes. Top off with 2 splashes of bitters. Garnish with the lime wedges.


Sit back, drink, and enjoy!

NB: For a Kentucky Mule, substitute the Irish Whiskey for Bourbon.

Unbelieva-Perks

One of the greatest things about being a member of an elite group of international crimefighters is the perks. Of course, we don't expect people to thank us in kind - we do what we do because, well, somebody's got to, and it's probably better that it's us doing it rather than some ill-equipped, unprepared schmoe who'd probably make a right old pig's ear of it, huh? We are well trained and highly skilled, not to mention experienced, and it just makes good sense to put us on the case. But we don't expect thanks of any sort.

However, when people thank us for helping out in whatever small way we can, it is always appreciated. Even if it happens to be a tip of the hat, a peck on the cheek or a handshake, it feels good to be respected, beloved, esteemed and cherished.

But what feels really good is when we get gifts. A lifetime supply of jam, for example. When we solved a case for a fruit farmer, his wife vowed to send us homemade jams and jellies for life. Every month a small package containing half a dozen jars of jams and marmalades* arrives, regular as clockwork. And if they're not snaffled by Kip the mail boy, we do what we like to call "getting our preserves on". Clark hits the toaster, Michael whips out the butter and I open those jars, butter knife at the ready. We call on a couple of Unbelievababes and maybe some of the residents of Marissa's Home for Wayward Showgirls and we pig out.

We be jammin'

Another time Clark just happened to mention in passing that he loved playing records on tinny old novelty record players cranked up to "distort", and a few days later, this arrived in the mail.

He was in hog heaven, I'm telling you.

So as you can see, little surprises like that make it all worth while. I mean, it's all very well getting that warm glow of inner satisfaction from the knowledge of a job well done, but what can compare to the feeling of getting cool stuff just handed to you on a silver platter? It doesn't get any better than that.

Michael and Clark will no doubt have tales of other 'little extras' we sometimes earn. But in the meantime, we gotta run... we just got given three tickets to see the amazing Rocky Preston in concert, just for breaking up a black market Christmas sweater syndicate. All in a day's work.

*I love marmalade, by the way.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

It's great that the guys told you all about our fantastic association with Queen, the most amazing rock band in the history of all things cool, and their influence on our style and vice versa. 

But I would be remiss if I did not relate to you the now-declassified tale of the single greatest day in our Unbelievable lives!

That's right. A day so amazing it would be scorched like a brand onto our collective brains.

It all started when in 1978 Freddie rushed excitedly into the Unbelievabase clutching an advance copy of their new album Jazz. (Remember, this was the 70s, when you could get away with giving your new LP a title that had nothing to do with the record contained therein, such as James Taylor's Greatest Hits or The Best Of Roger Whittaker.) 

"Listen to this!" shouted Fred, putting the record on the Blaupunkt and cranking it to 11.

We were mesmerized. Mesmerized enough to stop what we were up to (a game of Strip Parcheesi, as I recall) and listened to the instant classic that was Jazz.

Still, we could not help but notice the look of worry and concern on Freddie's face. We were curious. What on earth did he have to be anxious about? The album was brilliant, as has been already noted. So we asked him. 

"Why the long face? What's troubling you?"

"Well," he replied, "I'm having a creative block. The first single off of Jazz is gonna be a double-A side, "Bicycle Race" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" but I have absolutely no idea how to promote it. I mean, listen to those songs. Those songs ROCK OUT LOUD! They are guaranteed KILLERS! But the record-buying public is fickle. They'll buy anything the DJs tell them to. How else do you explain Clive Dunn's "Grandad" going to Number One?"

"Good point" quoth I.

"Trouble is, I need something so amazing, so shocking, so memorable that it'll be a shoo-in for sure... but what??"

"So you thought you'd pop in and pick our brains, eh?" interjected Clark, in a perplexing Canadian accent he was trying to perfect for some oddball reason (turns out he had had a brief fling with a Canadian air hostess, and was probably hoping to repeat the process).

Freddie was slightly embarrassed. "Um, er... yeah."

"Well, why didn't you say so!!" Michael and I cheered in unison. We were already two steps ahead. 

"Leave it to us, Freddie. We'll get this sorted in no time." I reassured him.

Clark leapt to his feet and fetched us all a beer. "BREWSKIES, EH!?!" he declared.

For once, we let it slide. 

So... a few phone calls to the Unbelievababes, to Marissa and Laura, several bike shops in London, a few top photographers and Wembley Stadium later, we had it all arranged.

I think you know where this is all going.

The Unbelievababes, with Laura and Marissa somewhere in there.

Marla and Trixie won top prize! (For what, I'm not sure).

We all got to spend the day in London watching the Unbelievababes ride around naked on bicycles!! Oh. My. God. We were in hog heaven - especially Michael, who spends most of his life getting naked anyway. It was so much fun, and such a success that they incorporated the shoot into the video.





Queen - Bicycle Race by Leo59

Not only that, but sometimes the Unbelievababes were drafted in to participate in live shows when the band were playing the song.

So there you have it. 

We've done a lot of fun stuff in our lives, but a day spent watching naked girls on bikes in the company of the greatest rock band in the world, as well as my two amazing crimefighting compadres, takes some licking. 

But that's another story...

A Re-Volting Development

Many apologies, folks, for the lateness of this post. We would have been posting yesterday, were it not for the fact that yesterday here in Stiletto Flats, Nevada, we were out of juice. No power. The electricity was not forthcoming.

Now for a while Michael (the resident 'boffin' of the group) has been trying to build a self-contained off-grid power backup system, involving solar, wind, wave motion and more solar, thermal heat pumps and geodesic domes. He'll occasionally hole up in his workshop and can be heard tinkering around and occasionally shouting when he hurts himself, all the while listening to the strains of Mantovani, which he says helps him to think straight. The other day I poked my head round the door while he was at the donut shop gathering, ahem, supplies, and snapped a picture of what I saw.

Anyhoo, so yesterday the power went out and Michael's jimmy-rigging did not kick in, so naturally I went outside to check if it was just us or the whole neighborhood. Darn the luck. Everyone else was still on, from Marissa's Home For Wayward Showgirls to Vincent Tran's House O'Pho. So, Clark checked the fuse box. Nope, he says. Everything looks kosher. So, admitting defeat, we decided to call in the pros. 

We tried every electrician's number in the Stiletto Flats phonebook. To be honest, there were only three. No answer, too busy, closed for vacation, you know the story. Until on the back of the book I see a full-page glossy ad for "A-1 Kwik Kwality Sparky Corp. Inc. and Co. Ltd." Sounded legit. No working phone number, but an address. I thought I'd pay them a call.


When I got there, this was the scene that presented itself to me.

I'll let the others tell you what the meaning of all this was, and how we got our power back on. Meantime, ciao.