Little Eye, Big Trouble
Flash Fiction from Arbogast
Cletus picked at his hemorrhoid and whistled through his teeth. He inserted the broken, jagged tip of the BiC and made circles with it. He groaned once in pain, then moaned twice with pleasure. The swollen, distended vein itched like crazy, and due to the shortness of his arms, Cletus had to rely on a roster of broken pens to ease his distress.
A series of knocks on his trailer door broke his concentration. The unexpected noise also spooked him so much that he lost control of the pen. In a second, the BiC was too far up his keester to pull out without the help of pliers.
“Hello! Is this the trailer of Cletus Mangrove?” The voice was female. A little sultry, a little seasoned, but undeniably feminine. Attractive, Cletus hoped.
“Yes, it is,” he grunted. “Come in.”
The trailer rocked back and forth owing to the sheer girth of the prospective client. The mountain of white jelly wearing a blond wig towered over Cletus, and when she reached his desk, the human hippopotamus began to laugh.
“My God, a real midget.” The blubber on her fleshy face moved like the ocean with each guffaw. Cletus wanted to reach out and punch her, to make her shut up with violence. Alas, he knew that such an action would only result in a mildly bruised knee.
“Yes, I am a little person,” Cletus said. “I am also the only licensed private investigator in Winn Parish. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“Naw,” said the woman. “I’m here to take you back to the circus.”
Cletus let out a few mocking laughs that made him sound like a donkey. The woman joined in too, then held out a hand.
“You’re a good sport. Name’s Laura Lee Rotunda.”
Cletus had to stifle a snicker. Imagine that: a lard ass with the Italian version of “rotund” as a surname. God—ultimate comedian.
“I’m hoping that you can help me with a little problem.”
“Go ahead and shoot. I charge one hundred a day plus expenses.”
“Well, hell. That don’t bother me at all. This job won’t last more than a night.”
“Ok,” Cletus said while scratching his nose with a pen taken from his drawer for non-butt scratching pens. “What is it that you want me to do?”
“You’ll be perfect for the job. A little body like yours can spy easily.”
Cletus felt anger welling up inside. One more wisecrack about his height and he’d explode.
“Ok, Miss Rotunda. Please get to the point.”
“Don’t rush me, micro-man. Don’t you rush me.”
That’s it, Cletus thought. I’m not going to let this whale mock me anymore. He shot up from his chair, and using his cluttered desk as a springboard, leapt for Laura Lee’s throat. He made contact and managed to grab a pound a flesh, but instead of anything vital, he got two fists full of excess fat.
Laura Lee turned in circles. Cletus swung from the woman’s jowls until he begged her to stop. He was nauseous and in danger of vomiting Chef Boyardee.
“You calm now?” the woman asked.
Cletus let go. When he tried to put both feet back on the ground, Laura Lee surprised him by grabbing the back of his head and pressing his whole body into her stomach. She then dropped to her knees and hovered above the floor. Cletus felt in danger of suffocating.
“You little bastard!” she screamed. “I want you to spend a night spying on my husband. You’re going to do it for a flat fifty bucks, too.” With that, Laura Lee pulled Cletus out of her waistline and trundled out of the trailer.
The private eye bellowed until his eyes went bloodshot. He pounded and kicked the floor. He cried and peed a little but ultimately took the job. He could use fifty bucks.
***
A quick Google search helped Cletus find the Rotunda home. It was a ranch-style house with a dilapidated porch accentuated by trash. Hoarders, Cletus thought. A fat hoarder. He became incensed on behalf of all the American taxpayers responsible for keeping such waste alive.
While others in his field had to rely on bushes or cars or hidden microphones, Cletus merely walked up to windows wearing all black and occupied a corner of the pane for hours. He did the same that night. His target proved to be a shockingly slim man with a bristly mustache and a chicory complexion. Cletus found him slumped over in a recliner with his hand shoved down his sweatpants.
“Must be a fetish,” he thought, as he watched the waif change channels and play with his pecker. This observation lasted for hours, with the man only getting up occasionally to go to the bathroom or into the kitchen to a get a fresh beer. Even his self-conducted climax did not warrant standing up or sliding out of his leather cocoon.
At two a.m., the man was fast asleep.
“I have been had!” Cletus screamed to the night as he began the long bicycle ride back to his trailer. “That porpoise is paying me one hundred or else!”
***
“That’s what I wanted you to find!” Laura Lee bellowed. “I wanted you to find Edgar all alone and jacking off. Now I have grounds for a divorce, and I can take all his money.”
Cletus showed his confusion. What money? What divorce?
Laura Lee made the trailer shake with her dancing. Cletus told her to stop. She flung a single President Grant at the P.I instead.
“Imagine pleasuring yourself when you can have all this.” Laura Lee struck up a cheesecake pose. Cletus growled and barked at her like a rabid dog. She left the trailer singing to herself about money and making her husband too broke to be poor. “Abandonment” left her lips at some point.
As for Cletus, he was left to stew in impotent rage, but at least he was fifty dollars richer.