Nothing could have prepared me for the horrors I would witness. The shadowed path was darker than I could ever have imagined, but what I was to witness sure put all I had been pursuing into perspective and illuminated the warped reasons for the intense desire to obtain the professor’s film. I had evidence that could blow this town wide open, ruin careers and reputations, maybe even cost a few lives. Somewhere deep inside I knew it might cost me big, but I had to see what was on that film. Curiosity was simply getting to me. Yeah, I know the oft-said warning, but I had to find out anyway.
My fasted option was to see Phil Coffee, the proprietor of Fatcat Photo. I used his skills all the time to develop film, get me up-to-date cameras, and even doctor a photo or two. Phil even stepped in at times when I needed addition photographic monitoring on stakeouts. Nobody captured the curves of cheating wives and mistresses better than he did.
Phil was in the back of his dusty shop when I strolled in. Rows of cameras, one for just about any preference or need, graced shelves along a back wall. I locked the door after I walked in and turned the “Closed” sign. In less time than it takes to set an f-stop, Phil’s furry face flicked out from a darkroom.
“Duffy, my man, what you doing here? Got a job for me? Or are you here for another copy of Honey Boo Boo Does Dallas?”
Ok, busted. I have to admit that sometimes my trade with Phil was under the table, but it was hard to get copies of Honey’s stuff. Don’t judge me. You’d do it too if you could.
“Nope. I need you for something else. You have a sixteen mm projector handy in the shop?”
“Do kittens love laser pointers?”
“Great. Can you string up a small film for me and give us a look?
Phil sighed, but I knew he wouldn’t refuse me and I could even detected a rising interest in what I had brought. I always seemed to come up with interesting items. I had once found a film copy of the Panther cheerleaders romping and frolicking during a calendar shoot while investigating Miami Hurricanes players in a huge recruiting scandal. Not the first time for them of course, but I cracked that mystery faster than a cheetah on speed. I think Phil still had a copy somewhere around here (not that I ever watched it).
Phil took me back to a storage room where he had a screen on the wall and set up a small projector. He flipped the lights and the images began to roll. Soon our heads practically rolled off of our shoulders too.
At first it looked like a typical party. White-jacketed waiters waltzed around with trays of champagne and caviar, while gorgeous dolls pranced around in slinky evening dresses. I started noticing a lot of prominent people, county and city commissioners, police bigwigs, big businesspeople. Mixed in though was an assortment of mob folks, organized crime and drug lords, pimps, and other naughty folk. Still, this revelation would not have been that damning, would never have resulted in murder or even much media attention had it not been for. . .had there not been. . .it is almost too painful to describe. There were, there were. . .
DOGS! Female dogs mixing with the men, pawing them, licking their whiskered faces. Ohhhhh, the inhumanity, the injustice. Now, I am not so old fashioned that I can’t accept a little crossing of the breeds. But here you had wanton debauchery. Most of the little bitches (mostly chihuahuas and cockapoos, with a few bischans thrown in) were from one of the well-known doggie clubs in Atlanta, the Dirty Doghouse. A famous rapper---Snoopy, Snoop, something like that----hung out there all the time. These ladies were in various stages of dress, but they all wore spiked doggy collars and were answering to every command. Let me say that more than legs were being humped. I was disgusted, yet riveted. I heard Phil spitting out several hairballs. But two things really stood out in the midst of this tragedy. On the middle stage, bare naked except for a long string of pearls, dancing with feline abandon, was Honey Boo Boo! And in the middle of the scene, dressed in drag with huge diamond earrings, tossing kibbles about and touching. . .well, I just can’t describe it. . was Wabo himself. No wonder the big guy wanted this clip. His days as boss would end in a poof. Long-standing treaties between dogdom and catdom had declared that there would never be pernicious puppy pandering. Not in this town. I was so riveted to the screen that I didn’t even hear the front door being jiggled. But I definitely heard the glass shatter.
[Join us tomorrow as we continue The Adventures of Duffy
Dean, Detective on this radio channel.]