A Cloozoe Supervised Investigation yields, at long last, the unvarnished truth. But another in what will be a long, maybe too long, series of crack investigative reports to lay before you the essential facts needed before placing any orders with your Tackle Commodities Futures Dealer.
Dear Reader, as promised by Himself, no stone will be left unturned to bring to you (plural or singular) the very best that our investigative skills might produce. Toward that end, we were tasked with seeking to find the true maker of all those silly reels stamped with a “D”. You know, the ones that have had their value artificially and rapidly inflated by a bit of chatter.
So, we sent out feelers to our operatives and confidential informants (“C.I. in warrantspeak), questioning whether the man born in Coventry, England in September 1860 could have possibly produced what is claimed.
Tips started coming in and were quickly discarded. Some suggested the reels were made by the Devil, thus stamped “D,” but this was soon rejected. Others spoke of Dante or his cohort Beatrice, but the reels seem newer than that, and likely not of Italian manufacture.
Then we struck gold. A meeting was arranged with a completely unreliable C.I.. At the meeting held in a Sunoco Station in the Catskills, the C.I. spoke softly, eyes darting back and forth to maintain security as taught by the Chief Inspector himself (a completely different type of C.I.), and he told a tale of a secret hollow in Joisey that might hold the answer. At first, thinking he was speaking of the Jersey Islands, we immediately assumed our British-speak role and responded, “Beautiful! Spot on, Sir!” disrupting all other diners within 1/4 mile. Advised the informant was referring to New Jersey, we reverted to the normal Sunoco-site language and the hushed tones required of all such investigators.
The location of the hollow in question was written in white ink, carefully scripted on the flat of a Taylor Quad to avoid the slightest chance of detection. The C.I. was paid with the usual payment received by any participant in an investigation performed on behalf of you, Dear Reader, and we parted our ways. He back to Formerly Clark’s, and yours truly over to Mikey’s for a touch of coffee.
Days later, and with all proper surveillance equipment in place, we headed off in the night to the location in question having carefully de-scarfed the rod section holding the vital information. The clue was now pocket-sized.
Three days later, two of them spent in traffic in New Jersey, we arrived. We awaited the fall of night, or nightfall should you prefer one word when four can easily do the descriptive job, then watching shooting stars, space trash and worried by a forecast for acid rain, we slid down a slick mud and skin piercing gravel embankment into the very den of the “D”. And “D” could well have stood for total darkness, Dear Reader, since during the whole of the night we could see nothing, save a strange fire that would glow, dim, glow, dim and so forth. You get the picture. Occasionally sparks would fly off and we feared that Beelzebub himself was in charge. Sidebar for a moment. I just realized that I have been using the editorial “we,” that some of you may find to smack of talking of myself in the third person. Tough – get over it.
Now back to our modest adventure.
As rosy fingered dawn approached (I am not referring to Dangerous Dawn from Paterson, but adopting a literary image), we could finally see a small creature across the hollow. Muscular and covered in hair, we momentarily speculated that we were beholding a Yeti, in troll-like form. But then, as the sun began to rise our vision cleared. There the creature was, resplendent in a Pink (yup, we using that word again) Tutu, bent over an anvil, Vulcan’s very hammer in hand, banging away. From time to time, he, or perhaps it, would grunt, pick up a small object with tongs and place it over the glowing embers of a charcoal fire, and then back to the anvil with more work to be done.
Having been up all of four days, mostly stuck in traffic, we grew weary, leaned back against a tree and dozed off. I assure you this well deserved rest was not caused by medicinal nips from the nickel silver flask always carried with the Cloozoe surveillance kit. Speaking of nickel silver flasks, I have been able to collect eight of them, all bench made by Flaggon of Pewksberry who started his career as an arbor pin maker for Heaton. They are stamped “FOP” on their bottoms and are simply the most beautiful bench made flasks ever made. One, and only one in my collection, features the famous and rare red agate screw top and is, believe it or not, left hand wind. Keep an eye out for these and if a couple of us discuss them back and forth who knows what will happen to the value. Sorry. I hope you’re still with me since the end, the truth, is in sight from what we next saw at the site and will shortly reveal to you.
We awoke to the croaking of a two-headed toad that had apparently emerged from the small stream running nearby having finished its feast on Luna moths. It was a strange land we were in. I said to myself, here’s a maze trod indeed through forthrights and meanders, by your patience I needs must rest me. (I ain’t going to look it up but I think that’s a rough statement uttered by Gonzago, a member of the Genoa Bar in The Tempest. I simply, because of my responsibilities to you, Dear Reader, had to throw in something of legal nature. It’s part of the job description.
Looking about, the strange Specie Tutuman had vanished, the embers had died to the flat color [colour for our international readers] of a properly oxidized non-swiss ferrule and all was silent, save the alternating hiccups from the toad’s two mouths.
Across the hollow stood the evil black anvil with a small object perched on top. We extracted photographic equipment necessary to capture the evidence and approached cautiously. Through the sparse and toxic weeds we spied vast numbers of bent, rusted and unfinished horseshoes, all bearing a stamped “D”. Odd we thought, but took careful note of the evidence. Scattered here and there were hand-forged fishing spoons with names engraved upon them. “Hendrikson beater,” “Creative Cahill,” and one, with a small hinged compartment labeled “real cow dung.”
An object stood upon the anvil, a hammer at the ready, and we carefully took the above photograph submitted for you, Dear Reader, to preserve the scene and provide you with demonstrative evidence.
We previously, using gifted intuitive skills, had thought long and hard on the fact that many of these “D” marked reels were held together by what is known as the “Horsehoe Latch.” The clues were coming together.
The object upon the anvil, as you may see, is a hand-crafted fishing reel, the inside stamped boldly with the infamous “D.” Cleverly disguised, it has a latch made to look like a 19th Century telephone. Not the giveaway Horseshoe latch.
The final proof. A loud fart from the rim of the hill above us startled us and drew our attention to a modest shack, teetering on the brink. A scream pierced the silence of the glade. “Free me, free me!!!” a female voice proclaimed. In response an inhuman grunt was heard with words believed to be, “screw you Roberta, bring me more breakfast, I’ve been hammering out more stinking reels all night long.”
Out came our telescope, and when extended and placed to the eye, one could see over the door, hanging loosely by a single hinge, a worn and decrepit sign of no welcome that said, “Defazio’s Domain – Keep Out – Right Wing Central.”
So we finally have the answer and have now given it you, Dear Reader, for all time. It is Dezazio the Farrier himself, and his infamous “D” that is imbedded in these very reels as it is upon the shoes he fashions for the feet of animals. Before word should get out, we advocate that the three of you who may have come across this news unload quickly any such reels on the closed market, before the crash in value takes place and you’re wiped out.
This small piece is just another contribution to help you, Dear Reader, in your quest for the best.
So, we sent out feelers to our operatives and confidential informants (“C.I. in warrantspeak), questioning whether the man born in Coventry, England in September 1860 could have possibly produced what is claimed.
Tips started coming in and were quickly discarded. Some suggested the reels were made by the Devil, thus stamped “D,” but this was soon rejected. Others spoke of Dante or his cohort Beatrice, but the reels seem newer than that, and likely not of Italian manufacture.
Then we struck gold. A meeting was arranged with a completely unreliable C.I.. At the meeting held in a Sunoco Station in the Catskills, the C.I. spoke softly, eyes darting back and forth to maintain security as taught by the Chief Inspector himself (a completely different type of C.I.), and he told a tale of a secret hollow in Joisey that might hold the answer. At first, thinking he was speaking of the Jersey Islands, we immediately assumed our British-speak role and responded, “Beautiful! Spot on, Sir!” disrupting all other diners within 1/4 mile. Advised the informant was referring to New Jersey, we reverted to the normal Sunoco-site language and the hushed tones required of all such investigators.
The location of the hollow in question was written in white ink, carefully scripted on the flat of a Taylor Quad to avoid the slightest chance of detection. The C.I. was paid with the usual payment received by any participant in an investigation performed on behalf of you, Dear Reader, and we parted our ways. He back to Formerly Clark’s, and yours truly over to Mikey’s for a touch of coffee.
Days later, and with all proper surveillance equipment in place, we headed off in the night to the location in question having carefully de-scarfed the rod section holding the vital information. The clue was now pocket-sized.
Three days later, two of them spent in traffic in New Jersey, we arrived. We awaited the fall of night, or nightfall should you prefer one word when four can easily do the descriptive job, then watching shooting stars, space trash and worried by a forecast for acid rain, we slid down a slick mud and skin piercing gravel embankment into the very den of the “D”. And “D” could well have stood for total darkness, Dear Reader, since during the whole of the night we could see nothing, save a strange fire that would glow, dim, glow, dim and so forth. You get the picture. Occasionally sparks would fly off and we feared that Beelzebub himself was in charge. Sidebar for a moment. I just realized that I have been using the editorial “we,” that some of you may find to smack of talking of myself in the third person. Tough – get over it.
Now back to our modest adventure.
As rosy fingered dawn approached (I am not referring to Dangerous Dawn from Paterson, but adopting a literary image), we could finally see a small creature across the hollow. Muscular and covered in hair, we momentarily speculated that we were beholding a Yeti, in troll-like form. But then, as the sun began to rise our vision cleared. There the creature was, resplendent in a Pink (yup, we using that word again) Tutu, bent over an anvil, Vulcan’s very hammer in hand, banging away. From time to time, he, or perhaps it, would grunt, pick up a small object with tongs and place it over the glowing embers of a charcoal fire, and then back to the anvil with more work to be done.
Having been up all of four days, mostly stuck in traffic, we grew weary, leaned back against a tree and dozed off. I assure you this well deserved rest was not caused by medicinal nips from the nickel silver flask always carried with the Cloozoe surveillance kit. Speaking of nickel silver flasks, I have been able to collect eight of them, all bench made by Flaggon of Pewksberry who started his career as an arbor pin maker for Heaton. They are stamped “FOP” on their bottoms and are simply the most beautiful bench made flasks ever made. One, and only one in my collection, features the famous and rare red agate screw top and is, believe it or not, left hand wind. Keep an eye out for these and if a couple of us discuss them back and forth who knows what will happen to the value. Sorry. I hope you’re still with me since the end, the truth, is in sight from what we next saw at the site and will shortly reveal to you.
We awoke to the croaking of a two-headed toad that had apparently emerged from the small stream running nearby having finished its feast on Luna moths. It was a strange land we were in. I said to myself, here’s a maze trod indeed through forthrights and meanders, by your patience I needs must rest me. (I ain’t going to look it up but I think that’s a rough statement uttered by Gonzago, a member of the Genoa Bar in The Tempest. I simply, because of my responsibilities to you, Dear Reader, had to throw in something of legal nature. It’s part of the job description.
Looking about, the strange Specie Tutuman had vanished, the embers had died to the flat color [colour for our international readers] of a properly oxidized non-swiss ferrule and all was silent, save the alternating hiccups from the toad’s two mouths.
Across the hollow stood the evil black anvil with a small object perched on top. We extracted photographic equipment necessary to capture the evidence and approached cautiously. Through the sparse and toxic weeds we spied vast numbers of bent, rusted and unfinished horseshoes, all bearing a stamped “D”. Odd we thought, but took careful note of the evidence. Scattered here and there were hand-forged fishing spoons with names engraved upon them. “Hendrikson beater,” “Creative Cahill,” and one, with a small hinged compartment labeled “real cow dung.”
An object stood upon the anvil, a hammer at the ready, and we carefully took the above photograph submitted for you, Dear Reader, to preserve the scene and provide you with demonstrative evidence.
We previously, using gifted intuitive skills, had thought long and hard on the fact that many of these “D” marked reels were held together by what is known as the “Horsehoe Latch.” The clues were coming together.
The object upon the anvil, as you may see, is a hand-crafted fishing reel, the inside stamped boldly with the infamous “D.” Cleverly disguised, it has a latch made to look like a 19th Century telephone. Not the giveaway Horseshoe latch.
The final proof. A loud fart from the rim of the hill above us startled us and drew our attention to a modest shack, teetering on the brink. A scream pierced the silence of the glade. “Free me, free me!!!” a female voice proclaimed. In response an inhuman grunt was heard with words believed to be, “screw you Roberta, bring me more breakfast, I’ve been hammering out more stinking reels all night long.”
Out came our telescope, and when extended and placed to the eye, one could see over the door, hanging loosely by a single hinge, a worn and decrepit sign of no welcome that said, “Defazio’s Domain – Keep Out – Right Wing Central.”
So we finally have the answer and have now given it you, Dear Reader, for all time. It is Dezazio the Farrier himself, and his infamous “D” that is imbedded in these very reels as it is upon the shoes he fashions for the feet of animals. Before word should get out, we advocate that the three of you who may have come across this news unload quickly any such reels on the closed market, before the crash in value takes place and you’re wiped out.
This small piece is just another contribution to help you, Dear Reader, in your quest for the best.
OMG! Mr. Fly OMG!!! It came to me in a dream last night after rereading your investigative report. Sir, you have only discerned the ice-sculptured tern on the tip of a HUGE iceberg. That name, "DeFazio" is of ancient Latin derivation and translates as "of the Sulphurous Mists". If we review the written history of mankind from ancient times to the present there is a definite pattern apparent; a sinister systematic series of terrible temptations all marked with the demonic "D" and all designed to lure men down the greasy gradient of Greed by creation of overpriced objects. Examples are legion......first editions of the works of "D"ante, investment opportunities with Nelson "D" Rockefeller, the "D"eLorean automobile, the "D"efense Industry etc. etc. The monster whom you have glimpsed is an ancient minion and never rests. Now I ponder whether this foul creature has not aqquired a printing press and is at the root of the penultimate plan, to turn our cash into trash. Could he be printing billions and billions of US "D"ollars?
ReplyDeleteKen,
ReplyDelete“Of the sulphurous mists.”
"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes"
Was I that close to “D”oom itself? Was I treading in the valley of the shadow of “D”eath?
I think you perfectly tied it all together and traced the Devil’s very work. And ask the artisan himself, Tutuman, his opinion of the word “D”emocrat. Again, our desire here is only to present the unvarnished truth, tales impregnated with facts, bundled together as with gossamer silk in a cocoon of perfection. The next report may be shorter – this one having gone well beyond the retention span of many.
Cwfly