The Last Detective Alive

The Last Detective Alive

John Swartzwelder

Language: English

Pages: 165

ISBN: 0982273622

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


One of a series of comedy/science fiction novels featuring slow-witted detective Frank Burly, by John Swartzwelder, the writer of 59 episodes of The Simpsons.

(Unfortunately, no plot summary available anywhere I can find. I'll write one after I've read it.)

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weren’t of any help. They hadn’t seen anybody that small and flat before and were frightened by it. Even after I had explained what a picture was they still kept running away from it, yelling: “A p-p-picture!” I found the people of 1680 to be very difficult to deal with. They were all ridiculously arrogant, for one thing. They had names like “Purity”, “Patience”, “Diligence”, and “Humility”, and worked hard to live up to their prefabricated reputations. All they wanted to do was brag about their

the inscription with delight. “‘He told us how it was.’ Say, that’s nice.” He turned to me. “Looks great, doesn’t it? I think the artist has really captured my jowls.” I shrugged. “It looks okay, I guess. All jowls look pretty much the same to me.” Suddenly I noticed something. “Hey, is that a statue of me over there?” Another large statue had been erected near the one of F. Gordon Fantastic. It looked kind of like me—certainly the clothes and the hat were the same—but the face was kind of

of the scientists about overpopulation—the warnings that mankind had ignored for so long, with such great success—were starting to come true. As the flood of people into 2010 increased, the opening in the time tube widened and entire time periods started squeezing out. I almost got hit on the head by Revolutionary France, if you can believe it. Then, as if in an attempt to top that, the Paleozoic Era spewed out of the tube, ran into the Roaring 20’s, fell over, and killed a guy. It’s true. I saw

thin air, unless they’re magicians. And even magicians haven’t really disappeared. They’re hiding in the hat with that rabbit. I was sure Blinky must be hiding somewhere too, but darned if I could find him. Then, just as I was about to give up, I found him. I was passing by an art museum and happened to glance in the window. Hanging on one of the walls among the Old Masters was a painting titled: “Frank Burly”. It was a portrait of Blinky. He was wearing my hat and smirking. I ran inside,

Finally I didn’t have to buck the crowds everywhere I went. There were no lines at the theaters. I got great seats at the ball park, right on the pitcher’s mound. At nightclubs I had the whole dance floor to myself. At the carnival every turn was my turn. And I finally won the Central City Talent Contest. You’d think I’d get tired of it after awhile—not being able to share my good life with others—but I never did. It’s not the sort of thing a sane person would get tired of. I also enjoyed the

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