Post by Charla Dreyfus on Oct 31, 2006 20:10:02 GMT
Just in time for Halloween, here is a short story I have been working on. It's a parody of "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. I think it's pretty easy to figure out who the narrator here is. 
Parts of this may seem implausible, but most of it is because aspects of the source story at times had to be changed quite a bit to make it work for the Pink Panther characters. And besides, sometimes the actual movies have parts that don't make sense.
And I hope no one is annoyed by the use of well -- sometimes over-used -- Clouseau quotes. I just thought that they fit right in.
Anyway, hope you all enjoy!
TRUE! I can easily be irritated at times, but why must you call me mad? I didn't become Chief Inspector of the Sûreté by being mad, I can tell you that. The disease has sharpened my senses if anything -- it's certainly not destroyed or dulled them. Above all, my sense of hearing became acute. I heard many things on the earth and not on the earth. How, then, could I be mad? Listen, and you'll see how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is hard to say when I first thought of the idea, but once I did, I could not stop thinking about it. There was no reason for it. No object in doing it. Clouseau was a fairly decent inspector. He had never truly wronged me or insulted me. I think it was his bungling -- yes, it was this! He was always tripping over something or causing me injury. And so, by degrees, very gradually, I resolved to kill him.
Now this is the point. You think I'm mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely, carefully and cautiously I went to work! I was never kinder to Clouseau than in the week before I was to kill him. Always speaking gently to him, assigning him important cases. And while he was out on those cases, I'd follow close behind him, making extra sure he didn't discover me. When I was certain he wouldn't notice me, I would carefully -- ever so carefully -- take out a small flashlight and shine it at him, waiting for him to stumble or do something equally idiotic. I did this for seven long nights, but never did he do anything the least bit stupid, and so it was impossible for me to kill him, because it wasn't Clouseau who tormented me -- it was his clumsiness. And every day, when he would come into my office and report back to me, I'd call him by name in a hearty tone, and compliment him on his good policework. So you see he would have had to have been a very clever inspector indeed, to suspect that I followed him each night as he was doing his investigating.
On the eighth night I was more cautious than usual while following him. The minute hand of a watch moves more quickly than mine did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers. I could scarcely contain my feelings of excitement -- of triumph. To think that there I was, and he not even realizing my secret dreams and thoughts. I almost chuckled when I thought of this. He might have heard me, because he looked about himself quickly, as if he was startled. Now you might think that at this point I drew back -- but no. I was securely hidden, and I knew that he could not see me.
This time, I followed him to his apartment. Much to my delight, he had left his door unlocked for a few minutes. He quickly realized this error, but not before I had crept into the house and hid.
When he was asleep, I crept toward the bedroom with my flashlight. I had resolved that this was indeed the night.
I peered in the door and was about to turn the flashlight on when it fell from my hand and landed on the floor with a light thud. Clouseau immediately sprang up in bed and shouted, "Who's there? Is someone out there hiding in the dark? Cato, if that's you, I must tell you that this is not the time!"
I scowled at my carelessness, and became very still, waiting for him to go back to sleep. I heard a slight groan, and immediately recognized it as the groan of terror. I myself had made this sort of groan on the previous nights, when I thought of those terrors that distracted me. I felt sorry for poor Clouseau; I knew what he was feeling. I inwardly chuckled, though. He had been lying awake ever since the first time he had heard a noise. He was becoming more and more frightened since then. He was trying to act brave, to find simple reasons for the noises he heard -- but he could not. He had been saying to himself, "It's probably Cato," or "I just imagined it." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions, but he had found them to be all in vain. Yes, all in vain! Because -- you see -- his death, in approaching him, had enveloped him in a black shadow. And it was this shadow that caused him to feel -- although he could not see or hear me -- to feel my presence in the room.
After waiting for quite some time without ever hearing him lie back down, I decided to turn on the flashlight -- stealthily, ever so stealthily -- until the small ray of light eminating from it shone upon Clouseau.
Didn't I tell you that what you mistake for madness is merely awareness of the senses? Soon, there came to my ears a voice -- a voice with a thick French accent. I knew it well -- it was Clouseau's voice! But why wasn't his mouth moving...? "You have received a bimp!" the voice said, "It is a very bad bimp! You should see a doctor about that bimp!" And so it said over and over. This increased my fury, because it represented everything I hated about Clouseau.
But I tried to stay calm. It was hard for me to even breathe. I tried as hard as I could to keep the ray of the flashlight upon Clouseau. Meanwhile the voice increased in volume. It became louder and louder! Louder every moment, I tell you! I suddenly realized something; the voice would surely wake up the neighbors if it got any louder! Clouseau's time had come! With a triumphant laugh I leapt at the bed. He shouted once, only once. In an instant I had pulled him to the floor, giving him a sound blow to the head. I smiled joyfully; the deed was done. Clouseau lay motionless at my feet. I believed for sure that he was dead. He would never bother me again!
If you still think I'm mad, you won't think so anymore when I tell you of the clever way I concealed the body. I found an area in the floor of Clouseau's bedroom where the planks were rather loose. I pulled some of them up and laid him in the space. Then I replaced the boards so cunningly that not even Clouseau himself could have found anything suspicious. Ha! Ha!
The next day, when Clouseau found to be absent from his work, I, along with a few other inspectors from the Sûreté, came to his apartment to investigate. I was calm -- what was there to be nervous about? I instructed the others to search -- and search well. They, of course, found nothing. I accompanied them to Clouseau's bedroom. Again finding nothing, we all sat down and started to talk.
Before long, though, I found myself growing tired of the conversation. I wanted us all to leave. My head ached, and there seemed to be a ringing in my ears; but still those inspectors were intent upon having a chat. The ringing became more distinct, and I tried to talk more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definitiveness. Soon, I found that the noise was not in my ears.
At this point I must have became very pale, but I continued talking as if nothing was going on. The sound was still increasing -- but what could I do? It suddenly became clear that it was a voice speaking -- a voice with a thick French accent. I gasped for breath, but the other inspectors didn't seem to hear it. "You have received a bimp," it said, "It is a very bad bimp..."
I talked faster, but the voice kept on getting louder. I got up and started arguing about things that didn't matter -- why didn't they want to leave? I paced the floor, as if troubled by what they were saying. I yelled, I swore, I beat my head against the wall! But the voice arose over all and continued to heighten in volume. Louder, louder, louder! And still, the inspectors were smiling and talking pleasantly. Was it possible that they didn't hear the voice? Oh no, no, no. They heard it! They knew! They were mocking me! Anything was better than this! I felt that I had to scream or die! The voice became louder, louder, LOUDER!
"Villains!" I shrieked, my eye twitching furiously, "Stop it! I confess! Tear up the floorboards! It is his talking of hideous bimps!"
At that moment, Clouseau -- who, much to my great frustration, had only been knocked out the night before -- lifted the planks and stared curiously about the room. "Peek-a-beau?" he said, rather questioningly. I fainted.
Parts of this may seem implausible, but most of it is because aspects of the source story at times had to be changed quite a bit to make it work for the Pink Panther characters. And besides, sometimes the actual movies have parts that don't make sense.
And I hope no one is annoyed by the use of well -- sometimes over-used -- Clouseau quotes. I just thought that they fit right in.
Anyway, hope you all enjoy!
The Tell-Tale Bimp
TRUE! I can easily be irritated at times, but why must you call me mad? I didn't become Chief Inspector of the Sûreté by being mad, I can tell you that. The disease has sharpened my senses if anything -- it's certainly not destroyed or dulled them. Above all, my sense of hearing became acute. I heard many things on the earth and not on the earth. How, then, could I be mad? Listen, and you'll see how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is hard to say when I first thought of the idea, but once I did, I could not stop thinking about it. There was no reason for it. No object in doing it. Clouseau was a fairly decent inspector. He had never truly wronged me or insulted me. I think it was his bungling -- yes, it was this! He was always tripping over something or causing me injury. And so, by degrees, very gradually, I resolved to kill him.
Now this is the point. You think I'm mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely, carefully and cautiously I went to work! I was never kinder to Clouseau than in the week before I was to kill him. Always speaking gently to him, assigning him important cases. And while he was out on those cases, I'd follow close behind him, making extra sure he didn't discover me. When I was certain he wouldn't notice me, I would carefully -- ever so carefully -- take out a small flashlight and shine it at him, waiting for him to stumble or do something equally idiotic. I did this for seven long nights, but never did he do anything the least bit stupid, and so it was impossible for me to kill him, because it wasn't Clouseau who tormented me -- it was his clumsiness. And every day, when he would come into my office and report back to me, I'd call him by name in a hearty tone, and compliment him on his good policework. So you see he would have had to have been a very clever inspector indeed, to suspect that I followed him each night as he was doing his investigating.
On the eighth night I was more cautious than usual while following him. The minute hand of a watch moves more quickly than mine did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers. I could scarcely contain my feelings of excitement -- of triumph. To think that there I was, and he not even realizing my secret dreams and thoughts. I almost chuckled when I thought of this. He might have heard me, because he looked about himself quickly, as if he was startled. Now you might think that at this point I drew back -- but no. I was securely hidden, and I knew that he could not see me.
This time, I followed him to his apartment. Much to my delight, he had left his door unlocked for a few minutes. He quickly realized this error, but not before I had crept into the house and hid.
When he was asleep, I crept toward the bedroom with my flashlight. I had resolved that this was indeed the night.
I peered in the door and was about to turn the flashlight on when it fell from my hand and landed on the floor with a light thud. Clouseau immediately sprang up in bed and shouted, "Who's there? Is someone out there hiding in the dark? Cato, if that's you, I must tell you that this is not the time!"
I scowled at my carelessness, and became very still, waiting for him to go back to sleep. I heard a slight groan, and immediately recognized it as the groan of terror. I myself had made this sort of groan on the previous nights, when I thought of those terrors that distracted me. I felt sorry for poor Clouseau; I knew what he was feeling. I inwardly chuckled, though. He had been lying awake ever since the first time he had heard a noise. He was becoming more and more frightened since then. He was trying to act brave, to find simple reasons for the noises he heard -- but he could not. He had been saying to himself, "It's probably Cato," or "I just imagined it." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions, but he had found them to be all in vain. Yes, all in vain! Because -- you see -- his death, in approaching him, had enveloped him in a black shadow. And it was this shadow that caused him to feel -- although he could not see or hear me -- to feel my presence in the room.
After waiting for quite some time without ever hearing him lie back down, I decided to turn on the flashlight -- stealthily, ever so stealthily -- until the small ray of light eminating from it shone upon Clouseau.
Didn't I tell you that what you mistake for madness is merely awareness of the senses? Soon, there came to my ears a voice -- a voice with a thick French accent. I knew it well -- it was Clouseau's voice! But why wasn't his mouth moving...? "You have received a bimp!" the voice said, "It is a very bad bimp! You should see a doctor about that bimp!" And so it said over and over. This increased my fury, because it represented everything I hated about Clouseau.
But I tried to stay calm. It was hard for me to even breathe. I tried as hard as I could to keep the ray of the flashlight upon Clouseau. Meanwhile the voice increased in volume. It became louder and louder! Louder every moment, I tell you! I suddenly realized something; the voice would surely wake up the neighbors if it got any louder! Clouseau's time had come! With a triumphant laugh I leapt at the bed. He shouted once, only once. In an instant I had pulled him to the floor, giving him a sound blow to the head. I smiled joyfully; the deed was done. Clouseau lay motionless at my feet. I believed for sure that he was dead. He would never bother me again!
If you still think I'm mad, you won't think so anymore when I tell you of the clever way I concealed the body. I found an area in the floor of Clouseau's bedroom where the planks were rather loose. I pulled some of them up and laid him in the space. Then I replaced the boards so cunningly that not even Clouseau himself could have found anything suspicious. Ha! Ha!
The next day, when Clouseau found to be absent from his work, I, along with a few other inspectors from the Sûreté, came to his apartment to investigate. I was calm -- what was there to be nervous about? I instructed the others to search -- and search well. They, of course, found nothing. I accompanied them to Clouseau's bedroom. Again finding nothing, we all sat down and started to talk.
Before long, though, I found myself growing tired of the conversation. I wanted us all to leave. My head ached, and there seemed to be a ringing in my ears; but still those inspectors were intent upon having a chat. The ringing became more distinct, and I tried to talk more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definitiveness. Soon, I found that the noise was not in my ears.
At this point I must have became very pale, but I continued talking as if nothing was going on. The sound was still increasing -- but what could I do? It suddenly became clear that it was a voice speaking -- a voice with a thick French accent. I gasped for breath, but the other inspectors didn't seem to hear it. "You have received a bimp," it said, "It is a very bad bimp..."
I talked faster, but the voice kept on getting louder. I got up and started arguing about things that didn't matter -- why didn't they want to leave? I paced the floor, as if troubled by what they were saying. I yelled, I swore, I beat my head against the wall! But the voice arose over all and continued to heighten in volume. Louder, louder, louder! And still, the inspectors were smiling and talking pleasantly. Was it possible that they didn't hear the voice? Oh no, no, no. They heard it! They knew! They were mocking me! Anything was better than this! I felt that I had to scream or die! The voice became louder, louder, LOUDER!
"Villains!" I shrieked, my eye twitching furiously, "Stop it! I confess! Tear up the floorboards! It is his talking of hideous bimps!"
At that moment, Clouseau -- who, much to my great frustration, had only been knocked out the night before -- lifted the planks and stared curiously about the room. "Peek-a-beau?" he said, rather questioningly. I fainted.
