The Whatever Files

Gumshoe

Lancelot Galbraith hunched down behind his few remaining cards. He'd already played 'The Play', 'The Review' and some awful doggerel passing itself off as poetry. Heck, he'd even finessed a hand playing Trumpity. He had very few options left, and the best part of a month to cover. He was spreading himself thin.

Naturally there was a Dame behind it all. Lady Schnujo's cards were all hearts, and he was the sad schmuck who'd fallen for them.

She ran the Whatever Contest, out of Israel of all places. Guess she wanted to put some distance between her and the WDC Mob. Slowly they were reeling in the Contestants, promising them gift points, merit badges, prizes. They'd been delivering too, well over a million GPs spent already and not a few merit badges squandered. It was a racquet, but hey, that's Cricket for you.

He wondered again how he'd come up with the nom de plume "Lancelot Galbraith". Guess I'm getting jittery he mused (behind him his MoM nodded and grinned at the mention). Yeah, that was another thing, not only a Dame but somehow he'd gotten himself hitched to an Oriental taskmistress who demanded copy, and lots of it.

He was getting distracted, and time was slipping by. Spreading his cards face down on the table he took a slug of Whiskey Sour. Then he spent five minutes choking. He'd forgotten that he didn't drink and hated whiskey. When he finally regained his composure, Lancelot drew a card and, offering a prayer to Lady Luck, looked down. Oh great he moaned, 'Gumshoe'


This transcript of a previously unbroadcast(able) Radio Play called 'Heartfelt' by Angus Brosnigag is brought to you by: The Whatever Contest.