“Maynard is the philosopher-cum-man-of-action that we all wish we could be, the detective who solves mysteries by turning idiocy against itself.” – Peter Rozovsky, Detectives Beyond Borders (Spinetingler Award winner)

  "I recommend to everyone who is looking for a quick read. It's perfect for that pick me up laugh, that bathroom read, that afternoon escape." - Molly Edwards, Reviews by Molly

  "Oh my goodness! I’m not sure when I’ve laughed so hard. It was like having a conversation with the man from the 'Grumpy Old Men' movie! So much fun!" - Gina Hott, Hott Books

  "It never ceases to amaze me how this young man has created such a perfect crotchety old character. This is such a fun series and Maynard has become one of my favorite characters." - Michelle Peden Vasquez, Life in Review

  "With a satirical take on everything from America’s war on drugs to immigration law to social security, Maynard Soloman is a mobile home-dwelling crime-fighting dynamo. He may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he sure is amusing." - Laura Roberts, ePublisher Daily

  "With a chip on his shoulder and more than his share of attitude, the protagonist presents himself as a force to be reckoned with and immediately captured my interest." - Chantal Boudreau, author/illustrator

  Maynard Soloman Solves the War on Drugs

  By Benjamin Sobieck

  Copyright 2012 Benjamin Sobieck

  Cover image of skull by Márton Berta (https://freeboi.pecsielet.hu) via sxc.hu

  Image used with artist’s permission.

  Who is Maynard Soloman?

  Here’s the deal.

  My name is Maynard Soloman. Not “May.” Definitely not “‘Nard.” Not “Solo.” Not “Man” or even “Hey, Man.” It’s Maynard Soloman.

  Can you read? Then you can see that I stenciled my name in spray paint on the side of my Winnebago. On the other side are the words, “Investigation Services.” Do a little word math and whaddya got?

  Maynard Soloman Investigation Services.

  It’s a one-man shop on wheels. I opened it up after the force booted me out of the Obscenities Division. Said this ol’ badger had dug his last hole. Said my health “problems” were a liability to the job. Said I should just retire.

  I told ‘em to go to hell. Retirement is for chumps who want to die in their gardens. I don’t have a green thumb and I never will. I have a can opener and slow cooker.

  They forced me into retirement anyway. Fine. But then the arthritic bean counters at the force stiff me on the medical bills. Some retirement.

  So to keep gas in the ‘bago and the can opener turning, I open up my own shop. Pay off some of this debt, see the country in the ‘bago and try to drive faster than my health “problems.” Long as I’m moving, I don’t have time to get sick.

  By the way, I don’t use or carry weapons. I cross too many state lines.

  Now climb into the ‘bago and let’s get going. In the time it took me to explain all this, gas just went up three cents.

  Maynard Soloman Solves The War on Drugs

  At my age, a one-person sleeping bag does not cut the mustard. You gotta stretch. Gotta let those joints air out from a long day of wheelin’ and dealin’. What you need, friend, is a two-person sleeping bag.

  They are the double-wide trailer of sleeping arrangements. Sure, it ain’t fancy. But it’s a helluva lot better than the single version.

  Thing is, the price of a two-person sleeping bag is double of a single. I’m having trouble keeping brand name Tuna Helper in the pot. It’s just not gonna happen, see.

  Here’s a tip from ol’ Maynard himself.

  Go down to a Costco or a Sam’s Club and head to the sweatpants section. Get the biggest pair they sell, the ones that look like a gal-damn tent. You may also want to check the camping section.

  Bring it back to your RV (or camper or pickup topper or wherever you live) and cut down the insides of the legs. Tape the legs back together so there’s only one leg.

  Now crawl inside after a long day on the road. Hot damn, tell me if that isn’t prime mollycoddling.

  I call it the Maynard Bag. The ‘nard Bag, for short. Don’t try patenting it, I’ve already got one pending. One of my financial Plan Bs. I think this one is actually Plan R.

  This night, as always, I snooze in the ‘nard Bag. I’m dreamin’ of buffet coupons when a ruckus wakes me up. The ‘bago is parked at a Wal-Mart in the overnight area. I figure it’s just prices dropping or somethin’.

  But then I realize it’s coming from inside the ‘bago. Sounds like…the dishwasher? Did some punk break into the RV to do his dishes in my ‘washer? With the way knuckle-draggers are these days, I wouldn’t put it past ‘em.

  Just the other day, some fruit bat put his Cro-Magnon skull through the left window of the cab. The POS takes a bunch of my CDs while I’m away eating a burger. The joke’s on him, though, because those are all classical renditions of Elvis songs.

  The next night, I come back from supper and again a window is busted. This time, it’s the right one. The punk ape put the CDs back with a note. It says, “Fuck you and dye.”

  Yeah, fuck me for having an RV. I’d like to tack his balls from my ceiling next to the fuzzy dice and the lucky troll. But I don’t have a paper clip small enough.

  So it wouldn’t be a surprise if someone WAS doing dishes in the ‘bago ‘washer.

  I get up out of the ‘nard Bag and do a couple stretches. I need the half of me that can still mop the floor in arse to wake up. The rumbling and churning gets louder the more I stretch. That punk must have the ‘washer on full power.

  That gets me madder than a coyote in a car wash. Running appliances when the engine is off drains the gal-damn battery.

  I peel back the curtain to the bed and look into the kitchenette. I see my alphabetically arranged coffee creamers. I see my slow cooker. I see a puzzle I worked on for 1,200 miles. I don’t see that the dish washer is on.

  Where in the hell is all this noise coming from?

  I hear it again. It sounds like a bobcat going apeshit on a crappy coffee machine.

  Then I feel it. It’s in my guts. The sound of my own indigestion had woke me up.

  Damn it all to hell, it musta been that chintzy buffet a few towns back. Here’s another tip from ol’ Maynard: Never eat at a buffet where the senior price is more than the regular price. Also, “brown” is not a kind of meat in the same way as “red” or “white.”

  Time to head out to Wal-Mart. Bless their hearts for having a pharmacy section open 24 hours.

  I shuffle out the ‘bago in my pajamas. It’s not like anyone will care at this hour. I turn to inspect the RV as I leave. That punk was back. After “Investigation Services,” he wrote “SUKS :-” in red spray paint.

  Gal-damn fruit bat needs a lesson in spelling. I can help. Spell this one. S. H. I. T. F. O. R. B. R. A. I. N. S.

 

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