Sarcasmo's Scribblings

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Stories That Never Were #4

The request: Make up a title for a story I didn't write, and I will respond with details of those non-written stories.

The Title: Ignatia Hypotenouse And The Case of The Rusty Trombone

The Result:

Ignatia Hypotenouse’s fantasical name, like most names, was entirely the fault of her parents. In her case, she did not suffer the indignities of woefully inherited names that could be explained away by having been in the family for generations. Ignatia was an adopted child, and her parents felt that instead of assigning her the bland, recognizable names of their families: Mary, Ethel, Nana – or even, in fact, their family name, the detestably common Smith – these free spirits thought she should have a name that was entirely her own. So - they took their passions – homeopathy and mathematics (and not spelling), and an 8 year old Ignatia Hypotenouse was so re-introduced to a world.

A world which would, due to her name, taunt, tease and shun her in her formative years. Although she heard through certain channels that when of her fellow inmates at the orphanage had gone to some Disney fans, and had been saddled with the moniker “Tinkerbell” – eventually shorted to “Tinks.” As the story went, Tinks ended up an exotic dancer – since her name made it difficult for her to be taken seriously anywhere else. Whenever Ignatia felt badly about her name, she thanked heavens for that her name only gave her the sort of lonely difficulties that had chased her into books for companionship at such an early age – a passion for reading that had subsequently led her to become well versed in the fine art of detecting. It began with Encyclopedia Brown then Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes. By high school she had tired of fictional cozies and had turned instead to the hardstuff – forensics, pathology, criminal psychology.

So – complain as she might, (and she did, often and to anyone who would listen) – Ignatia (or “Iggy” as she was known around the studio) knew she owed her career as head writer for CSI to her parents and their unorthodox naming methods.

In this role, she received many calls from fans and cranks wanting to give her an idea for her next big case – so when she started getting repeated notes regarding a “Rusty Trombone” she quickly filtered them into her trusty circular file. But one day, when the receptionist was out to lunch and Iggy had to answer her own phone, a strangely familiar voice came over the line. “Is this Ignatious Hypotenouse? This Tinkerbell Johnson – we…we were at St. Mary’s together.” A sob should the receiver. “Tinkerbell?” Iggy whispered into the phone. “Tinks, what is it?” “It’s the bandleader of the burlesque house – he’s missing and their blaming me because of some instrument they found in the dumpster of my building. Please, Ignatious, I need your help. I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

Ignatious grabbed a well-chewed pencil and her notepad. “Slow, down, Tinks. Tell me everything. Start from the beginning. And Tinks..”
“Yes.”
“Call me Iggy.”

And so Ignatious Hypotenouse began the strange case of The Rusty Trombone – her first hands-on investigation and…the following year, her first Emmy nominated episode.

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