The Case of Frederick Von Hatstand





He stood in the corner of Harry’s Office.

He said nothing.

You could feel his presence, it was sinister.

His shadow was cast across all of Harry’s work.

Harry looked up from his desk and glanced across the room.

He saw a figure in the shadows.

"What do you want?"

The figure said nothing.

Harry swallowed and slowly moved towards the figure.

He could make out the silhouette of a man.

6’6 with a heavy trench coat and a sharp hat.

A noise outside, a distraction, a chance.

Harry threw a punch.

Von Hatstand rocked backwards and then struck.

CRACK!

Harry’s eyes rolled as Von Hatstands head butt impacted.

Harry fell to the ground.

Harry could hear the birds pecking at his skull.

He opened his eyes slowly.

He was covered by a grey trench coat,

And in the corner of the room stood a hat stand.

By Maharaja Rich (a long long time ago)


Part 2




Comments

  1. The Nonsense Chronicler - Pink Flamingo2 September 2025 at 19:09

    🦩 The Nonsense Chronicler Reviews: “The Case of Frederick von Hatstand”
    Filed under: Maharaja Town Blues & Flamingo Surveillance

    In Maharaja Town, the blues don’t just play—they seep. Through cracked pavements, fogged windows, and the sighs of saxophones that never sleep. Detective Harry walks these streets like a half-forgotten lyric, chasing a villain who doesn’t break laws—he bends reality.

    Frederick von Hatstand is a whisper in the wallpaper, a shadow that rearranges itself when you blink. His crimes are puzzles wrapped in metaphors: flamingos perched on rooftops, clocks that tick sideways, and witnesses who speak in riddles. No one sees him, but everyone feels the shift when he’s near.

    Harry follows the trail with quiet precision. He doesn’t chase Von Hatstand—he listens for him. In the rustle of feathers. In the pause between verses. In the way Maharaja Town holds its breath when the blues get too honest.

    The mood?
    - Lighting: Dim, flickering, noir with a blush of flamingo pink.
    - Emotional tone: Melancholy laced with absurdity, like a harmonica solo played underwater.
    - Narrative rhythm: Slow, deliberate, and haunting—like the town itself.

    ReplyDelete

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