Maharaja Blues

Tee shirt available 🌀 Croissantstein’s Monster: A Tale of Twisted Pastry In the misty hills of Boulangerie Hollow, where the scent of warm dough hangs heavy in the air, lived a reclusive baker-scientist named Dr. Croissantstein. Obsessed with the idea of creating life from pastry, he spent years in his flour-dusted laboratory, weaving strands of croissant dough like sinew, laminating layers with precision, and whispering incantations in the language of patisserie. One stormy night, lightning struck the copper whisk atop his bakery tower. The surge of energy coursed through his creation—a towering figure stitched together from buttery spirals, crescent limbs, and a heart of molten almond paste. It rose from the marble slab, its eyes two glistening cherries, its voice a crackling hiss like steam escaping a proofing chamber. “Je suis… Croi!” it bellowed, knocking over racks of éclairs and sending baguettes flying. But Croissantstein’s Monster was no mindless beast. It had dreams. It want...

The Quantum Encore   A monologue by Maharaja Richie the Rooster  hatched at the edge of the Anti-Delta when feeling the blues deeply beneath a flickering lamppost shaped like a flamingo bassoon! This was witnessed and recorded on a quadraphone by an elusive bear, face hidden behind shades with a bass in his claws. So you want the Encore, do you?   The one that plays when no one claps?   When the fog’s too thick for applause,   And the noodles are tangled in regret? I’ve seen it. Heard it.   Played it once on my resonator,   A six-stringed beast tuned to heartbreak and Old Fashioneds.   PI Barry Noir went white.   Madame Fuchsia danced with a spoon. They say I crow too loud for paradox.   But I was born in the Anti-Delta,   Where the blues don’t mourn, they merely misremember.   Where rivers run backward   And harmonicas bleed Penderyn whisky. My resonator? ...

The press declared a scandal loud:   “A Picasso stolen!” cried the crowd.   From Madrid’s vault to van en route,   A painting gone, no sign, no loot.   Steel strings embedded in a desk,   Now vanished in a tale grotesque. But truth, as ever, wore pink boots,   And danced between dimension roots.   For Pink the Flamingo, suave and sly,   Had wagered once beneath moon’s eye.   A debt unpaid, a canvas owed,   A Cubist chord in steel bestowed. No lock could hold what fate had signed.  Pink blinked, and space itself aligned.   Inside the van, mid autopista glide,   He shimmered in and slipped inside.   No crowbar, glove, or getaway,  Just feathers, flair, and quantum sway. The driver swore he saw a flash,   A velvet blur, a cosmic dash.   The painting gone, the van still sealed,   No fingerprints, no clues revealed. ...

First case Previous case Harry Pi, trenchcoat damp with last night’s regrets, leans against the flickering lamppost outside The Hatstand club. He speaks like a man who’s seen too many variables and not enough constants. "I need your help Harry. Who else can I turn to. Word on the street, Harry. The truth is your game. And no job is too surreal". Sally exhaled a curl of smoke shaped like a question mark.  “I’ll give it a go” he muttered, voice like a broken metronome. “Got my quota in yesterday—two disappearing mathematicians and one radius too wide.” He flicks a spent match into the gutter, watches it spiral like a Fibonacci whisper.  “Truth’s a circle, see? You chase it long enough, you end up back where you started.” She slipped a napkin into his pocket. On it: a lipstick print, and the words “They’re folding the truth, Harry. Inside out and people are non existing.” He adjusted his tie, the colour of dried blood, and stepped back into the fog.  “Trying’s just habit in ...

It started with feathers.   One on the windowsill. One in my coffee. One tucked inside a jazz record sleeve that hadn’t been spun since the moon last blinked. I lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl like a question mark. Something was off. Pigeons don’t just happen—not in triplicate, not in my flat, and not with that look in their beady little eyes. Like they knew something. Like they’d seen things. So I laid the trap. Seed trail from the fire escape to the phonograph. A fake feather duster rigged with a motion sensor. And a decoy pigeon—stuffed, stitched, and wearing a wire. I called him Gregory Peck. Midnight. A rustle. A coo. A shadow moved like guilt across the parquet floor. Then I saw him. Trench coat. Bread crumbs in his pocket. Eyes like burnt toast. The Pigeon Smuggler. Real name? Clive. Alias? The Beak. He’d been planting birds in flats across the borough—some kind of avian espionage ring. Surveillance pigeons. Message pigeons. One was trained to tap Morse code on ...

[Scene: Rain lashes the neon-lit alley outside The Hatstand, a jazz club with a reputation for strange disappearances and even stranger solos. Harry PI from "Harry, Barry and Larry Investigators", trenchcoat soaked, voice like gravel in a blender, lights a cigarette and begins his tale.] “The Hatstand Incident,” huh?   You’re askin’ about the night the strings screamed and the shadows swallowed a vampire mid-riff. Yeah, I was there. Not inside—too many garlic martinis on the menu—but close enough to smell the ozone when it happened. It was a Thursday. The kind of night where the moon looked like it owed someone money. The Hatstand was packed—velvet flamingos on sax, a werewolf on drums, and Vladislav “Fangfret” Jefferson on lead guitar. He wasn’t just undead—he was unreal. Played a fretless bloodwood Stratocaster with strings made from banshee hair. Every solo peeled paint off the walls and made the chandeliers weep. Then came the solo.   Second set. Song was “Midnig...

Part 1 is here ->  Part 1 Harry picked himself slowly off the floor. There was ringing in his head. And there was a ringing outside his head. He dragged himself over to the phone and lifted the receiver. "Hello, Harry, Barry and Larry Investigators. Harry speaking." Harry’s business partner, Larry had dreamt Barry up as a joke. Who's ever heard of a PI called Barry. "Hello Harry, your business partner Barry said you could help me." "Who are you? Where are calling from?" "My name is Miku the Bard Bear and I'm calling from 2023. I have a problem. I'm supposed to be in a band but I cant find them. Can you help?" "I will need to consult with a lady down my corridor called the Postgres. She's your only chance of help. Stay on the line please." Harry strolled down the corridor with purpose and knocked thrice on the door. Linux (pronounced Linus with an x not like the OS he'd been told. He went with the flow. Maps weren...

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 https://maharajablues.blogspot.com/2025/08/the-case-of-missing-maharaja.html?m=1 Full story index blog-story-category-index