The Far Out Wail

A private investigator means two things. You can be sure you'll run into trouble and you can never be sure you get out of it. Well, there's not much you can do about it, I guess. Except, like Julie always says.

Walk softly, Peter Troy. And now Peter Troy investigates a far-out whale. After the First World War, they're sprang up a clutch of writers who got themselves dubbed the lost generation. Now, Kerouac and many like him are pretty serious writers, and I, for one, would never like to be found knocking a serious artist of any kind.

But I do not have a great deal of time for those weirdos who like to call themselves beat and aim to live the plot by working as little as possible, washing but never, and making with another kind of dialogue that nobody else can understand unless maybe he's a bird.

But this latter is something that Julie's inclined to criticise me for, and I play little guilty which is the easiest way out. However, the characters I am talking about leave me for dead. I am of course talking about those odd balls whom squares like myself have come to know as beat-nicks. May I take it then that we understand each other? Crazy. Now what

does that mean? Like you dig English. I understand English if that's what you mean young man. It would help if you would speak it. Oh, like I get the message. Presumably that means you do understand our bargain.

Alright then. Now there's one other thing. Oh, what you mind stopping that eternal drumming? I can't think with that noise. Nice. Oh man, oh man, but you're sick. Sick? I'm perfectly well. A guy was way out there like I was getting sent.