Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

line at Safeway. She’d had so much work done to her face that she looked like someone wearing a Minerva Klane mask.

“Why didn’t Bethany and Klane show up?” I asked. “It’s not like they’re busy working.”

“They’re part of the Galactic Uprising.”

“You’ve lost me,” Stottlemeyer said.

“They’re leading the Fen in the rebellion against the reimagining of the Beyond Earth-verse.”

“I’m still lost,” Stottlemeyer said.

“The UBS Network is producing new episodes of Beyond Earth.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been fighting for ever since the show was canceled in the seventies?” I asked.

“Yes and no,” Hibler said. “They’re bringing it back with a new cast, new writers, and what they’re calling a grittier take on the storytelling. A lot of the fans feel betrayed.”

“How did Stipe feel about it?” Monk asked. Now that Hibler was holding a V8, Monk could focus on the case.

“That’s one of the questions we wanted to ask him,” Hibler said. “The suits at the network brought in a new executive producer, the guy who did the Eat Your Flesh movies. But they couldn’t have done it without Stipe’s approval.”

No wonder the fans were upset. I’d seen a few minutes of Eat Your Flesh III on Cinemax. It made snuff films look like Disney cartoons. The Eat Your Flesh films were incredibly bloody and inexplicably successful horror movies about a sadist who kidnaps nubile women and hunky guys and puts them in grisly situations where they have to chew off their own arm or eat someone else in order to survive. If you ask me, films like that are worse than pornography.

But they made money. Lots of it.

“The fans in this Galactic Uprising—” Stottlemeyer said.

“The Fen,” Hibler interrupted.

“Yeah, whatever,” Stottlemeyer continued. “How upset would you say they are?”

“They want to prosecute Stipe for crimes against fandom,” Hibler said. “They are out for blood.”

“You think they’d go that far?” I asked.

“Beyond Earth is their culture and their religion,” Hibler said. “Go back through history and look at what people have done to protect what they’ve believed in from being destroyed. Remember the Crusades? The Spanish Inquisition? New Coke?”

That’s when the crime scene investigator returned. He was in his twenties and looked, judging by his pockmarked cheeks, like he’d spent half of those years picking at zits on his face.

“The swabs came back negative, Captain. No GSR. He’s clean.”

Stottlemeyer nodded. “Okay, Mr. Hibler, that wraps things up for now. All that’s left is for Lieutenant Disher here to take your statement.”

“And blood and urine samples,” Monk said.

“What for?” the CSI asked.

“Drugs,” Monk said.

“We aren’t looking for evidence of drug use, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

“We don’t have to,” Monk said, looking Hibler in the eye. “It’s right in front of our faces. If we’re lucky, it’s not too late to rescue the virgin.”

“Lots of men my age still live at home with their parents, ” Hibler said indignantly. “That doesn’t make us virgins!”

“I can vouch for that,” the CSI said.

“Thanks. That’s good to know.” Stottlemeyer took Monk by the arm and pulled him out of the room. “We’re leaving now, Monk.”

“I’m very sexually active,” Hibler yelled after us. “With other people!”

8

Mr. Monk and the Bad Breakfast

“I understand that the behavior of these Beyond Earth fans offends your sensibilities,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk in the hallway. “But if you can’t see past that, you’re no good to me or this investigation. I need you to control yourself.”

“What about them?” Monk gestured to two women who were walking past us.

Both of the women were dressed like Starella and had four breasts, two of which I presumed were falsies. I didn’t want to contemplate the alternative.

“They don’t work for me,” Stottlemeyer said. “You do.”

“I’ll do my best,” Monk said. “But it’s going to be an ordeal.”

“It usually is,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m going to the Belmont with Randy. I’d like you to stay here and see if you can spot anything that doesn’t fit.”

Monk glanced at the two women again. They each had a tail.

“It’s all wrong.”

“You’ve got to learn about the show and the world of these fans,” Stottlemeyer instructed Monk. “You don’t know what’s normal in this particular world yet.”

“There’s nothing normal about them.”

“Not to you or me, but I guarantee you that they’ve got their own rules,” Stottlemeyer said. “Once you know what those rules of behavior are, you’ll immediately see what’s amiss and the murderer is as good as caught. That’s your gift.”

“And my curse,” Monk said. “I’d like a copy of the security camera footage of the shooting.”

“Sure thing,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll meet up later at the Belmont or at headquarters and compare notes.”

He gave us two “all-purpose passes” to the convention and walked away.

I really admired the way the captain had handled Monk this time and made a mental note to copy the technique myself. Stottlemeyer gave Monk a clear mission, a structure for dealing with the madness around him. If Monk focused on the underlying framework of everyone’s behavior, he might not be so distracted by the behaviors themselves. It was a brilliant strategy.

In fact, Monk seemed calmer and more centered already.

“Let’s go visit the convention,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Have your wipes at the ready.”

“They always are,” I told him.

We headed for the convention center, stopping first at the registration desk to pick up a program book. According to the schedule, there were three parallel tracks of panel discussions every hour throughout the day.

The panel topics included “Earthies vs. Earthers: Charting the Evolution of Beyond Earth Fandom,” “The Galactic Economic Impact of the Cosmic Commandments of Interplanetary Relations,” “Theories on the Creation of the Holocaust Satellite,” “How to Write Compelling Beyond Earth Fanfiction,” “Interspecies Sexuality and Captain Stryker,” and “When Will Trekkers Give Earthers the Respect