Disclaimer-y stuff here as is the custom. The Mighty Boosh are not collectively mine, neither is the plot of Phantom of the Opera. I hope you enjoy it anyway! ;)
Vince Noir had always wanted to be a private detective. Who didn't want to be one? Those little trilby hats cocked rakishly to one side and dramatically flowing trench coats were genius. And there was nothing cooler than wandering about the streets all day pointing a magnifying glass at things or racing around sharp corners in a fast car, the windows open so it would blow one's hair about all over the place like in those films about driving around in cars with the windows open.
It was a dull, grey Sunday, Topshop was closed and there was nothing to do – it was the perfect day to start Vince Noir's Private Detective Agency. He had spent all morning straightening his hair and a little bit of the afternoon creatively splashing various colours of paint onto big pieces of cardboard.
"Hey there, woah, what are you doing, little man?" A voice came suddenly from the doorway of the living room that resided above the Nabootique. The voice sounded shocked in a way that bordered on irritation.
Vince, absorbed in his artistic genius, didn't bother looking up as he added a dash more neon yellow paint. It splattered covertly onto a nearby sofa. "Alright, Howard."
"Watch out for the carpet…" Howard's face involuntarily contracted into a pained expression as he thought about the notorious difficulty of removing paint stains.
The small tip of a pink tongue was caught between the budding private detective's teeth as he considered where to drop the next painty bombshell. He hadn't heard a word his highly-strung Northern friend had said. "How do you spell 'detective'?" He ventured forth at last, spotting a few blobs of neon green about his cardboard sign to create a rather interesting effect.
"D, E, T… Why?"
"We're starting a private detective agency, I told you already." The electrogoth huffed, squatted down on his haunches with a paintbrush poised ready to continue writing. He peered up at the other man through his stylish fringe to make sure his eye-rolling could be seen. "What's after the 'e'?"
But now Howard was caught up in the dream. He stared thoughtfully at a blank wall, softly repeating "Private detective agency…" Howard Moon, DCI, it did have a certain ring to it. Yes sir, those people who did bad things in the evening times had better watch out when Howard Moon was about. He pulled a few shapes from the air, menacing shapes, strong shapes, shapes to inspire fear into the criminal mind.
"What are you doing?"
"Pulling law-enforcing shapes, sir."
"You look ridiculous." Turning his attention from the sight that was cross between seeing your dad dancing at a wedding like it was 1981 and a warthog in its final death throes, Vince looked back down at his poster advertising his agency. He smiled gently to himself, it was almost finished. Just a final flourish… just there… genius. Now to put it up in the window of the Nabootique where passers by in need of detective help would see it. He was stopped on his way to the door.
"What's that?"
The conversation was starting to get repetitive. The electro-detective sighed. "It's our poster, for the agency. You know, to advertise it."
"But it looks like a glow-stick got dizzy and threw up."
"I know, cool isn't it?" Vince held the large piece of cardboard up beside his face and grinned at his own genius. "I'm going to put it up in the window."
"You're not putting it anywhere, sir."
Seeing the look on his friend's face, the detective-to-be decided prudence was a virtue. Clutching his precious sign like it was a sale item in a crowded Topshop, he turned tail and fled for the door with the other man in close pursuit.
On that particular Sunday the Velvet Onion was empty. The air was still and waiting; impatient to be filled with people and noise again, but with the club closed it still had a few hours of solitude left.
In his one-roomed office the owner, Bob Fossil, was taking a well earned nap at his desk. It was well earned because he had spent the whole day avoiding doing any work of importance whatsoever and it had used up lot of energy. Feet propped up on the desk and his head thrown back he was completely at ease, a long snore escaping his open mouth alongside a renegade line of sleep-drool. But he wasn't at ease enough not to be disturbed by a sudden crash coming from the main hall.
He was on his feet in seconds, shouting a string of unintelligible nonsense as he dropped into a defensive crouch, executing a few high kicks as he moved along the length of the office in crab-like fashion.
"Who's out there? Because I'm not in here, I'm out to lunch with hexagonal eyelash man!" He shouted at the door before delivering a particularly painful karate chop to the wood. Hopping back in pain and cradling the injured appendage beneath his armpit, he gave another shout of "Oww… Stay back, or I'll hurt you, I'll hurt you like a little puppy."
Silence. Except for the ringing in his ears that was the after-effect of making such an amount of noise in a small room. Content that he had scared whoever or whatever had made that crashing sound away, he returned to his desk and thought about getting some more sleep. That is, until another crash, followed by something that sounded like a sonic boom made him jump so much he fell from his chair to the floor.
"Hello?" Grabbing the edge of the desk, he peered over the top of it, aiming to keep as much of himself hidden as possible. His eyes darted nervously from side to side, taking in the emptiness of the room but finding no comfort in it. "Mommy?" He really hoped it wasn't her; he made a loud machine gun noise just in case. Still nothing. Being the second man that afternoon to decide on the benefits of discretion, he plucked the telephone from its resting place on the desk and disappeared beneath the wooden structure with it to make a call.
Vince had outrun his opponent even in ridiculously high platform boots. The neon-painted sign proclaiming Vince Noir's (and Howard Moon's) Private Detective Agency open for business was propped ostentatiously in the display window of the Nabootique. Of course, this was much to the jazz-man's annoyance. He was just striding over to the window to remove the monstrosity and replace it with a more sedate advertisement of his own when…
"Brring, Brring, Brring…"
Both men froze as the same thought entered both their heads. They stared across the room at each other, disbelief and wonder showing in their eyes with equal measure. Surely not… each man made a desperate lunge for the phone. Being closest, Vince snatched up the receiver and cradled it to his ear.
"Alright, Vince's private detective agency, if you've got a crime we've got the time." Immensely pleased with this sudden inspiration of wit he spent the entire opening of the phone call grinning smugly at Howard in order to get the other man to acknowledge his superior genius. As a result he missed everything that was said. Besides, the caller was whispering, which made things very difficult to understand. He asked if all that could be repeated, please. The whispered speech was run hastily through again. Vince's eyes lit up.
Placing one hand over the mouthpiece, he waved the other frantically to attract attention. Once it was achieved he pointed at the telephone and mouthed 'it's someone needing a detective!'
Howard gave a start, shaking his head in disbelief. 'But we've only just put up the sign, that's impossible!' was mouthed back with gusto.
A grin split the electro-detective's face. 'I know!' Suddenly realising that he still had the caller on the other end, his face snapped back to one of professional attention and he removed his hand from the mouthpiece, stating in reliably serious tones "Yes, I understand. At what time? Alright we'll meet you there. Bye."
"Who was that?" Howard asked as he hurried over, all thoughts of replacing the poster banished from his head by the more exciting thought of fighting crime and finding clues.
The other man, replacing the phone in its cradle, shrugged. "I don't know, he was whispering so I couldn't hear." His face lit up. "It sounded dangerous though, we'd better go get changed into some detective clothes." At the prospect of raiding his extensive wardrobe for a suitable outfit he turned quickly for the stairs, luckily missing Howard's face twisting itself in anguishes of irritation. How were they meant to investigate something when they didn't even know where it had taken place?
His angry question was cut off by Vince suddenly turning back around, his face showing an anguish to rival the other man's. "My hat! I left my trilby hat at the Velvet Onion last night," he wailed. "We have to go and get it, I can't detective without it. Look at my hair, this isn't detective hair, this is pop star hair."
Howard was inclined to agree with that latter statement. Besides, he could tell he wasn't going to have any say in the whole matter. At least getting out of the Nabootique was a step towards solving whatever crime had been perpetrated. So he kindly agreed to go along to the Velvet Onion, as long as he could change into a sedate muffin all-purpose action man detective coat first.