A ruggedly-handsome, sensitively masculine, manly-beautiful pseudo-archaeologist in his mid-30s, Professor Couth Banger walked right past the Italian police tape and into the Sistine Chapel. He had been here plenty of times, but he never failed to be awed by the roof painting. But he wasn’t here to admire art—he was here to admire the murder.
“You musta be Professor a-Banger,” said a tall, thin detective. He had a thick mustache and no hair, like Mussolini, but spoke fluent English, except for a humiliating dialect. “There’s-a da dead man-a, right up-a there.”
Banger directed his attention to a man, dead, swinging from a rope from the ceiling. The rope came right down through God’s navel. What a shame. That had been Banger’s favorite part of the painting.
“Yeah, it’s nice, but is it art?” quipped Banger, with a self-satisfied smirk. Then, seriously, he asked a question. “I’m a little confused, Detective Typecastio. I’m an eminent researcher on gang signs and graffiti. Some would say, an expert on hidden meanings and secret in artwork. What does this have to do with me?”
“We-a found a disturbing note-a, with-a da body. Here.” He passed the vital crime evidence to the stranger who had just walked into the room. “We appreciate-a you-a coming from America so fast. We have-a held da crime-a scene for-a three days now. It’s-a highly irregular, but-a what da hell. I’m-a up on racketeering charges next-a week anyway.”
The note read: “Fuck you, Johnny. If you don’t want pizza, we’ll just the rest of us get one and you can fucking eat whatever you want.”
Banger furrowed his sexy brow. “It’s a… code. Of some kind. You were right to call me. I think this note says more than it means. In fact, I think this entire murder fits well into my lifelong obsession with the art of Michelangelo.” The professor studied the ceiling again, looking past the stiff dead man swinging like a hard-on in the wind.
Hours went by, and the cryptic message didn’t quite reveal itself. Then, suddenly, like a tiger on a school child, it sprang on Banger: He had uncovered one of Michelangelo’s secrets.
“Shit for breakfast!” exclaimed Banger. “Look!”
The detective, who had been napping while standing up, instantly awoke and followed Banger’s pointing finger.
“That angel in the background… that one right there, third from the left in that one picture.”
“Is that an angel or a clown?”
“An angel, I’m pretty sure. Look! He’s trying to fit his whole hand in his mouth. When I first saw it, I thought maybe he was just retarded. In fact, usually when I come to see the Sistine Chapel, I usually just look at the penises, I’ve never noticed that angel. But what if…”
Banger raced across the floor, pulling the keys to his plane from his pocket. “I’ve got to fly to Paris, immediately!”
“They won’t let you in at this hour, if you just want to stare at David’s penis.”
“No, I don’t have time for that tonight,” said Banger, over his shoulder. “I think I’m onto the biggest conspiracy in the entire history of the twenty-first century!”
For more of this great story, buy Bran Downey’s novel
The Secrets of Michelangelo