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Act 2
She was the type of dame a lug like me could glom onto. She had a figure like an hourglass morphed by Salvador Dali, with nice curves at 10 and 2 o’clock… but with legs. Yea, there could be little doubt… she was a lug wench.
“You got a name, honey?” I hated to get rough with her, but this had gone far enough without proper introductions. Sure, I’m a simpering gumshoe with a sandpaper tongue, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t conform to Robert’s Rules of Order. What would the world be like if we all started rutting like rabbits without first stopping to introduce ourselves? If her Golden Arches part and I munch her Happy Meal, I intend to make damn sure her name is McDonald’s!
Disappointment flashed across her face faster than a piranha to a corndog. She was obviously used to getting her way. Indignantly, she withdrew from me and backed away, straightening her attire and folding her arms across her ample bosom. Her expression was hard… maybe not hard like Sadaam Hussein, but at least as hard as the marble on your shower floor, when you wake up after a three-day drunk. Her face resembled an ice sculpture. Not one of those pretty ones in the middle of a cruise ship buffet, but the kind they do in a contest with a chainsaw -- and it had been out in the heat too long.
“What is this, Twenty Questions? The lettering on your door says ‘Smithers & Blithers, Private Investigators’. Are you going to investigate me or not?”
Well, at least she got that right. “You think that’s the answer to the question I asked you? I ask if you have a name, and you tell me what the sign on my door says? Would I be safe in assuming you’re the product of public education? If you’re incapable of telling me your name, Miss, you’re making me question whether you’re smart enough to be my client. It’s not like I asked you to spell it or anything…”
Her body shook and tiny sobs escaped, reminding me of Sweetie the cat being run through with a roasting spit. I couldn’t help but notice her finger, weathered and rough from years of practice, dancing in and out of her nose like a slimy ballerina. This just wouldn’t do… I have a reputation to maintain. I couldn’t let it get out that I insult intellectually-challenged waifs with IQ’s positioned somewhere below the biological equator.
“Okay, okay… shhhh… there now…” I put my hands around her shoulders and she spun around, pulling me tight, her bodacious ta-ta’s bouncing like a stormy ocean and her nipples pointing like hypodermics washed up on the shore.
Once again, she unleashed her feminine wiles and kissed me... like a butterfly kisses the windshield of a Ferrari flying down I-35, on that long straightaway between Oklahoma City and Dallas. Now, her Maguffies were heaving like a bulimic after a seven-course Christmas dinner.
That embrace made me hotter than week-old road kill laying on the Arizona asphalt. As she kissed her way down my chest, I felt my Johnson rising like 1990 Microsoft stock. Sleekly malevolent, driven by a violent hunger, she glided through my chum-filled waters, oblivious to the remora of my adoring gaze. I felt as giddy as a school girl after a night of binge-drinking and cow-tipping.
I looked up at her and her blazing eyes danced like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers; but since they were crossed, it was an ocular tango, and my eyes had to foxtrot just to maintain eye contact. I tore open her blouse like a Publisher's Clearing House letter in which some lady named Helen Christopher from Boise, Idaho, and I were potential finalists for the ten million dollar prize.
I felt swept away by this dark stranger, a helpless dust bunny in the roaring cacophony of her gas-powered leaf blower. I was helpless… soon I would give in to her like a freshman pom-pom girl in the back seat of the football team captain's BMW...
She was swell… but who the hell was she?
To be continued...
(possibly)
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