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A Dark and Secret Theatre: Surreal Monster Erotica | sindermann | 2

 

I held my guts in with left hand as my hard, calloused fingers slid along the desk. The 10 inch rip in my abdomen oozed blood and fluid onto what was my best shirt. I gritted my teeth so hard that I sheered the filter of my Lucky Strike in half. It was worth it though. My right hand touched the butt of the Hand of God known commonly as the Colt .45 automatic pistol. I slid the steel and chrome Death Giver close to me and felt its weight. "Three in the clip." I thought as I slid it back into my shoulder holster.

I grabbed my smoke and popped it back in my mouth, taking a long drag as I yanked the bottom drawer of my desk open. I grabbed the half full bottle of bourbon and a highball glass. I poured myself a shot. I poured another. I poured a third, and held my guts. I didn't smell the whiskey rising from them, so I knew I had time.

I sat the glass down, and grabbed the phone. I dialed a number of a reporter that owed me a couple favors. As it rang, I sipped on my third glass, savoring the peppery-leather taste of it, and the burning in my throat. It wasn't the only thing burning. I had a big hate on, the biggest hate I'd ever had, and it was burning up everything inside of me. It was raining outside, the rain like artillery shells against the glass. Let it rain. Nothing was going to quench this fire, the fire of Hell.

"Patrick Cole. Speak." the newsy said in a high, whiny voice.

"Pat, I've got a story to tell you. The last story you'll ever think of publishing, but its the last story I'll ever tell. I'm off to the Big Sleep, pal. I got a rip in my guts the size of Manhattan and I got a gun and a purpose. But before I get to that, I got a story to tell. Your job is to shut up and listen and my job is to tell it."

"Jesus, Mike! You need a croaker?" he said, worry in his voice.

"No doctor can fix this one, kid. Like I said, you just listen, cause no one's ever gonna believe it. Write it up, just the same. It don't make a difference to me." I said, settling back in my chair. I took another drink. My hand didn't shake. It didn't shake when I pumped a few rounds into that big nasty earlier. It didn't shake when I ripped the throat out of the Jerry that went to take a piss too close to my position on D-Day after I parachuted into Normandy. It just don't shake, no matter what. No need to rush now. I got all the time I need.

The name is Michael Reilly, Mike for short. I'm a private dick with a lousy taste in cases to take on. I was sitting in my office, listening to whatever it was they were calling music nowadays before I switched it to some good ole' Beethoven. My office wasn't much. A couple sticks of furniture, a phone, a bottle, me, and Priscilla, my secretary out front. I sat back, counting the hundreds I'd just collected for finding the son of a city councilman. He threw in another hundred to keep quiet when I told him I found the dandy licking a Hispanic sailor's Cuban cigar in the back room of a fairy joint.

My door opened, and the pale, stockinged leg tipped with a black high heel slid in, followed by the rest of Priscilla. My eyes travelled up her gorgeous legs to her skirt and onto her loose, white blouse that housed two submarine-sized tits, then became a pale neck topped with a face that would make a Bishop piss on a stained glass Jesus. Her big, sultry lips turned up at the corners. I knew there was trouble. Pris never smiled like that unless I was sure to come back from the case with a black eye and a hatred that I took out on the pour bastard who gave it to me.

"You've got a client, Mike. Pretty little thing. Looks a little trampy, but with plenty of dough. Right up your alley." she said, and sauntered back to her desk. Worst thing about that dame. She was so goddamned gorgeous that I just couldn't be my usual bastard self. I muttered "dames." under my breath, and buzzed her in.

 

what happens next?


          Mrs. Tanner

 
 
 

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