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Ferdie's Christmas-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Dead Meat-Fiction by Morgan Boyd
Twisted Love-Fiction by Mandi Rose
Run, Robby, Run, Part 4-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
All I Want for Christmas-Fiction by Carly Zee
Arterial Spray-Fiction by J. Brook
Murder Boots-Fiction by Jim Farren
The Blueberry Muffin Girl-Fiction by Michael Bauman
Standoff-Fiction by Lester L. Weil
Guns 'N Money-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Fester-Fiction by Mark Renney
The Start of a Bitchin' Year-Fiction by Luke Walters
Reprisal_Fiction by John W. Dennehy
Elevator-Fiction by Doug Hawley
Jamie, with the Blue Eyes-Fiction by Betty J. Sayles
All for the Love of a Good Burger-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Multiple Choice-Flash Fiction by Bill Baber
Karma-Flash Fiction by Dr. I. M. Irascible
That Poe Story-Flash Fiction by Chris McGinley
Nome-Flash Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Underestimated-Poem by Marci McKim
The Stream of Life-Poem by Aiki Mann
Christmas Tale-Poem by Joe Balaz
In Loving Memory Of-Poem by Michael Marrotti
The Tattooed Man-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
You Got a Friend-Poem by Jerry Vilhotti
70,000 Birds-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Migrations #1-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
at the crest-Poem by Meg Baird
Gottingen Street 1998-Poem by Meg Baird
a subtle karate pose-Poem by Mark Young
The chains coil up into helical structures-Poem by Mark Young
Dream I'd Like to Forget-Poem by Alan Britt
Near Dawn-Poem by Alan Britt
Mischievous Ghosts-Poem by Alan Britt
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

arterialspray.jpg
Art by L. A. Barlow © 2017

ARTERIAL SPRAY

j brooke

 

Me, Jane…Vegas PI Bounty Hunter, a queer-girl blonde, 5-10 or 11, thin like a stiletto, a wood-chipper kinda girl, and you, WTF ever, for sure not Tarzan.

I am forever caught in combat defending my LGBTQ soldiers, animals, girls and women, the weak, and disenfranchised who are forever being butt-fucked by an odious Corporate America that has been perverted by a new self-admitted deviant in the White House.

EG: ACCESS HOLLYWOOD Tape.

Don’t get me started, for I’ve been completely messed up from my last case, a 13-year-old little girl that was murdered by men, sexual perverts.

I’ve been feeling bent cold lately, like a rolled iron loop-de-loop bitch, you know, like a Coney Island roller coaster, curved in a leap of death, near the pier pilings, rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army of a sea's vengeance, crewed by ocean soldiers, no memory, no pity, corroding soul killers as old as ancient time.  I’m a lost smart-Alec cunt, lately that is, feeling leaderless, no general to guide me. I’m usually very fucked up, in a good way, but not now, it feels bad this time and that’s about it. I’ve been feeling like that ever since I seen the kid, Cissy Smith, 13-year-old dead angel looking like a 98-pound dead, grey block of lead, over there at the stainless table, in The ICE Tombs, at N. Vegas Metro Homicide.

Normally I dig it here, the dumpster world, my massive loft, just above Chang’s laundry, levitating high above the gunshots that wrack this part of bad N. Las Vegas and the garbage-strewn alleyways where the dead bodies splinter, decomposing near the dumpsters, near the gang cribs, shoot-up houses, city block thug empires, held, fought and died for tooth and nail, for no other reason at all, except that's all they got and that's all they’re ever gonna get.

Fuck, I wouldn't live anywhere else.

I keep having these night terrors, you know, it’s summer, I’m on the boardwalk in Coney. I’m from the East Coast, originally, know it, you know, snow cones, blood as the neon that lights the coaster timbers, screeching iron wheels in the big dip, near the cotton candy vendors and the bumps of the bumper cars. I keep seeing this 13-year-old angel, white dress, white hair, showing up, then vanishing, crowds, Ferris wheel, throw a dime on a dish and win a blue moose: she’s there, then she’s not.

It’s a summer night filled with strolling Chechen's, Uzbek’s, Russian mob guys out of Perth Amboy, Brighton Beach, The Jersey Shore, ex-cannibals out of the savage gulags of Siberia, shooting the water pistols for a pink teddy bear for their screaming kids. It's a surreal world of death, life and pain, and normally I dig that kind of vibe, but I can’t wake, claw my way out of this nightmare thing, mostly cause a the kid keeps calling my name, you know.

“Jane, Jane, Janie girl, come find me if you can.”

I move through the crowds, filled with the usual suspects, ghetto gang- bangers, street hitters, kinda dudes that chat it up with zip guns, duct-taped pistol grips of Saturday Night Specials gone bad. The place is puissant with Wise Guys, Mick’s, Greeks, gangster wannabees, Haitians, Hispanics of every ilk and duck- tailed Puerto Rican pimps turning out their girlfriends for the street life, and the hard men and bitches that run with them.

I know I’m dreaming, can’t abort out, then I see those bare feet, a swish of a white smock, white hair moving by the carrousel, wooden horses, camels, elephants, kids on them, gold ring, if you’re quick, gangsters watching, proud, and there she is again, moving out, and I follow her. I can smell her scent, it smells like white cut roses, she’s still gaily calling me.

“Janie, Janie, come find me.”

She’d be a sweetie pie, if she wasn’t stone cold dead.

I track her, out of the amusement park, see a light flash of her. I move past the throngs strolling on the Board Walk, strollers, kids, dogs on leashes, tattoo parlors, places selling Coney dogs, foot longs, mustard jars, relish if you want it, kids are eating pink cotton candy, there she is, on the white sand, moving towards the decaying pier, I follow.

“Janie, Janie, come find me.”

I can feel the sand, quenching between my toes, zingo, she’s gone, underneath the pier, some guys dropping lines in the salt, above me, guess they don’t mind mackerel stuffed full of Mercury. I can smell her, there’s that flower scent again. It’s kinda dark under the pier, salt water on my toes, as I move into it.

Silhouette, little blond girl, in the shadows, don’t blame her, lights are bright in the Ice Tombs. I see her, I think, and then my mind goes bright, illuminating her, my eyes dead bolt open, as the light, that fucking light exposes her, the new her.

She’s smiling, and she’s white, dead paste white, naked, purple, red cat-gut holding her tiny womb together, her forehead is missing, brains spilling out like worms, stacked in her hands is a bouquet of burning black flowers. Why the fuck is she smiling at me, as I try to suck air into my thundering lungs, can’t stand, fall to my knees, salt water, not the sea, spilling down my cheeks. I raise my arms to her. I want to hold her, protect her and then she whispers to me, driving a bullet through my heart.

“Why Jane, why Jane couldn’t you protect me? Why did you let them do this to me?”

My lips mumble, tremor, body vibrating, I shriek, bend, pound the sand with my fists, then I wake, in my loft, the skylights high above, it is raining, eyes stark like bullet casings, hyperventilating, terrified, irate, slapping at my bruised face  with my hands, clawing at it, trying to rip her face out of my brain. My two zipper dogs stare at me, 3 cats too, Stella and Stanley my gold fish at the glass, hoping I don’t self-immolate in flames.

I stay alive because they love me and I love them.

The dead angel with burning wings was my last case. I couldn’t save her, but I’m already down the ABC’s of men and a woman that did this thing to her. Two I already put in a coffin, there are more, I’m working down the list.

Soon, evolution will come full circle, it always does.

Time moves, I calm, it’s a Zen thing, reach to an old pine table, love English antiques, next to my old iron rung bed, can barely get a Marlboro out a the pack, do, find my Zippo, tough girl stuff, my image, am so sick of image, light it up, shove it between my bruised lips, ribs, black swollen eye, broken nose. Eddie Jett the ex-rocker pervert that butchered the kid did that to me when I took him down. He left me beat to hell, but the real pain comes from the futility in my mind.

I wince, drag, watch the smoke filter thirty feet up to my skylights, rain banging on them, get it together, just a bit, throw the white down comforter back, then groan, seeing all the blue welts, black and blue, on my no breasts, tiny tummy, legs, arms, and the two red dot Taser dots on one small tit, just like the ones on Cissy over there at the cop’s morgue.

The nightmares, they mean something, I think they’re telling me I have to do something, something else with my crapped-up life. I love who I am, toe to toe with life, take no prisoners, rumble, mix it up, generous with the poor, I give, but maybe not enough. I screw the pooch, get a beat down, so what, but it’s a fucking honest life, my life.

I look around my five-thousand-foot loft, it’s filled with the stuff I love, pine floors, grooved, pegged, sanded, did it myself. English pine everywhere, armoire’s, tables, benches, over-stuffed couch, with leaf green cushions, Persian rugs on the floor, big bay windows showing the Vegas Strip, lights off in the distance. Antique lamps, one a Tiffany, a Dom Nancy, another a Handel, others from the twenties, strung beads falling down the base, blown colored glass, vases, flowers, got this sweet Hispanic doll of a cleaning lady, Armida. She brings flowers, puts water in the vases, makes my clothes clean, puts tulips in my old vases, makes the place nice, she even feeds Stella and Stanley, my gold fish, puts out the chow for my two dogs, three cats, probably the only thing I will allow myself to love, my animals.

Refuse to fall in love from the numerous girls I fuck, that’s how fucked up I am.

Lots a stuff about me, folks in Vegas don’t know.

I'm a white queer girl, was a vacuous beauty doll once, not really by choice, just to see what was what, you know, use what you have, still have pics of me when I was a young shallow thing. I glance at them sometimes, you know, just to remember when I could break a girl down from a single glance from my blues, still do of course, have an insatiable sex drive, try not to mix work with sex, fail sometimes. Am a pro, which is important.

Fuck, I love fucking girls, eating pussy, was a shallow free bird once, until I woke up, got out of the self-induced coma I was in.

Beauty is an ass-fuck thing, so what, so temporary, do fucking something with your life, except tweaking your eyebrows, doing your nails, mirror gazing, ya know, feel, hurt, help the disenfranchised, the poor, the homeless, that’s what I try to do.

Love someone besides yourself. I’m really, really trying to be that girl, I really am.

Lotsa Reallys. 

Anyhooo, time to kick it, avoiding my duty, my pleasure, to make things right for the dead kid.

I feel like Manny Pachio thumped on me all night, can barely peek-a-boo out of my swollen right eye, cuts all over me, every bone, 2 semi-cracked ribs, muscle, aches, really aches, every time I move, which turns me on, geez Jane, just get yourself committed.

Haven’t eaten in three days, thought of maybe a donut, maybe one with pink sprinkles on it, am down to 116, that’s even thin for 5-10 moi, secretly I love it, still fighting the eating disorder wars, once binged, purged, wanted my smile intact, gave it up, smart thing to do, teeth are important.

Cissy the dead kid got me thinking, why I can’t commit, why I can’t fall, you know in love, egads, it’s hard to get that word past my lips. You know, get something real in my life besides my beloved gold fish, my pooches, my meows, but I cringe thinking one day my gold fishes, flip on their sides, their bug eyes opaque, like Cissy’s.

I detest myself right now, self-pity, questioning who I am, needy, pathetic, and almost crippled, for my body feels like it got hit by an ice crème truck, aches everywhere, sore, inside and out.

I really could use some softness in my life, maybe a little love, gag thinking of that word. I feel girlish. Pleeeease, geessh I’m blubbering, maybe I need love, I don’t know, but something meaningful, TLC for real, man I hope this mood jets, like real soon.

But, I got to get out of this damn bed, didn’t sleep, checked for the pea under my mattress, no pea, so I move, wince, jeesh.

Bare feet on the floor, face in my hands, “Ow, ow, ow” I stand, weave, blink, “Ow” even that hurts, grab a smoke, fire her up with my guy Zippo, inhale. I’m smoking more lately, who cares, decide to skip the gym, riding my bike, move a few steps, my ankle hurts like fuck, look down, its swollen, when in the hell did that happen?

I limp to my armoire, full length mirror, groan looking at me, which mimics the white smoke trailing to the ceiling, thin, wispy-ish, cut short white hair, giant green eyes. I love making up words, wispy-ish, tee-hee, unconstructed of form, pale and pallid, this is as thin as I’ve been in a long time, fuck I look like a teenage boy, sans acne.

Geesh, I still get carded when I go to the liquor store.

SMILING INSIDE, not really bitching about that.

OK, little steps, I turn, limpidly dick click across my loft, move into the shower, bathroom, I built myself. Went to Home Depot, talked to this cool geek, love geeks, was one, still am, just hiding in this shallow eco-skeleton of gorgeous skin, sure does me a lot of fucking good. Which reminds me, I’ve promised ME, that I am going to work on my potty mouth, you know, make me a new girl, a better girl.

I know for sure that I’m going to fucking work on that.

OOOOPS.

Anyhooo, bought me some home improvement books, a tool belt, two actually, if you include my handy dandy sex tool belt.

Borrowed Chang’s pickup truck, love that dude, rustled up some Mexican honchos, love those folks, speak fluent Spanish, they appreciated that, I’m kind a proud of that. Loaded Chang’s banger, tiles, lumber, all the stuff, then had the Mexican guys drag it upstairs, gave them two hundred bucks in tips, got those white smiles, fuck where would America be without them?

When I was done, I looked like a frosted sugar donut, shit all over me, but look, she’s a beauty, huge stall, black tiles, grey tiles edging all of it, as well as two stripes of grey tiles, double brass nozzles, two teak benches, lots of room to wiggle my tiny toes.

I like to sit when I shower, masturbate, jerk off, (Jill off?) love the feeling of hot water after I’ve forgotten to bathe for a week, shave under my arms, it’s always a girl retreat for me, you know shave the legs, clean up down there, had that lasered, so that’s never a problem. Got a toothbrush, some shampoo, you know in those plastic squirt bottles, some soap on a rope, and now, MAN, that hot water feels just so fine.

I always love washing blood offa my body

Girls with good manners do that, I know I do.

Out of the shower, feel better, a little, ankle totally Whammoed, grab a black towel, have them layered in the black cabinet I made, black, grey, black, grey, looks cool.

Swish the steam from the mirror, lean in, groan, my eye looks like a black and blue mushroom cap, lips swollen, cut, eye brow too, Eddie Jett packed a punch, think of Eddie, wonderin’ how he’s getting along with his new coyote amigos in the desert wonderland I planted him in, don’t know, am sure it will all work out in the end.

Limp out of the bathroom, “Ow” my ankle, move to a pine armoire, avoid mirror gazing, grab a pair of cut at the ankle white dance leotards, Danskin, pull them on like a second skin, grab a white hoodie. I’m into white this morn, feel all virginish, all new and such.

Throw it on, exhale, hear the rain smacking the skylights, need coffee, it’s cold out this morning, limp to my kitchen, same deal, black, grey tiles, big pine chopping block, four gas burners set in it, cabinets, stainless steel sink.

I can’t cook for fuck, moi built all of it, there’s that horrible, horrible vanity again.

Move to my coffee machine, pop the lid, put one of those white things in, move to this stainless towering fridge, GE, I think I mentioned that, wizards there make great stuff, open it, groan. I see two ancient cartons of Chinese takeout, dim sum something, noodle zingo something, see the green kiss has arrived; groan again.

I grab a can of coffee, Brazilian, back to the coffee machina, that’s Mexican for machine, load her up, hit the button, lean against the chopping block, watch the drip, drip, drip of the golden-brown life-saving liquid as it fills the pot.

Grab my “JANE is RAD” coffee cup, had it made special at this little souvenir clinic over there, across the street from the Venetian, they do t-shirts too, you know like with “Shit Happens in Vegas” stenciled on them, boy does it ever.

Like I said, I’m in one of those chill moods, so I limp out of the kitchen, grab my smokes, Zippo, the one with the Jar Head insignia on it. I move to this set of double massive ceiling-to-edge bay windows, set into the chassis of the loft, facing the alley, and another artist’s loft, two-story affair just about a hundred feet from mine, alley separating both of us.

I open the windows, the cold feels good on my face, rain is sweet, rare in Vegas, set my tiny, sore ass on the stoop, bring my knees to my chin, light a smoke, sip my Joe, then take a peek-a-boo at a very magical place, the open window at this African-artist-goddess’s loft across the alley from me, more about her in a sec.

I glance left, look down the alley, no dead bodies, no crack whores, that’s good, then see the once-vacant lot, where a Mexican circus has staked their claim to a piece of Vegas sod. Showed up a coupla months ago, economy had tanked, and they somehow got a license, guess some commerce is better than nothing. They threw up the red, white tents, lots a games, booths, you know, throw a ring on a coke bottle, roll a softball, make tic, tac, toe, something only some grand yogi from Tibet could do, no harm, no foul.

They got this miniature Ferris wheel, lots of neon blinking, a loop de loop, kids puking, screaming, having a hoot, a pony ride, I think they’re ponies, not like the kind I see at the track. But, the kids like them, guess that’s what counts.

I moseyed over there one night, lots of Hispanic kids, parents, tios and tias, the Hispanic community is tight, God, religion, family, food, never can figure out what all the brew ha ha is about these fine people. They’re the backbone of this racist nation, won’t go into that now, though I can go off on the subject at the drop of a Peso.

Saw a blind elephant, that fucker could eat some peanuts, also a camel, two humps, not three, some sheep, goats, a llama, a donkey, in a pen, they call it a Kids Zoo, don’t know about that. They had a lion in a cage, he seemed like most of the residents in Vegas, pissed, stoned, wasn’t roaring, just kept pacing back and forth, leering through the bars, big yellow eyes, angry eyes. Thought of sneaking over there late at night, springing him, get him a one-way ticket back to Zimbabwe, make him happy, maybe fuck the other girl lions, something like that, but didn’t.

I got a thing for clowns, and it is not a good thing, they give me the spooks, you know, grown men, make up, sandals, wearing funny clothes, hangin’ with little boys and girls, making them laugh, touchy feely stuff.

Fuck, that’s it, I get it, that’s where all those defrocked Catholic Priests go, after they get bounced from the parish after they get caught with their frocks down around their ankles. Don’t know why I never put two and two together before, makes perfect sense to me. Anyway, back to the black artist Ghanian goddess across the alley.

No secret, I have this sexual current running non-stop through my blood veins, complicated as they are all trying to connect to my cunt, a screaming Mimi, hey, that's funny, fuck even that hurts when I  giggle, for I'm tired of jacking off lately in my new blue mood, where did I put my hand gun.

Gosh, I have to get out of this self-pity abyss.

Really though, there is only one woman I want to fuck me blind, well a few girl types, you know like Glenda the stunning young tattooed Goth check-stand doll at The Bent Club, but that didn’t count, because well, she was Glenda.

She could eat pussy like some kinda Belize jungle Jaguar that just chased down a Boa and that did go a long way with me. I did go nuts, when we rolled in the sheets a few days ago.

Of course, that's her, the artist across the way, over there in another two-story loft, top floor, Kiko, is that a cool name, a black sculptress, stone and granite, marble too, welder artist woman so obsidian black beautiful she melts my mind. She’s corded muscles, thin, shaved head, about 6ft 1, maybe 140, white teeth like the marble she blasts her chisel into. She has this tribal scarring on her face, back, fuck, I wet up just watching her, which I do every moment I get.

She showed up about a year and a half ago, which was a very good thing, voyeurs, god I’m ashamed to say I am, but I am, there said it, are sick girls. I mean I don’t sneak around looking in windows, you know like Chang down stairs at the launder mat.

I think I would die dead seeing Chang fucking Seshi, I know they do it, four kids to prove it, but some things are better left to my imagination, like what Kiko would look like totally naked.

It's not like the fucking God woman doesn't have a boat load of female beauty type girly-girls hanging around her cut, muscled bod. Christ I've seen them come and go, come and go, none of their tooth brushes ever stay the night, see the dawn.

I often lay in my bed at night, windows open, listening to Monk, Miles and Cole Porter creaming across the expanse from her loft, making the summer cool, bearable, nice for me. Christ, I love that black girl, really I do, cringe as that word again clanks like an anvil to the floor.

More on Kiko Later.

OK, finished my smoke, gotta snooze, more updates in a bit, will dream about Kiko tonight, YAWN, I’m out.

 

“Booo hoooo, boooohooo hooo”, just kidding.

“SHUUUUT UUUUUP.”

Time passes, it always does, hidy, Jane, been feeling pretty good lately, lots a reasons for that scenario.

Sitting here on my window stoop, again, big window doors slotted open above my alley, smoking a smoke, sipping a tulip of Burgundy, French of course. I’m feeling summer coming, you know, like that purgatory haunt, that place those bent catholic priests always told the kids they were going to burn in for weenie wackin’ after they watched that Paris Hilton porn tape, for the bizillionth time.

I’m a little sad, but not really, no Monk coming from Kiko’s loft, the place is locked down solid, you know like Mother Teresa’s womb. Like magnets, we hooked up one rainy night, she staring at me across the loft expanse, curling her finger at me.

She is so fly, I was helpless, obeyed, me figurin’ I’d be the good little passive girl for the moment.

Like an eager puppy, I hippity-hopped right over there, and even my body was bruised and beat to Sodom, we had sex for like, a week, and I may have fallen in love, a no no no for me.

At one moment we almost used one of those Amazon drone thingies to same day drop off a gallon of K-Y Jelly, but we made it through.

Then she got me off the hook, by exiting stage left.

She’s off to London, the trendy wharfs, to show off her statue at a private show of her bling, cool thing, one being gorgeous half women/dolphin holding a world globe on her head, stunning that. Then she skipped off to West Africa to see her kid brother. He’s another brilliant wedge of white teeth, black skin, and big brains. Helped her crate her thing up between volcanic sex and many dildos were involved.

We used a lot of bubble wrap, not for sex, though I did think of her wrapping it around my head as she fucked me, but to pack her art, love that stuff, can sit and pop ’em for hours, don’t know why.

Things been going swell with Kiko, for the last weeks or so. I guess we’re girlfriends, me still the girl, she being the fella, found some feminine traits I had lost, but it’s just role playing, me being still a hard doll, more like me every day, not in her arms though, it’s been a hoot.

The sex is nuclear, we throw the word love around, a bit, you know, cum, sweat, gritted teeth, torrid, banshee insane, lots of fist fucking and such, say anything when a gal is like that. But, we know it’s a kinda love, the only kind two super independent, genius savages can have, and that’s all good with us, no owner ship, lots a down time from each other.

Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, but I do miss her.

Anyhoo, I’m nursing my wounds, on down throttle, waiting to sew up this Cissy case. Meaning there still are men responsible for the little girl’s murder.

I will take care of that soon, big fucking time.

I got my new Smith & Wesson catalogue, that’s it right there next to my bare feet on the ledge. Sent me a calendar too, big sucker, put it up in my PI office, had this babilicious doll on it, g-string, huge tits, Dow Chemical made ‘em, lots a blond bottle hair, hard body. She had these two cartridge bandoliers, 9 MM slugs in it, I think, covering her tits.

She was holding a 50 caliber semiautomatic Saw, Seal rifle, near her collagen lips, a coded message there for the guys. You know, (buy this machine gun, this girl will suck your cock). It’s the most powerful weapon in the world, might get one, though the recoil could break my wrist; gotta ask my Seal buddy at the gun range about that.

I giggle again, cause my toes are sneaking out of my most fav faded Levis, broke my promise, didn’t get rid of them, even though they were blue, like Cissys dead fingernails. They’re just too comfy, am sure Cissy would understand. I think of her blue fingernail I found in the freezer of the guy who raped her, then murdered her.

I still have that, part of my plan for later.

They’ve got ripped up knees, gained two pounds, now 118, so they’re not falling off my stick hips, that’s good, feel warm, cozy in my black hoodie, no virgin white while my girlfriend is away, I’m saving that for her.

“No. No. No. NO…Geeesh, no girlfriends Jane, pleeeease.” I mumble to myself.

Been riding my Japanese mountain bike to Gold’s gym again, pumping iron, watching these young tricked-out show girls, boys too, running on treadmills, doing Pilates, a zillion crunches, lifting weights, trying to keep the grim reaper of age from killing them with his sythe, which of course fails, for he always gets YA in the end.

Last time I was there, I was forced to take care of a little bidness, you know for Sandy at the reception desk, a real looker, who I totally dig, and she digs me too, vanity again, eeeks, I love it, why not. The manager Todd there, a pal too, loves my mojo, geez, can’t help if everybody loves moi, I’m just loveable, can’t help it.

NOT

Todd’s a sweet stud, and runs a tight ship, and he’s put these signs up everywhere, that say, “Please don’t drop yer weights.”

Seemed reasonable to me, but there always has to be this GUY, you know the type you always see strutting around the gym like a cock-a-doddle doo rooster.

They’re always about a 5ft 5, or 6, pumped up on steroids to about 175 LBS, always decked out in the latest gym togs ya get over there at the Sports Authority, great place, got my tennies there. They’re always lifting big, black iron and such, grunting, screaming out shit, then slamming down the barbells on the black rubber mats, huge thuds, gym rattles, then they bang their chests, pose in the mirror.

What they’re looking at, but don’t know, is a real asshole.

Seen Todd talk him up, Sandy too, he blew them off, did a fuck you whatever thing, went back and did it again. I want to go over, kick him in the nuts, grab him buy the ear, slap him to the mat, get in his face, and say something like, “Fucking wake up, read the signs, try to be a decent fucking human being for the first time in yer life”, but I don’t, cause I respect Todd and Sandy.

Anyways, chit-chatted up Sandy last time, she said the dead beat was late on his rent, wish they could do something about it, but lawyers and such, everybody litigates for anything these days, said I got it, maybe I could help. She smiled, gave me the secret decoder Buck Rogers hand shake, we were on the same page.

So, I lit up my Apple machine, Photo Shopped up a picture of the gym, made this bogus card stock, and then wrote him this note.

“Listen you fucking ego maniacal little dwarf, (Nothing against dwarfs, there cool people too) get off the juice, grow your tiny dick back, stop dropping the weights, WAKE THE FUCK UP and get a life, or we’re going to bury ya under a cactus in the desert.”

I signed it the LVPD.

It was obviously bogus, so I covered my bud’s ass at the gym and well, me being real sneaky at times, slid it through the crack of his locker, went and straddled a stationary bicycle, peddled a little, then just waited.

“KABOOOOM.”

I immediately texted my cop buddies in the parking lot.

The human plant went off, went insane, came out of the locker wearing a white towel, dripping water, screaming at Todd, Sandy, threatened to kill them, everybody else in the gym, just as two plain clothes “Bulls” from N. Vegas Vice walked in the door.

My best friend is Lieutenant Victor Garcia, Las Vegas N. Metro. Cops call their lieutenants LOU.

I told him about my little situation at the gym, he said, no problema, Janie.

He had the Bulls parked outside, ready Betty to go.

They know me, I know them, they love my street creds.

Ditto theirs.

So, these two huge black cops, decked out in kickback Armani saw what was going down, tried to calm the fuckwad, he called them “Pigs” might a whispered the no-no word Nigger and you know, he’s got rights and such. Well, the cops kinda smiled, and then chopped him into kindling wood, real hard like.

Cops don’t like being called “Pigs”, don’t blame them.

They then levitated him, one on each arm, his towel fell off, and there were lots of giggles, for I was right, the guy’s dick looked like a licorice stick, the juice does that to a punk.

They called a blue and white, threw him behind the cage, cuffed him, got some hosannas from Sandy and Todd, went in to slaps on the back, lifted iron, seemed happy about everything, for once again they had set the rebalance back to life.

Of course, I got tons of gratitude from Sandy and Todd, said aw that ain’t nothing. Two days later Sandy told me the puke had about a million warrants out for his arrest, and I guess she and Todd got a gold star on their work sheets, that made me glow.

I gave both hard working kids envelopes with 500 bucks each, you know, just in case I had caused any problems.

I like it when good things happen to good people.

Anyhoooo, I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately, you know, what I do, why I do it, Cissy did that for me. I try to be a good person, don’t run red lights, litter, got these blue trash recycle containers, put cans, plastic bottles in some, card board in others, try to help the poor, which reminds me, got to take the fifteen grand Flick’s bounty, a monster Lesbian with a bounty on her head I took down the other night at The Bent Club over there to the homeless shelter, run by this stud, real good lookin’ priest named Father Bob. He’s a Jake guy, like him a lot, ditto, he likes me too, feel good about that.

I never lie, well almost never, you know, Chang’s wife down there at the laundry might ask me for an update on her new hair doo, that looks like she’s got a coven of crazed bats nesting in it. I smile, say something like, gee Seshi, (that’s Mandarin for totally fucking insane) ya look great, lost ten years, gotta give me your hair dresser’s name, which makes her feel pretty good, me too, nothing wrong with a little white lie, nothing wrong with that at all.

But what’s really got me wired, is the really ghastly men, women I take down, me being the fixer of such things and all, and why I do it, came to the decision, if I don’t, who in the fuck will. Figured it’s a Kafkaesque world now, spooky, eerie, lots of evil, up means down, vice-versa.

Orwell figured most of it out and everything is just too fucking politically correct, makes no common sense at all.

Some sick, perverted old degenerate, living in an Air Stream outside of Tulsa, eating beans out of a can, steals some sweet little kid, terrorizes them, brutalizes them, rapes them, then puts them to bed alive in a homemade coffin next to his double-wide.

He fucks up because he’s run out of crystal meth, the cops get him, he spills the beans, than fucking what? The system swoops down, they lawyer him up, get a bunch of psych heads, show ‘em some ink blots, have him touch his nose with his finger, ask him if his dog died when he was a kid, hold his fucking hand, cop an insanity plea bargain. Then, the puke goes to a fed lockup, gets three hots and a cot, hangs with other vermin, lifts weights, plays B-ball, watches Oprah, and has never been happier in his life.

But that don’t fix it, for who’s talking for the kid? Who’s holding the kid’s dead cold hand, like I did with Cissy’s? And, what about the parents, they don’t get an all included paid vacay to Danbury, they get a life of pain, tears, grief and nightmares, just ask John Walsh about that.

That’s why I took Eddie Jett down, like I did.

Yeah, it was violent, even gruesome, use that word, cause this doll I know, real bright light named Fawn, met her at some party one night, turned me on to it when I was pissed off about all those little girls wearing vest bombs over there in Iraq. You know, in a coma, pushed, prodded by the elders, then blowing themselves up in a fire ball of shame.

She didn’t quite get it. I was ranting, and she said, chill Jane, it’s a party, don’t be so gruesome. I went off because I figured someone should stand up for the kids, tell their story of pain, for what’s more gruesome than some little girl vaporizing herself for no reason at all, that’s another story, never a pretty story, to be told later.

I chide myself for going off, again, back to why I do what I do.

Yeah, I like it, I like fisticuffs, testing myself, mano e mano stuff, fucking dangerous, and do this thing cause someone has to stand up, like I did against Bobby O’Brien and Eddie Jet,t the deviants responsible for slicing up a 13-year-old girl.

Someone has to say enough is enough, and yeah, it’s ultra-violent, ugly, messy at times, but I don’t do it because I’m a sadist. I do it because if I don’t, who will, there.

It’s my fucking duty to do it.

ENOUGH SAID, there’s still more to report.

Anyhooo, after Eddie Jett, I was hurting, big time, then I was kickin’ it with Kiko. Hey Kickin it with Kiko. LOL, hey I like that, could be a rap song, you know.

“Kickin it with Kiko, in mah crib, she’s my Ho, she’s my Ho, she’s my Ho” sounds like the dudes, NWA (Nigger’s With Attitude) got all their CD’s, will roll with their sound later, can’t wait.

Back, moi, thoughts of pay-back and visitin’ the other doc, you know the guy who made an omelet out of my little girl’s frontal lobes. I wanted none of it, just because I was exhausted, enjoying the mud wrestling with my black godly stud woman. But time heals all wounds, or most of them, and after many days, me having my womb rearranged by Kiko and those powerful black fingers, and those lips, I’m swooning.

I felt it was time to roll, get it right with my little dead girl.

I then called Lieutenant Garcia, my best friend, turned out the murdered kid’s drug-addled dad and mom to him, Ginger and Bobby were their names.

Lieutenant Garcia was grateful for that, got a judge warrant, took the bulls, busted them bold, got Bobby out of the hospital. I had earlier put two psssst psssst Beretta rounds into his knee caps, as Garcia dragged him and Ginger to the white room. They blasted a bright light in their faces, yelled at them, a lot, got Ginger to roll over on Bobby, got the DA down there to slap a conspiracy Murder One on their deranged faces.

That worked out pretty good.

Lieutenant Garcia got another merit badge, an upgrade to head guy of his own division, looks like Captain next. Lou really owed me, but we never keep abacuses on that kinda stuff, we’re family, cops and me, don’t ever know when I will need a favor from Lou. He sent me a thank you note too, for the pink teddy bear for his kid I Fed Expressed to him, that’s the kinda guy Lou is.

It didn’t take long for me to sober up, had that itch, you know the kind, that you can’t get rid of, even if you got one of those Bangkok souvenir thingy’s at the airport, your know, a hand on a bamboo stick that says “Thanks for fuckin’ our twelve year old girls, come back soon” on it.

I finally had to rent Earl again, like a U-Haul from King, who wouldn’t take a Drachma.

Kings my other best friend, a super duper stud black gang king pin, who runs most of the turf in N. Vegas.

More on King later.

Earl was all grins for me, remembering how I had planted the fifteen Gee’s in his blood-soaked apron in the desert as he cut every limb and digit off of Eddie Jett, last to go were his dick and balls, with a hack saw, tin snips, etc. over weeks. All attended by this meth-ravaged doctor I know with a sewing machine, you know, to keep him alive, real slow and all and frankly, I was glad to roll with Earl again.

Doc 2, the guy who cut Cissys womb from her body, was a real degenerate, obviously, a real piece of work, all smoke and fractured mirrors. He lived in this mansion over near The Flamingo, off the Strip, a real pillar of society, you know, selling coke, oxycontin, steroids to the rich fucks of Vegas, a real semi-celebrity, a card-carrying, god-fearing member of the new racist, anti-LGBTQ, immigrant, woman, pro-Nazi and Klan Republican Party.

Those guys are so fucked up, I won’t go there.

Fucking Mike Pence wants to put millions of queers like me in fucking conversion camps, you know, to terrorize the gay out of us.

I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, but you can put the pieces of that fucked up puzzle together.

Just remember, it’s 2017 not 1917 any longer.

Anyhoooo, I didn’t want to kill the doc that cut Cissy’s womb outta her body, but I didn’t want him to scoota-roo on some cruise ship to Barbados.

So, Earl’s got this nifty 34-inch Louisville Slugger black baseball bat, a Rod Carew I think, and we cruised over there in his black SUV, tinted windows and such, havin’ a good time, all ghetto and such, grooving,’ be-boppin’, singin’, gettin’, it up with some Biggie Smalls rap, Mr. Notorious himself.

RIP.

“Neva trust nobody: your moms’ll set that ass up, properly gassed up-Hoodie to mask up, shit, for that fast buck: she be lyin’ in the bushes to light that ass up.”

Cool stuff and then found his fancy-dancy neighborhood he was slimed in. The street looked like a line of whore houses, rich, opulent, earth, an acre here and there, walled gates, the usual bullshit of wealth, hide and seek, peek-a-booing out of the venetian blinds before you get in the Bentley. You know, making sure some dark-skinned Mexican or black guy isn’t waitin’ fer ya with a piece a pipe, to high jack yer stuff, that you ripped off from the hard-working backs of a naïve American people.

Geesh Jane, lighten the fuck up, OK.

He had this black iron-barred jail ringing the “out house” about ten feet tall, but no problema for me amigo and moi.

We figured the gate was hard wired, an alarm and such, so holding a bouquet of red, blue and yellow helium balloons, you know that kind that makes yer voice sound like Wayne Newton’s, and wearing my black sex leather hip huggers, Chang got all the blood off a them, a skin tight red sleeveless body shirt, showin’ off the muscles in my arms again, I’m hopeless, I know. I scampered up on Earl’s aircraft carrier shoulders. I hopped the fence, landed on my steel-toed boots, smiled as Earl, like a fucking black Panther furrowed over the wall, landing right next to me, huge smile on his lips.

Did I mention Earl is six-foot-six or eight, shaved head, skin the color of an Ebonite bowling ball, bout 280 lbs, pure muscle, gold teeth, a true he-man in every sense.

Of course, I had a plan, having no dummy in me, and knowing that men think with their dicks first, and me being so cute, adorable and so irresistible and such, we moved through the park like setting, towards the front door of the fucking palace.

When we got near the front door, and pretty much knowing that there were CCTV cameras somewhere, we did some whispering. Earl got lucky, found a shrub big enough to hide behind, about six feet from the door. And me, well I stripped off my top, took a red ribbon from my pocketess, love The Lord of the Rings, tied it around my no tits, held the balloons real high like. I walked to the front door, played ultimate bimbo to the hilt, heard country music coming from the house, won’t go there, then hit that little button, and then smiled real slutty like, no problema.

I am slut, while the little bell went ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling ding.

Now what could go wrong, I’m me, cherub-looking, in a sexed-up way, a gorgeous twist, all skinny, semi naked and all, and I figured if I’m not on the camera, then he’s gonna be looking through the peep hole, seeing a knock-out blondie, holding party balloons, a red ribbon tied around her, probably a present from one of his degenerate show biz buddies. I also figured, he ain’t gonna question how I got here, cause the dick theory comes into play, always, which always supersedes any common sense any asshole has left in his brain.

“Bingo” the door cracks open, I am not surprised.

Usual 60-year-old Vegas degenerate. Body turned to suet, 6ft-2, flapping jowls on a burnt-brown face. Capped white teeth, dyed black Elvis hair as I see these sick vacuous eyes leering past this little door chain, which Earl could chew through, if he had an inkling to do so.

Now I think I mentioned I never fib, but this is one of those special occasions, so I did, and it went something like this.

“Who are you, I’m Jennifer, what a ya want, yer doc Phillips, right, yeah, well blue eyes, I’m yer party treat for the night, Wayne sent me, Wayne, yeah, you like balloons don’t ya, yeah, well what ya waitin’ for good looking, you want to fuck me, or not.”

I rolled the cubes, figured he knew Wayne Newton one way or the other, but it didn’t really matter, he was a goner at “Hello” and the cubes rolled good, on the green felt.

The chain moved, the door opened, and then he was surprised, not in that I’m a lucky guy way, but in a bad way. For, lurking there, patting a hand that looked like twenty pounds of Chorizo with a ball bat, was the biggest, baddest, frightening, scariest nigger he had ever seen, just like the kind he had built that prison wall to keep out of his fucked up, privileged life.

Anyhoo, with a continual loop of a DVD of the dead Cissy on the gurney running in my head and my manic state now red lining, well:

“KABOOM.”

It sounded like that, as I viciously skull-fucked doc’s nose with my forehead. I saw those little stars, a good thing, for I was irate, savage, to say the least. With blood spurting through his fingers, I smiled as he stumbled backwards into a wall, blood squirting out from between his out stretched fingers, gurgling about something.

Got Judo and Karate Black belts, did the stroll, then grabbed two fingers, leered at him like a fucking King Cobra and, then violently ripped his fingers down, breaking them in half like broken pretzels.

He screamed some bee-yotch response, me feeling his warm blood on my tits from the eruption from his bloody mouth.

I ripped a tuft of dyed hair back, leered into his screaming eyes and whispered through the smoke boiling past my lips.

“Ya fucked up Mengela, ya killed my girl.”

“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.” He said.

“SHUTUP.” I screamed, just barely hanging on.

He winced as his eyes looked like dinner plates, and I felt like my brain was melting, and unable to help myself, I brought my steel toed boot down on his arch, shattering it.

Lotsa screams, as I leered at him pretty much going now on rote, for it felt like Fulminated Mercury was eating my brain.

When I had seen Cissy’s dead body at the Police morgue, I whispered into her dead ear.

“You don’t worry sweetie, you let Janie take care of it now. I’ll make it right.”

 I always keep my promises.

Make it fucking right indeed.

So, I levitated him up by those two fingers, released them, then with a straight fist Karate punch, Bam, bam, bam, bammed his chest as I slammed him into the wall. He leered at me mumbling something, his eyes like eye bolts staring at his fingers.

“WHAAAAT.” I shrieked

I then viciously kicked him the nuts. He screamed, bent at the waist, just in time for me to bring up my knee, decimating his nose, AGAIN.

I heard a woosh, as more blood splattered on my face and bod, as he fell to the floor, groaning and weeping.

WHY, well I can’t tell ya.

I looked at Earl, who smiled at me. I smiled back.

Earl then, you know giving out the silent baseball signs, you know, grab yer balls, pull yer ear, blow yer nose, dragged doc by his shoe laces like a bag of turnips into the living room.

Feeling like my entire mind and body was incased in Napalm, I followed.

I then went to the plate, got no bunt sign, as Earl nodded at me to swing away. I straddled Doc, sat on his chest, and then went blood lust insane as I shrieked, my spittle splattering his face.

 “YA.” Boom, “MURDERED.” Boom, “MY.” Boom, “GIRL.” Boom,

Smashing his face with my fists, I then went completely manic, screamed and howled and the only thing that saved Doc, as I was covered in his blood, was Earl dragging me off a him, me howling like a she-wolf, my crazed eyes looking like fucking MUZZLE FLASHES.

It was fucking beautiful.

…………………………………………………………………………

Earl calmed me, which I was grateful for. Somewhere in the mayhem, we chatted to Doc, found he was the last link in the chain, that was good. Didn’t want more blood on my hands, then took a hot shower, felt better, put on a pair of black leather gloves, returned to the party.

I was tired of it, killers buyin’ lawyers, you know like OJ.

I also I mentioned this before, didn’t want doc DOA, because I had other plans, better plans for the deviant. I figured once we got the final poop on what he did to the kid, I mean did he have help slaughtering a 13-year-old girl, I’d call Lieutenant Garcia at N. Vegas Metro Homicide.

I figured once convicted and in a Fed Lockup, those Arian Brotherhood guys at the pen, with tattooed tears on their eyeballs, named Luther, Orvis, and Arvan, love guys who fuck up kids. I figured why snuff him, when he could get his ass blistered, reamed out for the rest of his life, probably drive an M-Rap in his asshole by the dudes in the Brotherhood.

 It was the right thing to do, I figured.

So, feeling all attritious and so benevolent, I guess, I had Earl duct-tape him to a chair, gag him. I was up, so I took the b-ball bat and KAPOWED him.

POP POP rang through the night, his screams too, both of his knee caps exploded, and by gosh I was right.

He gave up the truth, for the second time, two is always better than one, stories matched as he mumbled through his blood-soaked mouth, that didn’t look right, so a BOOMED him in his mouth with Rod’s bat, and like dice on the craps table green felt, his fake teeth tinkled, tinkled to the floor.

7, another winner.

I felt better after that.

We nosed around, found a couple of steamer trunks, lots of Louis Vuitton matching luggage, need a herd of African porters to get the stuff to the airport, a 1st class ticket to Rio, a pic of the doc, sitting on a 65ft Bertram Motor yacht, some brown-skinned Brazilian, stunning honey giving him a pink drink, little blue paper umbrella in it.

Doc looked happy, I kept the pic, liked the girl, would tack it to the wall of my PI office mas listo.

I like nice memories.

I can be sentimental that way.

Snooped around some more, found a Halliburton aluminum briefcase, had 100 thousand large in it, gave half to Earl, figured I’d add my half to the fifteen large I was gonna give to father Bob, well what could be better than that.

Earl hugged me out, almost broke my back, he was one happy God Man, couldn’t help thinkin' about his dick, how beautiful must that be.

Bad bad bad queer girl.

OK, back to good girl time now, benched that thought, snuck around some more, as doc moaned, groused, bitched something about needing a dentist in the living area.

Found a bunch of colored cardboard bank boots, red, blue, yellow like my balloons. Saw that doc had millions squirreled away, Swiss, Caymans, Panama, Bermuda, have some of my loot in the Caymans.

MY BAD.

Have a computer geek buddy of mine, works for the IRS, take him about five minutes, all the bank codes were there too, to wire the dough anywhere I want for a coupla grand of course. Rescued his teen-age daughter from a drug dealer, he was thankful for that.

 I’ll drop some serious coin on him, always do, love smart guys who bend the rules at times.

Big fan of those Whale Guys, keeping those bastard heathens in Japan from killing the most elegant and largest creatures to ever habitat the earth, “Sea Shepherds Society” that’s their name. Already sent them a hundred grand, got a nice TY note back, an invite for a sit down dinner on the boat. I declined, figured they didn’t need my skinny ass prancing around, me knowing what a distraction that can be, especially I figure for sailors, they being away from TRIM for so long, so far out to sea.

Good idea, I’ll send a mil of Doc’s slag over there, know Doc would have been proud of that, sprinkle, sprinkle the rest around to various charities, feel good about that.

Then I found this like, binder hidden in a shoe box in the closet. I didn’t want to open it, seeing my head felt like it had a hive of hornets in it, but I did.

Page after page of young girls, dead or not, gussied up like whores, plastic surgery run amok, the card of the day each had these fake huge silicone tits. Hand shaking, I turned the last page, my mind screamed, there was a naked Cissy, sitting on a bed, teddy bear in her hands, terror painted into her eyeballs, looking like she was staring at a fucking vampire.

I shook, felt vomit in my throat, screamed, impaled my fist into a wall mirror. I thought my heart exploded for a moment, but I held it together, as I threw it on the bed, knowing L. Garcia and his team of CSI crime team sleuths would find it once I gave up the doc.

Feeling tears streaming down my cheeks, I grinned, don’t know why, felt like some kind of Lioness, just before she attacks and devours a Caribou.

Anyhooo, Earl had duct-taped the Doc to a chair, gave him a “Boing” on the head with the bat, just because he could.

I viciously slapped him at least 4 times, womp, womp, womp, womp, why, well like Earl, cause I could.

I then remembered he was a doc. And what do Docs need to operate.

Fucking fingers and scalpels, of course.

I bent down, reached in my steel-toed boot, found my switchblade, with the name TAMPA BAY CITY stenciled on it.

I flicked the little button, the eight-inch blade flipped out.

Doc was gagged, as I smiled, touched his eye lid with the chrome tip.

“Eye, fer an eye Doc, would ya like that?”

He kept mumbling something, as tears rolled out of his eyes.

I think I was levitating by my still pent-up rage, don’t know.

“Ya like fingers doc? Ya know, usin’ scalpels and such on little girls?”

“Uuuug….Ugggg….Ugggg.”

WTF, is he speakin Chinese, I thought.

“Uuuug…Ugggg…Ugggg.”

I couldn’t understand a fuckin thing he was sayin’ as he shook his head back and forth in denial, as I took the blade, sliced three of his fingers off. He shrieked and his eyes like hubcaps leered at his hand that was duct taped to the chair arm.

Earl smiled as I asked him to get me a towel from the John.

A moment later he was back, and wrapped up the stumps real good-like and I guess we were done.

Unable to help myself, I viciously back handed his bloody face and, then put the blade to his eye ball and whispered.

“Ya killed my little girl, and now I’m gonna kill you.”

He looked real upset and like, as I reared back, shrieked, and plunged the knife down towards his chest.

At the last moment, I pulled up, tweaked his nose, ruffled his hair, smiled and said with a lot of mirth, “I ain’t gonna kill ya doc, but when the Aryan dudes get done with ya, yer gonna need an asshole transplant.”

I looked at Earl, I felt a blush seeing a look of admiration on Earl’s face, you know, for me being so street right and right on pitch, knowing it’s always better to do the right thing.

Anyhoo, in a festive mood, we cruised back to my loft, kisserooed cheeks, ooooh, a little lips like Kiko’s, tempted, but no, maybe later, not now, waved good bye, skipped to the loo to my office, fired up the cell, whistled up Lou Garcia, told him what was what.

I once saved Garcia’s life, that’s how we bonded, just so ya know.

Man, he’s smelling Captain, he thanked me, said don’t worry about anything, and then a bit later, after he nabbed the Doc Lou told me he was bitching about some crazed blonde, who looked like she was an eighteen-year-old UNLV cheerleader with a switchblade.

I’m blushing, tee hee, still got it.

Doc told Lou there was some behemoth that looked like King Kong that home invaded him, just stood there grinning like Kong as the blonde beat the shit out of him, then cut his fucking fingers off.

Lou pooh-poohed him.

Us Cops stick together, we promised to pow-wow soon.

I slapped the Cissy case shut, another job well done, knowing a good time was had by all, ‘cept doc of course, it didn’t go so nice for him.

So, the next day, I got another call from Lou, telling me how it went down.

Said, after about a thousand guys in Swat, Vice, Homicide, and of course CSI had decimated the gate, snooped around, found Cissy’s blue finger nail in a freezer, the one I found in Eddie Jett’s freezer as well as the death folder on the bed.

Then and with bull horns blaring, battering rams, multiple high ballistic weapons, they nabbed the Doc, threw him in the paddy wagon, zipped off with about fifty news vans tagging along, to document all of it.

Lou’s no fool, good press gets a good cop his gold bars, faster than arresting jay walkers, Lou knows that.

Lou did get those Captain bars and the keys to the city, God I love that man, finally some payback for thirty years on the Force.

Anyhow, case closed, but not really.

I’m hoping the nightmares end soon. Don’t know, but I’m hoping.

So there, over and signing out.

Jane, Vegas PI





j brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com



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