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Coasting-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Death Orchid-Fiction by j. brooke
Orange Bikini-Fiction by Maria Espinosa
Sirens-Fiction by Jason Bougger
Death Takes a Snow Day-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
The Chill of a Lifetime-Fiction by Robert Aguon Perez
HIJAX-Fiction by Liz McAdams
Marriage-Fiction by Doug Hawley
Secrets-Fiction by Carole Sojka
The Ten Ten-Fiction by A. F. Knott
Losing Eileen-Fiction by Marci McKim
Snake Dog-Fiction by Catfish McDaris
My Heart Will Always Be Yours-Fiction by Jon Park
Unicorn-Fiction by Rob Dominelli
Call Girls-Flash Fiction by Gay Degani
Hollywood Harry's bar and Grill-Flash Fiction by Fred Zackel
Grandmother Nightmare-Flash Fiction by Rick McQuiston
Death Row-Flash Fiction by Luann Lewis
The Jarvis and Mae Team-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Flying Away-Flash Fiction by Jerry Vilhotti
A Note for Alex Gildzen-Poem by Mark Young
Spoiled-Poem by Chad Haskins
Recognized-Poem by Michael Keshigian
the only goodbye he deserved-Poem by J. J. Campbell
Dropping the Ball-Poem by Ian Mullins
A Song of Vengeance-Poem by Christopher Hivner
A Slip of the Tongue-Poem by Robert Halleck
Again the 11th Hour-Poem by Robert Halleck
Jack-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
singles ad Westwood Magazine-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Love is all-Poem by Meg Baird
Travelling-Poem by Meg Baird
Roxyanna-Poem by David Spicer
Wanted-Poem by David Spicer
Whataya Say?-Poem by David Spicer
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by L. A. Barlow © 2018


j. brooke


Before the child of whiteness will be born, she will have been created from a violent and climatic act of passion.

From a mixture of sperm, her mother’s egg and DNA, will come, as the Harlot Orchid, an enigma of a creature, stunning of the physical, crippling rare of form, savage of the inner thinking world, a white female Orchid mimic.

She will be frail, translucent, alluring and deadly to mere mortals that often fall to the illusion of the rarity of pure unmitigated flawlessness of the female form. Very much like the Orchid Lithophytes, pungent of a lilac and citrus aura, within a transparent membrane of skin that thrives as it clings to rock, open to attack from viruses, she will be born stunning. Needing to be nurtured as an embryo, she will be protected until she will be ready; ready to savage a world that will have no anti- virus created to stop her.

Like the Saprophytes Orchid, struck of gold, silver and purples of impossible structure and hues and is anchored to soil and earth, she will be magnificence of perfection at its zenith. Her appearance will be pallid white, hair, skin, all centered of blazing titanium blue eyes and all connected by a brain of unfathomable intelligence. Crushed of darkness, pain and pathos, she will be tolerated by parents, until their death, which will release her violence to the world.

Mimicking the Epiphytes Orchid, strung as a citrine, indigo moth-spun twine, tenuous, strident and powerful in all of its appearance of fragility to the great roots of the Banyan tree of the rain forests, she will become a white pearl flower. Thus, having been born of the womb, she will be anchored in the roots of the safety of nurturing and loving parents.

She will be an air breather, her first memory, thriving on her mother’s blood. Years will pass, many lifetimes for her sisters of the petal world, which for Orchids, time is forever tenuous, an eye blink of memory. 

When finally she will be brought to puberty, she will shed that umbilical cord of blood, thus freeing her to war. Echoing the Orchid, which uses its scent to seduce, sedate and ultimately survive, she will use an elegant structure of face and body of flawlessness. Thus, she will bring carnage to an unprepared world which will have no warning of her lethal and seductive ways, thus no defense for it.

Within a singular moment of rebirth, she will become a genius savant, an intruder bringing death within an ever-revolving typhoon of madness, and she will leave trails of red blood behind her every step, and it will be the blood of evil, the blood of insidious men.

She will be called the, “Death Orchid.”

Jane, Vegas PI/Bounty Hunter. I’m a 28-year-old warrior for my people, stick Nordic blonde queer girl, killer green’s, I’m thin like a whiff of smoke spiraling out of the tip of a hand gun barrel. I am a protector of animals, women, kids, that is my mantra, fight hammer and anvil for the poor, the females, and the fragile creatures, human, and other wise, to the death if need be.

Girls think I’m a doll, love that, love sex, I am over sexed, can’t help it, it’s in my Genome make up. I don’t take pretty seriously, didn’t earn it, it’s all about the cerebral journey a twist takes, caring, loving the fragile abused creatures of a violent planet, then fighting, blood knuckles, steel boots against the men that hurt my lovelies, kids, animals and women.

I want to hammer a stake into the beauty thing. You’re fucking born that way, you had no choice. You can opt to sit around getting your nails done, reading Cosmo, partying, looking in the mirror, using up men and women in a trash disposal life, never read a book, or you can find your inner heart and soul.

I’m no hero, no role model, I’m a freakin’ freak of nature.  Nearly six foot tall, too thin as a whisper girl, I can eat ten cheese burgers a day and never gain an ounce. In my DNA, early on, I wanted to be something else, besides some piece of arm candy. Thankfully I am queer from birth, won’t lie, I have the sex drive of an Alabama cheerleader.

Girls love me. I love girls; lucky me.


I try to do good every day of my life, that’s why I became a PI/Bounty Hunter, mastered guns and such, black belt, judo Karate, sometimes I get me small ass kicked, don’t mind that either. Every penny I make being a gumshoe goes to the homeless shelters, some local churches trying to fix the poor, and never pass a homeless person, without putting twenty bucks in the cup.

This doesn’t make me a saint, I know I’m complicated, can be a bitch sometimes, but I work day and night trying to be a decent human being and often fail.

Anyhooo, stop jabbering, just wanted to get right on that stuff.

Okey dokey.

 It all started close to a decade back, after my parents died in an East Coast car accident, left me millions, and a brutal hole staked in my heart that could never be plugged. I still weep, missing them every morning when I wake. I found myself engulfed in a darkness, swathed in black wings of grief, pain and hopelessness.

I was a lost human being, soaring within the opaque darkness of space, being sucked in to a Black Hole, no light, no future, simply disappearing within the dangerous death of a mind, a girl that had lost everything she loved, or ever would love.

A year passed, already thin, I became emaciated, wept, screamed and howled within those nights in my Chelsea loft. I woke one day and I felt ashamed. Life, death, they are what makes living as a human being so remarkable. I woke even further, felt more shame, I had so much, what would I do with a life that until the moment held no rudder to its keel.

I realized that I could be an angel, neither white, nor black, but a benevolent flying-winged wind-whisper warrior, that rights wrongs, and help others less fortunate than I.

Eight years would pass and then, I ended up In N. Vegas, of all places.

I can jibber-jabber way too much, so let’s crack it.


Ten years back my spirit and élan had been reborn, therefore, still insane, I decided my way in life, and still so confused, I spun the lotto wheel, would try everything and anything, until I found my way.

I have this Mensa IQ, 170 or so. I thought I would try Parsons, NY art school. I hated that, tried to be an artist. I had some talent, but Monet was an artist, not me. I had a huge ego, bombed out of that gig.  Hit up Wharton Business School, did a year in that wood chipper of peoples’ dreams.

Went to Goldman Sachs, wore this skin tight black power dress. I kinda looked like Charlize Theron meets Janet Yellen the fed Chairwoman.

I filled out their standard job application that went like this:


  1. Would you be willing to be a heartless, ruthless, sociopathic habitual liar? Checked the box “YES”…Gold Star.

  2. Would you be willing to steal every fucking schilling away from widows and orphans? Checked the box “YES”…Gold Star.

  3. Would you be willing to take a machete and cut the head off another broker so Goldman Sachs could have another fucking billion-dollar day? Checked the box “YES”…Gold Star.

  4. Would you be willing to sell your own grandmother to white slavers if she got in the way of career advancement? Checked the box “YES”…Gold Star

  5. Would you be willing to drive your Lamborghini to CEO Lloyd Blankfeins billion dollar palatial mansion in the Hamptons, go yachting, play polo and snort cocaine off of the tits of eighteen-year-old idiot super models? Checked the box “YES YES” Gold Star.

  6. I checked that box twice

    And it went on and on, and because I didn’t wear any panties that day, and checked all the right answers in the “YES” box, they were ready to sign me on the spot.

    They even offered me a huge bonus. Of course, that is, if I sucked the guy’s cock in the cloak room later.

    In the end, I said “Naw.”

    I’d rather be a serial killer, because at least I could work with purpose, respect, dignity and be able to sleep at night.

    Anyhooo, a real American life made no sense to me, marriage, kids, mortgages, PTA’s, lies, deceit, marrying some fuck-wad tired of fucking you.

    You know, banging the gal at the bowling alley, bad ratted hair like Sarah Palin.

    You know.

    Click, click, click on three inch heels, man-made tits, bee hive and too much eye liner and mascara on raccoon eyes.

    Typical MO, some bimbo outta Perth Amboy serving drinks on a little round tray.

    After, her legs are thrown to the air at the Paradise Motel, neon sign, missing some light bulbs, as some husband butt-fucks her and buys her a cheap gold-plated locket with a picture of himself in it. It’s the oldest story in the book and always leads to a one-way street to nowhere.

    I heard that only Snow Geese mate for life. Why? Because they’re fucking dumb birds, that’s why.

    It was tough being cosmetic to others, beautiful, so young, having this brain, IQ, north of WHAMMO. What’s a girl to do, especially if they’re stone ice berg crazy?

    I was looking, looking hard for something.

    My parents, outside of the Hamptons, were pulverized by some drunk-thug rich kid in a Mercedes, snorting cocaine, meth off a the tits of some Bryn Mayr sorority sister.

    The car accident murdered my father instantly. Mom was thrown through the windshield, one leg, one arm severed from her body, her stunning face lacerated beyond description, to the bone, she lived for three weeks, died one night when I was holding her hand.

    That was a weird night.

    I’m now sure that was the moment the savage in me woke.

    I waited a few months, got a black wig, one night pedaled my bike down to Beth Sturtevant, bad part of town, went into a biker bar, wore sunglasses. I hung around in my usual Amazon guy-magnet loveliness, sipping Wild Turkey. Saw this hard-core biker guy, tats everywhere, had a chain holding his wallet in his back pocket.

    He sat down, said, “What’s sup Doll.”

    Told him I needed a gun, a silencer, lots O bullets, could he hook me up?

    Asked me if I was a cop. Told him, NAW, was a cheer leader at NYU.

    He laughed, like my vibe, said, sure doll. Two grand for the heater. Another grand for the silencer.

    Deal, when, where, how ‘bout now. I was all bidness.

    He liked my straight way, no bull shit. Said, he’d be back in an hour, I said sweet.

    An hour passed, the juke box was puking how Johnny Cash, liked that.

    He walked through the door, winked at me. I followed him into the John.

    We cemented it, right there and then. A twelve in the clip Beretta, a black snout silencer, gave him 4 grand, a tip, he smiled, asked if he could fuck me.

    Said no, maybe later, cupcake.

    It was my first gun buy.

    It would not be the last.

    He laughed, I scooted, peddled back to my massive loft in Chelsea.

    I spent a week on my laptop, doing my thing, research and such. Spent a lot a time mussing out Harvard, bars, clubs, got it all right. I was ready.

    Read The Art of WAR, I was way ready.

    A whiz kid with computers, I photo shopped some stuff, made a false ID, New England Driver’s license. Betty Smith, cool name, got my back pack, Beretta, leather hip huggers, steel-toed boots, lots a Money, got a black-banged wig, some sunglasses, took three taxis to Boston. A girl can never be too careful, ended up in a dirt-bag cheapo motel outside a the city.

    Betty was ready-Betty to go.

    Got all dolled up, you know, lots of mascara, lip gloss, stuff I never use, mini skirt, three inch heels, low cut blouse, bimbo stuff, grabbed a gypsy cab, went to THE CLUB along The Common.

    Sidled in and the crowd of college trash were frantic. I figured E was the drug of choice.

    I hung at the bar, miles of legs, sipped Ginger Ale, shined on about a dozen hits from college frat boys. Then this real player hit on me, rich college boy, spoiled from birth until he squirted outta the womb. One a those privileged fucks, never wanting anything in life, except to please himself, self-gratification his life major, born with a platinum spoon in his asshole. Probably marry some vapid princess from Vassar or Holy Oak, sire kids just as sick, rich, cold and disgusting as he and his parents were and will be just like him and his sorority bitch.

    The wife will end up fucking some tennis pro at the country Club, while he lawyers up, keeping and fucking some bimbo idiot model at some City crib his parents own, never realizing that the rest of the world was fighting poverty, living desperate lives just to put a hot dog on the table.

    He was perfect, felt right to me.

    I made it easy for him, batted my eyelashes, pouted, talked kinda trailer trash stupid, you know the kinda doll these college pukes loved to get drunk, take back to the frat house, then jettison before the moon died in the morning.

    We hooked up, went back to this flashy crib he had downtown. I did my Mae West seductress thing, he never saw me coming, and then we were inside and I was ready to roll.

    He made us Martinis, Moi, eagle-eyed saw him drop something in mine. I smiled inside, a fucking roofie, really. That for me was the cherry on top of the banana split.

    I stripped naked, did a twirl in my heels, saw that in a porn movie once. He liked that. I told him drinks later, Mr. Man, why don’t ya slip into your velvet robe or somethin’, let’s get to it, the fucking.

    He peeled off his LL Bean plaid shirt and khakis and boat Dockers, grinned at me. I cooed something like, jest a sec handsome, dug into my back pack, got my Beretta, tightened the silencer, strolled up to him all sexy and such, then in full fury, pistol whipped him in the temple.

    He fell to the floor like a sack of shit, which he was.

    Moaning about a head ache or somethin’, he leered up at naked me, stared at my laser beamed cunt, saw the magic neon coming out of her, then at the gun in my hand, mumbled.

    “What the fuck.”

    “I’ll show you what the fuck.”

    I leaned down, crawled on top of him, ripped off my black wig, so he could see the full blond experience, ripped the silencer past his teeth, breaking all of his front teeth, shoving it down his throat.

    Through the blood he moaned and bitched about something. I could see some kind of recognition, you know since every fucking day in court, my green eyes drilled a bullet hole through his head.

    This was Bobby Van DeMeer, son of a billionaire Wall Street Banker. Two times arrested for Under The Influence and driving stoned. His wealthy parents had used their influence with the judge, who was a frat brother of his billionaire father, which allowed perfect little Bobby to slip free, a slap on the wrist his only window to reality.

    The 3rd time, drunk, and tripping on E, coked up, he had crossed lanes and had driven my parents into an Oak Tree, killing them forever.

    He even walked from that, getting probation, cause you know, poor, poor Bobby was too rich, too fucked up to know better.

    Leering at him, I heard him gurgle something through the sinew and blood in his mouth.

    I heard him ask.

    “Why…who…uuuh, it’s you….ahhhhh, why.

    Feeling stomach acid in my mouth, I simply whispered.

    “I am Jane Blake, you murdered my parents, and now I am going to murder you.”

    It took him a few seconds to digest the info, I waited, you know, just for the drama of it. He got it, then his eyes lit up like glow sticks and I saw that he knew exactly who I was as terror struck his eyes as the last thing he heard was…


    “Pssssst, Psssst, Psssst.”

    I put one down his throat, two in his heart, arterial spray splashed my body crimson in blood as I breathed in the smell of cordite.

    It calmed me.

    I exhaled, pleased, just simple business, erasing a killer of a girl’s dreams from the Earth.

    He would never hurt another human being again.

    Thus my life as an avenger had started.

    Having never touched a single thing since I entered, I took a shower, watched his blood spiral down the drain.

    I dried off, took the towel, dressed, got back to NYC, threw my gun, towel, wig, slut get-up in the river and never thought about it again.

    I was 19 years old, my life was a mess, and now it was about to begin anew.

    Destiny, fate, well, you have to grab the bitches by the throat or you don’t when they show up. I did.

    I opted, to another way, a harder way, a more honest way.

    I educated myself, learned Spanish, German, French and Italian, working on Chinese, since the little yellow guys are going to get all the loot anyways.

    Bible said that.

    I have this rad, monstrous artist’s loft in N. Vegas, Fuck, the Chang’s down stairs at the laundry got tons of coin cemented in the walls. Thought I would learn Chinese, you know to point out spots of blood on my clothes and you know; they just may inherit the earth.

    Anyhow, read until my eyes closed, learned a lot.

    Spent about a year in Europe, saw a lot of old stuff. I fucked a girl who poled the boat around Venice, played my cunt like a viola, she was a real stud.

    I whistled “Ole sola Mia” while she did it, had about a zillion orgasms, rare thing those.

    I woke up to find my jewelry gone, didn’t mind, the kid had shown me a Jake time. I’ve never bought another bauble since.

    Found the French Rivera, St Tropez, Cannes, got a million invites to ride around on motor boats, munch on caviar and sip champagne, me being so young, beautiful and all. I hung on yachts old guys owned, you know, Euro Trash types, tons of naked crazed Euro babes frolicking everywhere.

    Fucked a lot of pretty dolls, danced all night, did drugs, all of them and partied till dawn. I felt pretty good for people seemed to like me, especially old men with limp dicks.

    What the fuck did I know, I was stoned all the time.

    I ended up in Ibiza, an island off Spain, hedonistic, bacchanal party place and a drug nirvana.

    The sex station was over flowing with models, gorgeous girls, boys, Medellin Cartel super tankers off-loading cargo containers of E, coke and shrooms.

    Most nights I ended up in this amphitheater club. An insane place where guys on the balconies we’re shooting foam on your naked body.  Everyone dancing and drug-induced love was everywhere.

    Used up my E-ticket book of girl fantasies, fell for a French model on vacay. Gigi was her name.

     I did boat loads of “E”, a lot.

    Turned out the bitch was insane. We had sex for a week, went through a gallon of K-Y Jelly, at least. She was fucking nuts.

    I snuck out one morning, tip toes, cunt needing a retread. Hung in Barcelona, saw Gaudi Park, a living hallucination to genius. Caught a jet to Madrid, went to the Prado, had an orgasm checking out Raphael, blasted to Tokyo, still hoping the crazed slut Gigi wasn’t going to shadow me there.

    I liked Japan, cool people, not very tall. Folks there eat a lot of fish, something wrong with their eyes. They eat their food with these little sticks. Jello never caught on with these polite people. The folks there bowed a lot, loved that too.

    I found a dojo outside of Kyoto, signed up for Judo, Karate, Kimbo lessons. Was taught by this small guy, wore white pajamas and got my ass handed to me on a chop stick every day for 6 months. It was well-needed and a real beat down.

    The guy could put his fingers through a plate of stainless steel. He called me daughter at the end, dug my vibe. I never cried, bitched, no boo hoo’s, gritted through it, stood, got slapped down, stood up and took more.

    Cleaned the Dojo, scrubbed the floors, made the fish heads. Got to play Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, liked that a-lot.

    Got my black belts in Judo, Karate, jetted off.

    Boogied out of Japan, Asia, India, Africa, the Middle East for a year or two and, then that was it.

    Vegas, can you believe it?

    Of all the gin joints in all the world to hang a girl’s sombrero, I hung it here.

    Go fucking figure.

    After a while I got my pilot’s license and bought me a sweet blue, twin prop white King Air flying machine.

    The stud has dual props, long range, rad flying machine, named her Betty. Keep her over there at Nellis Air Force Base.

    N. Vegas drew me in, moth to the comet tail, don’t know why. I found it a perfect fit.

    You know hard, decadent, criminal element, evil, dangerous and beautiful, me nuts-o, and all. Why not?

    Got my PI license, Bounty Hunter license, concealed gun permit, I was ready.

    CLINT said in Unforgiven:

    “It’s a strange thing, killin’ a man, kid. You take away everything he was, and everything he is ever gonna be.”

    That’s what guns do, and while we’re on the subject, well.

    America is a country of guns, don’t know why, the excuse is that Wyatt Earp had one, why can’t I. The fact he was a homicidal maniac killer, well, you know, in the USA ya got two choices. Read books, get an education, make something of yourself, work hard, feel good about yourself because you got off the Lazy Boy, and actually did something special in your life.

    Second choice.

    Fuck around your entire life, skip school, work at Burger King, order Pizza hut on Sunday, cheering for your fav team, work at I-Hop serving the breakfast special, then moan and bitch how unfair life is, cause yer an uneducated asshole.

    A gun in the wrong hands evens out life, you buy one, fill it full of ego, then yer even in life  and you did nothing at all to deserve those odds.

    Yer girlfriend leaves ya because you’re a lazy, abusive fuck-wad, well, you shoot her dead.

    Anyhow, once I had chosen to become a Vegas PI, I learned to love my guns.

    My name is spelled J A N E not F U C K I N G V I C T I M.

    So, I bought a Glock, a Colt, a Mossberg shotgun, an AK-47, and a M-16 and would buy more.

    I went to a gun range, looking all leather hip-hugger hip and all, and lolly gagged around in my usual natural splendor.

    I saw this 6ft 4 studly guy, looked as hard as a bar of platinum handling an M-16 like she was some doll he was in love with. I figured he was ex-military, he being so proficient handling the fire-breathing dragon he had in his muscled arms.

    I walked up to him, gave him my full green eyes, smiled.

    He smiled back.

    I was not surprised.

    I don’t lie as a rule, unless I’m on a case, then I become a pathological liar like Trump.

    Told him straight up, I was a queer girl, a PI, would pay him a grand if he’d take some time along a few days and teach me how to handle my guns, love my guns and be proficient with them.

    I could see in his iron ore eyes, he was a man in pain as he kept staring at my exposed belly. He said too bad I was gay.

    I said, since birth, fella.

    I punched him in the arm.

    He laughed, his name was Mike, turned out he was Ex-Seal, used his guns to kill all those fellas in Iraq, Syria, you know the guys that buy their pajamas from the JC Penny catalogue, on line.

    Anyhow, we liked each other instantly for you know, killers come in all shapes and sizes.

    We spent weeks blowing holes in cardboard, checking stances, gun grips, gun buck ratios, fire suppression reflexes, and such, and in the end we became pals.

    I told him I was a fucked-up human girl, told him I got his pain, knew what he had done servicing a lie of a war, had to be a butt-fuck experience and I thanked him for his service.

    I’m a girl that tries to save lost causes, dogs, cats, and especially females. Knew this ex 22 year-old “In Hotel” hooker, her name was Beverly. She stumbled into my life when I was on a case. A real-doll blonde Biloxi runaway, been fucked senseless since she could remember by her daddy.

    She was a lost cause, my favorite, so I slapped her around, literally, and one night after I found out she was being terrorized by her vicious pimp, well Me, Jane The Avenger took care of him.

    I met the dude in an alley, and with steel toed boots, fists, head butts, teeth, I nearly killed him, sending him into a wheelchair for life.

    That problem solved, I got Bev an apartment, cleaned her up, she was a smart little whippet, drop dead gorgeous to boot.

    Got her into nursing school, then because I am the match maker from Hell…LOL…I fixed her up with Mike, two lost and injured human beings, well, finding their mate at the hands of some crazy blonde queer girl.

    They fell in love.

    I’d love to have been a fly on the wall in their bedroom for that bronco ride, seeing they were both so damn gorgeous.

    Anyhow, one last thing on guns.

    Don’t get me wrong, lot’s a good people do the gun thing, millions of them, cause they have the same MO as me. Respect guns, think of them as an insurance policy, what for?

    The fucking continuation of your life, that’s what for.

    Anyhooo, I ended up in Vegas, fuck, I could a ended up in Beirut. I didn’t.

    I hated the glitz and pompous shit of The Strip, found depraved N. Vegas and bought my 7000 sq. ft. upstairs loft from Chang’s laundry, once was a bakery, think I mentioned that.

    I became a Private Dick/People Hunter, taking cases almost always concerning abducted girls, kids and bidness was exploding, since the depravity of Vegas had no boundaries, and business boomed.

    All my amigos are either cops, stunning girls, this is Mecca to them, or fringe, dangerous, brilliant, compassionate, complicated folks, muck like Moi.

    I immediately got to work on my new digs. Did some drawings, I’m handy with the lead, bullets and pencils.

    For my birthday, I dropped 25 grand on a new shotgun, a Holland & Holland, over and under, side lock action, coil-spring ejector system, 20 bore, coined real pretty and all.

    I slept with her for a week.

    MY BAD.

    Got these legions of cool Mexican artisans, carpenters, tile guys, electricians, paid them twice what they were worth, and made my loft all comfy and such, including this cool bathroom, black and grey tiles, tub sunk into the floor. I love taking baths after I have some torrid sex circus with another vixen like Moi.

    Also had these cool gun cabinets built, heavy locks, for my twenty guns or so. Respect guns, use guns, love guns, anyhow, that’s the skinny up to the moment.

    N. Vegas is tuff turf, meaning lots O gun shots, hookers, cop sirens, homeless, gang bangers, drug addicts.

    I mentioned I like to help the homeless.

     LOL, I am a river to my people.

    Anthony Quinn said that in Lawrence of Arabia.

    My best friend, besides Lieutenant Victor Garcia of N. Vegas Metro, is an almost ex-Gang Lord of N. Vegas, King.

    King needs my smarts, tonight, my mojo, me a girl with a gun, cause he’s having a sit down with some gabacho killers, Zeta Cartel, from Ciudad Obregon.

    That’s another story.

    Got to boogie, need to buy some flash clothes for my protection gig with King manana. I’m so butch, I live in Nike and leather hip huggers and my work boots.

    They’re all there on the strip. Cardin, Manolo, Givenchy, Betsy, etc.

    I can never get the makeup right when I get dolled up, so will stop by the beauty parlor, get my hair washed, fuzzed, make sure I look all seductive and such, my looks have gotten me outta some tough jams before.

    You know, look at me, oops, no panties, LOL, Psssst, Psssst, bullets always end unexpected problems. 

    There’s nothing I like about King’s sit-down with the Mexican mobsters, but, ya know, King’s my buddy, whatever.

    Anyhoo, that’s it, Jane, Vegas PI.

    Checking in.

         Checking out.

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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