Michael D. Davis

The Bloody Whorehouse Detective Agency

By Michael D. Davis

Chapter One

When the stick stabbed the soft part between his ribs for the third or fourth time Count Whorton said in a voice as smooth as dry skin, “one more poke and it goes in your eye socket.”

“This one’s alive,” the poker yelled.

Count Whorton opened his eyes and waited to see if the poker was right. He was. The Count was laying on something hard. What or where he wasn’t sure. He rolled over and fell to the rock bottom; which was the cement base of the park bench. The cold dirty cement’s slap cleared enough fog to remind Count Whorton where he was. The night before he’d been walking home, more drunk than human, and got the idea to take a shortcut through the Phillip M. Pennypacker memorial park. This was an idea so awful that only a hungover Count that spent the night on a bench could see the fault; he lived nowhere near the park.

It’s better the night is clouded and broken into crumb and bit memories that comes from a night of cheap booze. Something told him that if he did remember everything that happened last evening it wouldn’t be his most cherished memory. Then again how would he know?

Laying on the cement like a dazed slug Count Whorton looked up at the two twenty-something fools in running shorts that were one mistimed jostle away from falling out onto the sex offender registry. Count took all the detective skills, common sense, gumption, shrewd astuteness, and little gray cells he could muster and deduced the one with the stick was the one that woke him. The Count got up on his knees then leaned on the bench. For the first time, he noticed the back of the bench which said: “In Memory of Cliff Skipper.” That is nice, Count figured, if you have to spend the night on a bench why not Cliff Skipper’s.

Count Whorton propelled himself off the ground the same way you propel a frisbee into the air, although with less form and accuracy, because he saw no other way around getting his ass off the ground. When he finally reached a standing position, he heard something hit the cement. Count looked to see what he dropped and saw a large hunting knife covered in dried blood. The two runners stared at Count and the knife then one of them turned and looked behind him at a body in the grass.

One of them said into a phone he had to his ear, “you need to get here quick.”

Chapter Two

Count Whorton sat in a cold stone-walled room filled intoxicatingly with his own smell, a smell strong enough to wake a dead horse. His ass hurt from the metal chair; his hunch hurt from sleeping on the bench; his head hurt from the booze the night before, and his throat hurt from answering the same questions again and again. On the last go around he’d asked for a nip of something just to keep his strength up, but no one was amused or obliging. Not even when he showed his crooked yellow teeth in a look of pitiful dehydration.

Finally, after God knows how long officer Klunkel came in and said he was free to go. Whether they didn’t have enough to hold him or believed the fact he was too drunk to kill anyone, Count Whorton didn’t care.

Klunkel said as Count reached the door, “if you killed that girl we will find out. If you didn’t… we will find out that as well. Just don’t do like the PI’s do in the movies sticking your nose into where it doesn’t belong trying to prove your innocence. This ain’t no movie.”

“Gosh Klunkel,” Count Whorton said, “I thought we were friends. Plus, I thought this was a movie, with my dashing good looks and your winning personality. Don’t I look ready for my close up?”

Klunkel gritted his teeth. “Anything that gets close to you needs shots afterwards.”

Count saw her before he even entered the room. She was sitting in a chair looking as pissed as ever wearing a large purple fake fur coat and hat. It made her both look like a hunter and fake fur trapper of children’s imaginary friends. Also impossibly beautiful. As Count walked in, Irma Side stood up, she was more than the average woman, she was taller, wider, curvier, older and she knew how to use it all as a soldier with his gun. Many wouldn’t look her way if they didn’t already have a few under their belt or were just desperate with a few bucks to spend. But Count Whorton loved the light brown-skinned beauty and against every force in nature, she seemed to love him too. When the Count came right up to her in the middle of the police station Irma slapped him across the face.

“Countey,” Irma said in a voice that broke glass two towns away, “you got arrested without me.”

“Just detained.”

“I didn’t have a phone call or nothing. You didn’t even think of me.”

“I’m always thinking of you Irmie. You were working last night.”

“Someone has too.”

“I know Irmie, love. And I didn’t even do anything today. I just woke up in Pennypacker on a bench with a bloody knife and a dead woman ten feet away. They thought I did it, I said I didn’t, now they don’t think I did.”

A uniformed officer behind a desk mumbled, “alcoholic asshole,” loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Okay,” Count said, “he thinks I did it, but who cares. Let’s go.”

“Fine, Countey if that’s all it is. No hard feelings just remember to invite me next time.”

As they were walking out an officer said to Irma, “don’t I know you? You look familiar.”

“You arrested me last year for prostitution. Don’t worry no hard feelings, dearie.”

Chapter Three

After Count Whorton took a shower that was needed more than a cure for cancer and slipped into some new crummy clothes that looked just like his old crummy clothes he took a drink, a seat next to Irma and the remote.

Flipping through the channels Count felt a great disturbance and he knew exactly what it was. He looked at Irma who had been staring at him since he sat down.

“What?” Count said.

“Don’t what me.”

“How else am I supposed to figure out what you’re pissed about?”

“You know damn well what I’m pissed about.”

“I am most assured I don’t have the simplest of clues.” Count turned back to the TV and kept turning over channels like dead leaves.

“You’re just gonna sit here?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You aren’t gonna look into this at all?”

“What?”

“The dead woman in the park, fucks sake, you aren’t even gonna try to clear your name?”

“My name was too dirty to be cleared before the woman in the park. Secondly, it’s a police case. Thirdly, no one’s paying me for this. They are paying me to be a night stocker at the store so that I’ll do. And six-hundredthly I just want to stay home, Irmie I had a tough night.”

“Whose fault was that?” Irma stood up and went to the door. She put on her purple fur hat and her purple fur coat then turned back to the Count who still sat in front of the TV, not watching it. She walked over and stood between him and the TV saying, “Countey, love.”

“No,” Count said.

“For me, Countey, will you look into it for me?” Irma put extra syrup in her words.

“No,” Count said, trying but failing to ignore her.

Irma whined and walked to the side of the couch. She bent down, kissing the Count on the forehead and the cheek. Then she plunged his head into her voluminous chest and writhed about letting him go only seconds before he died of oxygen deprivation.

Count stood up slightly angry and said, “fine, fine we’ll go. But don’t you know you could have killed me there, don’t you listen to the narrator?”

Irma ignored him, she was too delighted. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a hoot,” Count said, “I was at Dynamite Dotty’s last night. Let’s start there, I could use a drink.” The count downed the glass he had in his hand and went for his coat.

Chapter Four

Dynamite Dotty’s is a place on the other end of town, it’s the only gay bar around. There is one little thing and one big thing that keeps Count Whorton coming back. The little thing is Dotty herself. She wears button up shirts, jeans, leather jackets, and her phone on her belt like a six-shooter. Dotty has dynamite hellfire red hair and if God fell from heaven, she’d wear heels, but she still wouldn’t surpass five-two. She’s also a good friend. The big thing that keeps him coming back is the thing that keeps him coming back to every bar in town and that’s the booze.

The place hadn’t opened yet when they walked in and Dotty sat at a table eating take out and listening to a drag queen with a wig higher than her, singing voice belt out a tune on stage. Count took a seat and stole some fries. Irma pulled up a chair saying hey.

Dotty said hey back and added, “So, how many teddy bears did you have to murder to get that coat?”

Irma made a face and said, “None, they died naturally.”

Count ate some more of Dotty’s fries and watched the singer on stage. She was alright but needed more work before she went on in front of paying people. Whether it was the song she picked or the voice that she played it on it had a way of making a dog feel like his cat just died. Count turned to Dotty, “I was here last night, you know if I hung around anyone?”

“No shit you were here last night. Do you know who was here a few hours ago?”

“Patrick Swayze?”

“He’s dead, you fucking moron,” said Dotty. “Plus what would he be doing in a gay bar in the middle of Iowa you expired-milk-looking piece of shit.”

“You’re a lovely friend, Dotty.”

“Damn right I am. I was talkin’ about the cops. They came in askin’ about your drunk ass.” The singer was done on stage and just standing around listening to Dotty curse until she noticed. “Wasn’t half bad—go backstage and talk to Nicky two necks.” The singer walked off and Dotty got back to cursing. “I didn’t tell them shit, not that there’s shit to tell because you don’t seem to do any fucking thing but drink anyways. Except the times you start a brawl or get on stage and sing like sheet metal in a broken fucking dryer.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Count.

“You wouldn’t,” she said having attitude that walks hand and hand with her voice.

The Count leaned over the table still eating Dotty’s food. “Come on Polkadotty, the police think I murdered a woman.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not,” Irma said, then thought about her answer. “We don’t think so, anyway.”

Dotty gave a sigh like a balloon dying a miserable death then said, “fuck, I don’t know. You were hanging around Sour Kraut. So, ask her.”

“Good,” Count said, “I need a drink,” and got up out of his chair.

“Speaking of that,” Dotty said, “your tabs due.”

“So, are my library books.”

“I’d like it by the end of the week or you’re cut off, Count.”

“Strange, that’s what the library said.” Count fished out a cigarette, slightly bent, put it between two chapped lips and lit it as Dotty made a face that once caused a grizzly bear to commit suicide.

Irma cut in with, “He’s just joking, Dotty… everyone knows he can’t read.”

This lightened Dotty’s eyes and gave Count a moment to strike. “I could pay you Dotty, but you could also ease off… after all two years ago today,” Count paused to look choked up. Irma rolled her eyes not so much at the acting, but at the feeble attempt to it. “My dear mother died,” Count finished then with a clincher, he crushed his hat to his chest and gave a pitiful hangdog look that worked most times when his mother died.

“Count,” Dotty said crossing her arms over her chest. “I saw your mother just the other day at the store. I have to admit she looked pretty good for two years dead.”

Count’s face dropped a few inches. “That was my biological mother, I was talking about my stepmother.”

“Bullshit, you dumb fuck.”

“Shit,” Count said, putting back on his hat.

“I can’t believe you thought that was gonna work, fuckin’ moron.”

“He does it all the time,” Irma threw out.

“I bet he fuckin’ does, Jesus Christ. Also, Count, you should visit your mother more often. I mean how old is she?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve heard rumors that she killed Abel and blamed Cain for it. And for Christ in a cave, I visit the old bat every few days… when I remember. We just had dinner there on Monday for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, she invited me to dinner when I saw her.”

Irma took the wheel on the conversation from here. “How about Friday? We’ll come along too.”

“Sounds fine. Maybe you’ll have my money by then Count? I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

Count started towards the bar saying, “Don’t bother, mom likes brandy.”

Chapter Five

Sitting at the bar on a stool like a priestess on her throne was Sour Kraut. She was well over six feet tall heels or no heels and wore a dress that was snugger to her body than a key is to its lock—pinker too.

Count Whorton slipped into the chair next to her like an elephant into a tunic. “How you doin’ Sour?”

“Bitch, you should know,” Sour said giving Count a look. “Saying just another, just another last night. I ended up puking everything up in my closet.”

“Speaking of drinking where’s the bartender?”

“Not here yet.”

“Fuck.” Count Whorton slipped out of his chair like an elephant out of a tunic and gave it to Irma who managed it better. In his element among the bottles behind the bar, Count found some bourbon and three glasses.

“Hey Irma,” Sour said, “I heard Count had a murderous hangover.”

“Yup, woke up in the Pennypacker park on a bench next to a dead woman.”

“That blows me out of the water.”

“How’d you hear?” Count asked pouring drinks.

“Two bulls were in earlier, pissing off Dotty.”

Count drained his glass while everyone else sipped then poured himself another. “Not much for hair of the dog?”

“What?” Sour said.

“I was just looking at your glass.”

She gave a slight smile then said, “I often catch men looking at my glass.” That made everyone smile.

“No, seriously,” said Count.

“Seriously? Seriously, I feel like shit and think if I drink too much I’ll be running right back to the closet.”

“So, why are you here?”

“Bitch, where else am I supposed to be? Home with the closet? I work here.”

“Whatever,” Count said moving his glass around. “So, you remember what happened last night?”

“You mean about you? Like how you made two women hold out your scarf so you could play limbo or when you sat on that poor man in the wheelchair’s lap and told him what you wanted for Christmas or when you got up on stage and sang the best of disco.”

“I don’t remember that,” Count said.

Irma giggled, “Sounds like a fun night.”

“Probably was, Sour, was there like anything or anybody weird around last night? Anything suspicious?”

“There was that girl that followed you in.”

“What girl?” Irma said.

“Twenties something, long hair, I don’t know. She followed you in trying to talk your ear off then that big guy who works over at that fast food place next to that auto shop dragged her out. He was wearing the uniform.”

“And you don’t remember this at all?” Irma asked the Count.

“I remember doing some errands and getting a little thirsty. So, I went to a bar then I did a few more things then there was this other place then I remember vaguely here. Then of course Pennypacker Park.”

“Good times were had there, baby,” Sour said. “Pennypacker park’s where I lost my virginity.”

“If that’s true you’re the one that should get their name on a bench.”

“Please,” Sour said standing up. “I don’t need a monument tying me to this town. Bitch, where do you see me in five years? I will tell you where… headlining a place a lot bigger than this in a town a lot better. Now I gotta do some work, see you all later.” Sour walked away in only a way she could.

Count Whorton grabbed Sour’s partial glass and downed it saving the rest of the bottle like an orphan from a fire by putting it quickly under his coat. “Ready, Irma?”

“Where we off to?” Irma said finishing her drink.

“I’m hungry, so why don’t we see a big guy about a burger?”

“Sounds good to me, but Countey I want to ask you something first. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Count gave it some thought and said, “Dead in an Iowa whorehouse, and you?”

“The same.”

“That’s my girl. What do they say, together to the end?”

Irma smiled. “Yeah, the bloody whorehouse end.” Then they sent the little hairs on the back of necks standing up with a kiss only they could achieve.

Chapter Six

The uniform at the burger joint was like most fast food place uniforms a shirt, a hat, and a collection of stains. Count Whorton and Irma recognized their guy two ways; one was that he had to duck at every door he came to so he didn’t hit the frame with his cement block head and cause the whole place to crumble. The second way was he was the only man in a uniform.

Count walked up to him and said, “Buddy, can I ask you a few questions?”

The skyscraper in cotton turned to look at Count. “You?” was all he said.

“Me?” Countered the Count leaning on the counter.

“What are you doing here?”

“Asking you some questions.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m not?”

“No, because you’re not a cop.”

“You’re right, I work at a grocery store. I still want to ask you some questions.”

“Is she a cop?” The big guy pointed at Irma.

“No,” Count said, “she’s a prostitute. Can I ask you those questions now?”

“No, because you’re an ugly drunk grocery man and she’s an ugly whore.”

“Hey,” the Count yelled, his eyes wide yellow pus balls of craziness. “Listen here you fucking fucktard of a fuck, don’t you ever say that kind of shit to my girlfriend again or I’ll shove so many of these little salt packets up your ass anything you crap out will be pre-salted, you endangered ape-looking fuck.”

Kenny, as his name tag read, looked a little stunned and then threw a fist the size of three green bean cans. Count moved, but it still clipped his cheekbone, he fell back and Kenny came over the counter. Count gave a kick at Kenny’s crotch but missed with the aim of a man who loved his booze. Kenny grabbed Count by his pants and lapels and threw him across the room. Landing on a garbage can, Count tried to get his wits about him before Kenny was on him again. He failed. Kenny gave him two rights on the floor before Count grabbed a sticky plastic fork and stabbed it into Kenny’s shoulder or tried to as most of the tongs broke against his muscle. But it slowed him up a second or two giving Count the opportunity to hit him a few dozen times in the head with a plastic tray.

Count Whorton was off the floor and Kenny started to lunge when Irma pulled out her gun. “I wouldn’t,” she said, “or the ugly whore’s gonna shoot ya.”

“Aw, fuck,” Count said, “my bottle of bourbon broke.” He pointed to the remnants on the ground.

“Now,” Irma preceded, “you gonna answer our questions?”

“Maybe not now, Irma,” Count said pointing to a teenager on her cellphone. “Bulls are comin’, we gots to scram.”

“Shit,” Irma said, putting her gun away and making her way to the door.

Passing Kenny on the floor Count said, “Ma and Pa will be back, sonny.”

A few blocks away as they slowed at a stop sign Irma said, “That work as planned?”

“I didn’t plan to lose my bourbon.”

“What do we do now?”

“Home, nap, nourishment… lay on the couch like a lemon peel in the landfill.”

“Really?”

“Fine, we will stop off at the cop shop, see if they identified my murder victim yet. I don’t think I pissed off every cop I know, we’ll find out anyways. But, I wanna drive thru someplace on the way.”

Chapter Seven

Miss Pinky grew up when moats were dug around residences and three out of four children died of weakness or consumption. Miss Pinky wasn’t her name nor was she a cop, she worked the front desk and no one knew her by any other name. She was a short, stout woman with the unbreakable belief that her poodle cut hairstyle never went out of fashion.

Count Whorton sidled up to her desk, a honey-sweet dead tooth smile on his face. “Grand tidings, Miss Pinky…looking like a fresh picked flower as usual.”

“Oh, please,” Miss Pinky said with a snort. “Cut the crap, what are you doing back here after this morning?”

“Turning myself in.”

“Irma and your mother wouldn’t stand for such a foolish thing.”

“You know that,” said Irma leaning on the large desk.

“Told ya, dummy. Now, tell me the truth.”

“Just lookin’ for an update on my victim.”

Miss Pinky looked around her and over into the back rooms which were all buzzing like a stone-knocked hive then got up saying words that caused Count and Irma to question the trustworthiness of their ears.

With painted old lips she said, “Meet me in the crapper, on the double.”

Count Whorton and Irma shared a look that showed each other’s worry for the tapestry of life and all the decisions that led up to them following Miss Pinky into the can. Then Count shrugged lazily and said, “It’s a dirty business.”

The three of them packed into the woman’s bathroom like three rotten peas into a pod.

“So, the girl’s name is Ginny Hollis, twenty-eight, I believe. She was stabbed multiple times.”

“That it?”

“What? Did you want the killer’s name and address? How about his unlisted phone number?”

“It would be nice.”

“I can’t do everything for ya, honey. Maybe you could surprise us all and use that head of yours for something other than just growing out your bald spot.”

“Man, you’re mean today.”

“I’m just telling the truth, honey.”

“Miss Pinky,” Irma said, “did Ginny have long hair?”

“They don’t have a lot of photos of her just yet, but I’d say that’s a safe bet. Most of the pictures now have been from the scene. They’re still there. Hell, he woke up there, shouldn’t he know about the length of her hair?”

“Hungover.”

“Of course.”

“The DCI coming down?”

“They should already be on their way. Some don’t like it, but Quartertown ain’t Chicago. When something like this goes down you need the big Iowa Department of Criminal Investigation boys.”

“The ones with iron jockey shorts,” Count Whorton said, “I’d want my case put in their hands more than I would the Quartertown bunch.”

“Hey, I work with these guys daily, not all of them are bad… but I agree.”

“Alright, I guess that’s it. Thanks for the help.”

“No, problem. Hey, how’s your mom doin’ I haven’t seen her in a while?”

“Good,” Whorton said, moving towards the door.

“We are having dinner with her on Friday,” Irma said, “if you wanna come. Dotty of Dynamite Dotty’s is coming as well.”

“I would just be delighted, I will make a pie if no one objects.”

“Sounds fabulous,” Irma said.

Count Whorton was nearing the urge to slam his forehead against a stall door when Irma turned ready to go.

Out in the car, Irma drove away from the cop shop. “Where are we going now?”

“Home?”

“What?”

“I need some sleep and a drink and a vacation house and a colonoscopy probably, but let’s focus on a nap right now.”

“Do you think the dead girl is the same girl that followed you into Dotty’s?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Then who you think killed her?”

“Top of my head, I’d guess it was that fee fo giant at the burger joint.”

“Yeah, how you feeling?”

“Eh…” A large bruise had started to form on the side of Count Whortons already mangled-looking face.

Back at the apartment, Count Whorton stripped off his coat and pulled down the murphy bed.

“How long are you gonna sleep?” Said Irma helping him off with his clothes.

“I don’t know.”

“I guess I’ll go to work for a while then, see if I can turn any tricks.”

“Okay.”

“You work tonight.”

“At the store, yes, but I think I’ll call in. You know, may have murdered a woman and all.”

“I guess I better let you sleep. Unless you wanna screw around some.”

Count Whorton fell back onto the bed in an unbuttoned shirt and pants. “I’m way too tired for anything like that.”

“I could just defile you in your sleep.”

“I would like that a lot, Irmie.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll go get the naughty toys,” before patting his leg and heading towards the door.

“Just no whip Irmie, I’m really tired,” Count Whorton said already asleep.

Chapter Eight

A few hours later Count woke up to the sound of the doorbell hitting his eardrums like a three-car collision. He stumbled across the room swearing as he went and descended the stairs to the outer door.

Count poked his head out half asleep, holding his shirt together like a woman with her robe caught coming out of the shower. A short, long-haired girl barely out of her teens stood on the sidewalk.

“What do you want?”

“Kenny said you were looking for me,” said the girl. It had become dark since Count Whorton got home, but he could see her clearly painted in colors from the neon sign and other lights the bar he lived above had to offer.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Rea Coatwell, we, well, I tried to talk to you last night.”

“You’re the girl from Dotty’s.”

“Yes, I followed you in there because I was trying to speak to you. You see-”

“Hold it,” Count Whorton said holding up a hand. “You go up inside, turn on the light. I gotta get my… partner.”

Count went out the door and held it for her as she went in and up the stairs.

“I won’t be a minute.”

Whorton shut the door quickly and crossed the alley to the next building. A few steps in he realized he was shoeless. Good thing he didn’t have far to go. He still had the fortune to step on several pebbles, something too sharp to be a rock and something he didn’t look down to see but made a squishing noise. At the other building, Count tapped furiously on a first-floor window. There were a few swears, the sound of a bed creaking, then the window was opened by a topless Irma.

“What’s the problem, Countey?”

“Girl just showed up at my door, says she’s the one from Dotty’s last night.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, she’s at my place, can you get out of here?”

“No problem, it’s a regular, and we were just finishing up.”

Irma shut the window. Count waited on the sidewalk. A few minutes later a man came out buckling his pants, a look of regret on his face. Then Irma came out in a black t-shirt and jeans.

The bare yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling at Count’s place flickered in and out as if battling to cling to life. Rea sat on the very edge of the couch, trying to sit without touching anything. When Count and Irma came in Irma switched on a lamp and joined Rea on the couch, Count put up the bed and found his way to the chair.

“You obviously know me,” Count said, “but this is Irma, my partner. Now, I had some to drink last night, so maybe you could start with what happened.”

“First, of all, I’d just like to apologize about Kenny. I know you all had a… scuffle as it were. And I just think that’s awful.”

Count caressed his bruised cheek because caressing his bruised ribs in front of company is strange.

“You were pointed out to me last night by a friend, during bingo.”

“Bingo?” Irma said.

“Yes, Count Whorton was at my church’s weekly bible bingo game, I help out. He didn’t have any cards, but he still yelled out bingo several times causing a ruckus.”

“I don’t remember that,” Count said.

“Well, Pastor Dave walked him out and one of the older ladies said who you are and what you do so, I caught up with you and tried to tell you about my sister. Kenny came along as well. We followed you into Dynamite Dotty’s and finally, Kenny dragged me away saying you were a…”

“Useless drunk or something?” Count finished.

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong with your sister?” Irma said.

“She’s missing, has been gone for three days now.”

“Why don’t you go to the police?”

“My parents say not to. It’s not the first time she’s gone missing, you see. She has run away before, but never for this long. The first few times we did go to the police, but then she’d just show up like it was nothing.”

“She usually just at a friend’s?”

“Or her boyfriend’s and this last one, he’s just bad. I’m always at work or helping at the church and can’t look after her a hundred percent of the time and neither can my parents. So, they got her a babysitter. It’s not a regular babysitter because Tara is nearly fifteen, but since they don’t trust her, the neighbor girl comes over and watches her. Which she was our babysitter when we were smaller.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-seven or twenty-eight, I think. And she said this latest boyfriend of Tara’s is into drugs and might even be a dealer or something. That’s what got me so scared, what Ginny said.”

“Ginny?” Count said.

“Yeah, Ginny Hollis.”

Irma looked at Count, he glanced back, his yellow eyes big like that of an old man finding a penny on the ground.

“So,” Count continued, “how do you think she knew this about your sister’s boyfriend?”

“I don’t know, maybe she saw him somewhere, doing something. She didn’t tell me how she knew.”

“Do you think your sister’s doing drugs?”

“I hope not.”

“Do you have a picture of your sister?”

“Yeah,” Rea said taking out her phone and showing Count a picture of a bright shiny teenager.

“Do you have any paper photos?”

“Um… no.”

Count sighed then got out of his chair and went over to the far wall. He flicked up some wood paneling revealing a hidden area stuffed with odds and ends. Count found a flask, tried it, then swore at its emptiness and threw it behind him like a dead bird he thought would take flight. When he found what he was looking for, he replaced the panel and sat back down.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Count said, “I don’t use it that much.” He flipped open an old phone and turned it on. “Could you text that picture to me?”

“Sure,” Rea said. She got the number, sent the picture, then listened to the 1960’s rock smash hit that was Count’s ring tone.

“Do you know Tara’s boyfriend’s name?” Irma said.

“I only know him as Blippy.”

“Blippy?”

“Yeah… I doubt it, but it may say on his Facebook page if I can find it.”

Rea kept her face on her phone for several minutes as Count wished there’d been something in that flask.

“Here we are… um, Tyler Liptone.”

“There pictures of him on there?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I see?”

“Sure,” Rea handed Count the phone and he swiped through the pictures.

“Irma,” Count said.

“What?”

“Look at that.” Count showed her the phone, a picture of Blippy on it.

“What?”

“Who’s that in the background?”

“That big guy? He looks a little familiar.”

“Yup.” Count swiped through a few more pictures then handed the phone back. Grabbing the landline, Whorton dragged it over to the TV tray next to his chair, the cord just reaching. He lit a bent cigarette and dialed.

“Who ya callin’?” Irma said.

“Police,” the other line picked up and Count said, “Miss Pinky, glad to know you’re still there.”

“Murder, Count, that means all hands on deck including front desk people.”

“Could you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Get me an address.”

“Not even if I wanted to.”

“Please, we both know you got a finger in every bowl of soup down there. An address would be nothing.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks, Miss Pinky, the name is Tyler Liptone.”

“Alright, give me a minute.” She paused then gave the address when she got it.

“Thanks, Miss Pinky, hey another thing how old is he?”

“Twenty.”

“That’s what I thought, thanks Miss Pinky, you’re a lovely and wonderful person.”

“Shit, detective Klunkel’s coming my way.”

“Give him my love.”

“Yup,” Miss Pinky said before slamming the phone down.

“Who was that?” Klunkel said, now up at the desk.

“Des Moines reporter, he tried to sweet talk me. Asked me if I look as good as I sound. I said depends, how bad do I sound over the phone.”

Klunkel frowned, “Don’t tell them anything.” He then walked away as happy-go-lucky as a diseased puppy stuck in the sewer, but that was normal.

“Alright,” Count said leaning back in his chair, “I think I can get your sister.”

Rea’s smile took over her face like a planned attack. “Really? That’s great, what will I owe you?”

“Um…” Count thought about it for the first time. “Fifty bucks and a phone call.”

She paid up front.

Chapter Nine

Kenny looked about as comfortable in his car as a mouse in a cat’s digestive system. The car squished him in two, leaving him little room to breathe or turn the steering wheel. Then again, a school bus would do the same thing for Kenny.

After he parked, Kenny sauntered over to Count and Irma’s rust bucket. He was either going to talk or throw the car to Pluto with little strain.

“I’m here. How’s the face?” he said through the window to Count.

“What face?” Count said.

“So, what am I doing here?”

Count left Irma in the car saying to Kenny, “Rea’s sister Tara is, we’re figuring, in that house with her ne’er-do-well boyfriend Blippy. And I need you to act as my heavy.”

“Heavy what?”

“No, um, I’ll be like the good cop and you’ll be the bad cop. I say things like we’re on your side and we know you’re the brains. And you say things like this fool don’t know shit and I’ve seen more useful shit on my shoe. All while you beat the crap out of him.”

“Okay.”

“First we go in there and I get out Tara. Then we talk to Blippy. You gonna have my ass.”

“If I have to.”

Count Whorton walked up to the door wishing he had a nip of something, then knocked. There was no answer, so Kenny knocked harder. When the door swung open a half-naked, twig-skinny man stood there with a giant wolf’s head tattooed on his chest.

“What the fuck do you want?” Blippy said.

Kenny punched the wolf between the eyes making a few of Blippy’s ribs crack. Blippy collapsed on the floor in a heap that looked like last week’s trash. Count stepped over him and said to Kenny, “Watch him, I’ll find Tara.”

A shooting star must have been flying overhead as Count was talking because just like that Tara came around the corner.

“What the fuck’s going on?” she muttered. She had mussed hair like she just woke up and wore only a large shirt. Count knew her age but thought she looked about ten years old.

“Get some clothes on.”

“What? Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter, get dressed.”

“No,” Tara said not moving defiantly. “Fuck you.”

“Listen, girl, I’m detective Klunkel of the Quartertown police department and your sister Rea Coatwell was found dead earlier tonight.”

“What?” Tara screeched.

“She was reportedly out looking for you, little girl. When she was killed. We’ve only found the head thus far, but I think it’s safe to say she’s dead.”

Tara fell in a heap screaming and crying. Count grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up. “Get your clothes, now!”

She disappeared into the house.

“What the fuck was that?” said Kenny.

“What?”

“Tellin’ her Rea’s dead.”

“Maybe she’ll think next time she runs away. Either way, it was a little fun; this must have been how Bela Lugosi felt all the time.”

“You’re kinda fucked up.”

“Eh… little bit.”

Tara came back her eyes dark clouds ready to break any moment with another storm. Count shuffled her out to the back seat of the car. She shrunk on the cracked and torn upholstery looking like a kitten in a shoe box.

Count put a finger under her chin and said, “Now, there, there. Don’t worry. Your sisters alive and well.”

“What?” Tara sniffled.

“We were hired by Rea to retrieve you, girlie. If you’re thinking of running I wouldn’t, the driver’s got a gun.” Irma smiled from the front seat then Count said, “Toodle-oo.”

Count shut the door as Tara started a screaming of a different sort.

Back inside, Blippy was put in a chair and Kenny stood over him like a hammer waiting to be dropped.

“Blippy, you with me pal?” Count said shaking him.

“Fuck you,” was the response.

“Good, now do you know Ginny Hollis?”

“Fuck you.”

“Kenny.”

Kenny twisted Blippys nose till it nearly came off making him yelp in pain. Kenny let go and blood dripped from the nostrils.

“Now, do you know Ginny Hollis?”

“No…Fuck.”

“Where do you get your drugs?”

“What?”

“Blippy, who’s your supplier?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Kenny.”

Kenny rabbit punched Blippy in the side of the face.

“Fuck, fuck fine it’s that son-of-a-bitch Darren Hollis.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know, night ago or two.”

“Where do you meet?”

“Club across town…Dynamite Dotty’s”

“I’m done here…he’s yours Kenny.”

Kenny worked him over for a few minutes breaking one of Blippy’s arms and knocking him unconscious. Hopefully, infusing in him the knowledge that if he meets anyone with the name Coatwell again he should commit suicide instead of mingling.

Count found a piece of paper and a pen, he wrote on it, then set it on Blippy’s lap. Kenny smiled and started out. Count called 911, gave them the address then hung up and followed him, but not before taking Blippy’s money and phone.

The paper on Blippy’s lap read: Hello I am Blippy, a drug addict and pedophile. I am badly injured, please help.

Chapter Ten

Hours later in the Phillip M. Pennypacker memorial park on the Cliff Skipper bench Count Whorton and Irma laid on top of each other in a lewd display of affection as the sun rose over the treetops.

“Dear God.”

Count Whorton pulled his eyes from Irma to see Klunkel standing over them, a twisted look like he just licked a bulldog’s ass painted on his face.

“Detective,” Count said as him and Irma sat up and straightened. “Good, you got my call.”

“Hell of a call, sneaking up on a rookie officer telling him to tell me to come out here alone so we could talk. Fuck, if you want to confess come to the office, you know where it is. That kid is now thinking of quitting the force.”

“That’s a shame, but it’s more dramatic this way. And I said talk, not confess.”

Klunkel didn’t say anything, just stood unmoving in the morning wind.

“Well,” Irma said, “first of all he didn’t do it.”

“Yeah,” Count agreed.

“But we know who did.”

Klunkel remained as silent as a gravestone in July.

“You see,” Count said, “we started by goin’ over and retracin’ my steps because I didn’t remember nothin’. I was drinkin’ you know. That didn’t get us too far. We did learn a girl was tryin’ to talk to me and I ignored her.”

“Fast forward a little,” Irma said, “we get word to this mystery girl who we first assumed was the dead girl, but she’s not.”

“Because she’s not dead.”

“I think he’s got that, Countey.”

“Anyway, girl’s got a missing sister with an asshole pedophile boyfriend and a babysitter that was none other than dot, dot, dot Ginny Hollis.”

Klunkel crossed his arms.

“So, we get the runaway sister and have a convo with this creep. You see, we found a picture of him on the Facebook with someone in the background we recognized. I asked him where he got his drugs and you know what he says, but Darren Hollis. I know what you are thinking, pretty coincidental, the name Hollis.”

“We,” Irma said, “know Darren by the name Sour Kraut, leading drag queen act at a place called Dynamite Dotty’s.”

“We went down there and asked around after talkin’ to the pedophile and I did have a few.”

“Night of the murder, Sour left early,” Irma said. “Also didn’t drink as much as usual.”

“That’s nothing,” Klunkel said, “no proof in that.”

“We talked around to some of the other girls there,” Count said. “A few know Sour was dealing and all of them saw an incident in which Sour fought and hit a woman matching Ginny’s description. Plus, Irma thought of something fantastic.”

“Well, considering Darren probably got rid of the clothes he was wearing I figured that would suck, him being of a larger size, well, mostly I’m talking about his shoes. Sour has some big feet and I mean big feet.”

“They’re allowed to keep things at Dotty’s. We checked, there’s a pair of size 14 men’s sneakers in Sour’s stuff among the wedges and pumps. They had a few bits of blood on them. I think Darren started selling drugs for the money, he wants to be the biggest drag queen out there, but he can’t do it in a town like this. His sister Ginny didn’t agree with it. Ginny warned the not dead girl that her little sister is messing around a druggy, because she saw him around Darren. She confronts him and he kills her. Not just for confronting him, but because she’s bugging in his client’s lives and that’s not good for business.”

“Fine,” Klunkel said, “I will look into it.”

“That’s it?”

“What can I say?”

“Well, here, I will absolutely prove it to you. I stole the druggy pedophile’s phone and texted Darren. My text reads: was in the park last night, saw you and that girl. Then Darren wrote back: what you talking about Blippy. And I said: you know…let’s meet there to talk. Then he said: when, and I said, well just about now.”

Klunkel went from annoyed to infuriated as Count talked and was about to release his fury like air from a pin-pricked balloon when like on cue, footsteps started up the nearby gravel path. Klunkel drew his gun and Count drew a partial bottle he had hidden.

Darren came up the path and stopped suddenly like he hit a wall. He didn’t try to run or fight, he just let Klunkel put the handcuffs on him, looking like he expected this or like there was too much sand in his eyes.

Irma and Count sat on, watching and drinking as Klunkel pulled Darren over.

“Shit,” Irma said looking down, “he’s got the sneakers on.”

Klunkel and Count looked at Darren’s feet and count said, “just gotta find the blood on ‘em.”

Count looked at Darren, one of the few times he wasn’t in a dress, heels, or wig. Just some light makeup and small earrings. “Darren, two things. First is, I was curious since earlier, when we had that drink because you didn’t look as hungover as you were puttin’ on and I’ve seen my share of hangovers. The second is you put on one hell of a show at Dotty’s. I’m gonna miss that.”

“Me too,” said Irma.

“Thanks.”

“I still don’t get,” Klunkel said, “how you got the knife and found the body.”

“The old drunken fuck stumbled over her,” Darren said with a slight smile.

“What?”

“When it happened, I knew it was gonna be trouble. He came along up the path like he followed me, but he was too drunk to follow anything but the smell of more booze. He tripped over her arm, saw her, said he’d help and pulled the knife out of her chest. He then started yelling about murder and police, but he finally found the bench and went to sleep.”

“I don’t remember that,” Count Whorton said, taking another swig from the bottle.

Chapter Eleven

On Friday night everybody swarmed around mother Whorton’s house. Miss Pinky showed up first, pie in hand. Then Dotty came in her best leather jacket with some brandy and fifteen minutes after everyone else, Irma and Count came through the door.

“You’re late, Whorely,” said mother Whorton. She was an old woman with a bad smoking habit, an oxygen tank always on her heels and a chubby little dog that liked chewing the cord.

“I know, ma,” said Count, “take the belt to me later will ya?”

“I’ll pencil it in,” she said with a smile.

They all sat around the table eating mother Whorton’s great cooking, drinking and talking like it was a holiday.

“God-damn you two,” Dotty said to Irma, “that was the best singer I had.”

“Rather I went down for it?” Count cut in.

“If it’s gonna lose me money and you owe me money, so fuck yeah.”

“Well,” Irma said, “until you find someone, why don’t you have Count fill in with his lovely voice.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I hope you’re kiddin’ Irma. I’d rather shove toothpicks into my eardrums than have that.”

They all laughed, having a good night.

Chapter Twelve

Back in the apartment after dinner, Count went up to the east wall and put his hand on the wood.

“I think it’s time, Irma,” he said.

“For what,” she said then saw him at the wall. “You serious?”

“I am, but just one thing.”

“What?”

“We do all of this together?”

“Till the bloody whorehouse end, Countey.”

“Love you, Irmie.”

“Love you too, Countey.”

Count Whorley Whorton opened the pocket doors that separated his apartment from his office. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. On a far window was painted the words Count Whorton Investigations and Security.

“We’ll fix that,” Count said, “I wanna make it Count Whorton and Irma Side Investigations and Security. Ain’t that nice?”

“Fuck, no, that name sounds horrible.”

Count smiled. “Alright, you pick the name.”

Irma walked into the office that no one’s been in for years and smiled. She turned to Count and said, “The Bloody Whorehouse Detective Agency.”

The End

The Supermart Halloween Psychopath Special

By Michael D. Davis

Count Whorton wiped his nose on the back of his hand then went back to ignoring the goober half his age in front of him. Mark Miller, otherwise known as The Mole Man, for his pimple-bespeckled face with rodent-like qualities and large dark John-Boy blemish on his forehead, called himself Count’s boss. He continued his lecture all while scratching around a newly formed zit.

“You just can’t be coming in drunk or drinking. This is not that kind of place. Consider this a warning, Count.”

“I’ll consider it,” Count said, “but Mole Man, stop your worrying. All I do is put shit on shelves in the middle of the night when it’s a wasteland where only the occasional druggy or scumbag comes in for a melon. What’s it really matter if I’m nippin’ some or not?”

“Well, like yesterday, when you put the hunting knives in the cereal aisle.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, it happened. How? I don’t know because the knives are on the other end of the store.”

“Maybe for someone comin’ in who needed cheap tasty flakes and a quality blade it was a convenience.”

Mole Man rolled his eyes in an overly dramatic fashion then said, “even so, here at SWEENEY’S SUPERMART we don’t place knives with the cereal.”

“Whatever you say, Mole Man.”

“Damn right, now try to stay sober, its Halloween, we’re probably gonna have an increase in customers.”

“Right, right boss sir,” Count said with a salute.

After Mole Man wandered off Count put a few more toys on the shelf then saw someone moving up the aisle. It was a clown with a bowtie, polka dots, and large floppy shoes. Although diverting from clown normalcy was the dried drips of blood coming from its ruby red lips and the sliced open throat. Standing still Count Whorton watched the clown move toward him at a slow pace. It got closer and closer until its face was only inches away from his own. It breathed heavily in his face while watching him with wide eyes before finally kissing him.

“Christ, Irmie, you had me spooked,” Count Whorton said pulling himself away from her.

“Good,” she said. Irma Side, Count’s better half in more ways than one, was unrecognizable. She took Halloween seriously, it being her favorite day of the year, even though she celebrated it her way year around. “I was leaving the apartment for the midnight bash at Dynamite Dotty’s when I saw you forgot your work flask.”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Yeah, I hid it.” Irma pulled from her pocket a black flask with a skull and crow on it. “Happy Halloween, Countey,” she said with her sweet screechy voice.

“Oh, Irmie that’s fantastic. Is it-”

“Filled to the brim, what am I, stupid?”

“No, you’re great.” Popping the top, Count took a sip.

As he placed his new flask in his pocket a scream rang out through the store. Quickly getting to the front of the building Count and Irma saw a crowd of people running to hide. Crouched down one aisle of men’s socks and underwear was Mole Man. Approaching him Count said, “Mole Man, what’s goin’ on?”

Mole Man looked up at Count and Irma, let loose a scream, and ran away with surprising speed.

“What the hells goin’ on around here?”

The stores constant 80’s pop background music came to a halt with the clearing of a man’s throat over the intercom. “Excuse me shoppers and Sweeney’s Supermart employees the store is now on lockdown,” the man said. Count and Irma started toward the registers. “We have already killed one of your night owl shoppers and we will continue to kill everyone in this building until we have what we want. Which is either death of everyone here or something a little more personal. If anyone contacts the police, they will die a miserable death. Happy Halloween and as always, thank you for shopping at Sweeney’s Supermart.” The man’s voice stopped and “Come On Eileen” started over the speakers.

Hiding behind racks of sunglasses, Count and Irma could see the only two people at the registers. The man who had been speaking stood over six feet tall and was wire thin. He wore a fanged pointy eared and bald-headed mask that left his chin and neck exposed. The other one wore a white sheet with holes cut out around the eyes. The Ghost had small gloved women’s hands showing with blood on the front of her sheet.

“Who the hell are these people?” Irma said.

“Beats the hell out of me.”

Retreating from the front of the store they found another Sweeney’s employee in bedding. Laying on the bottom shelf amongst a bunch of pillows was Alfred Box. He stood three and a half feet tall after crawling out of the shelf he said, “Criminy, that one of them Count?”

“No, Doc, this is Irma, my girlfriend. She just loves Halloween. Irma this is Doctor Box.”

Pushing up his glasses and putting out a hand Doctor Box said, “I’m not in actuality a doctor. He just calls me that. Good to meet you.”

Irma shook his hand as Count said, “he’s the smartest son of a bitch around and I sent him up the river once.”

“It was an incident of unrequited love and regretful decisions. I harbor no ill will towards Count. Incidentally, I consider him a friend.”

“And a good friend too, now are the others dead or just trying to hide?”

A middle-aged woman in a Sweeney’s Supermart uniform ran by at the end of the aisle straight towards the front of the store.

“Not hiding,” Irma said. The three of them went to the end of the aisle and watched. The woman ran with the grace of a fish swimming in the gut of a bloated tiger. She went right for the doors which wouldn’t open. She shook them and beat the glass before catching a glimpse of the lanky Vampire coming up behind her. She screamed, running towards the pharmacy. The Vampire was on her quickly swinging a machete wildly. As she passed the shelves the woman threw over the counter medication and bandages at the Vampire. Many hit him but few slowed him. He swung the machete landing it in the back of her head, she fell pulling down a rack of laxatives as she went.

“Poor Carol,” Doctor Box said.

“We need to move, Countey. Where are the others you think?”

“Probably towards the back room, Irmie, let’s move.”

They moved quietly through the rows of items not meeting anyone as they got closer towards the back. Arriving at the door to the break room things seemed normal. Count tried the door, the knob turned but it didn’t open. Pushing against the metal door with his shoulder did nothing. “Anyone in there?” Count called out. “This is Count Whorton. Doctor Box is here too. Living employees.”

There were some sounds coming from inside the room then the door opened a crack. It was Mole Man. “Is that one of them?” He said nodding towards Irma.

“Naw,” Count said, “this is Irma, my girlfriend.”

Mole Man hesitated then opened the door completely. Inside the small room were several people, some customers, mostly employees.

“What are we going to do?” a man said.

“Did you see Carol out there?” one of the employees asked.

“Look here,” Count said, “we’re in a bit of a situation but we’ll get out of this. First of all, Carol’s dead, sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“A machete to the head is usually fatal. Now, we need to call the blue boys to help us out of this jam.”

“They said they’d kill us if we did.”

“They also said they may kill us anyway so what are we really risking here? The few last hairs off a shaking snowman’s ass?”

“What does that mean?” said someone towards the back.

“I’ll even make the call if it makes you all happier. Irmie you got your phone?”

“Yeah, Countey, I’m just kickin’ myself for leavin’ my gun at home.”

Count Whorton took Irma’s phone and called the Quartertown police station. “Irmie what’s Klunkel’s extension again?”

“666.”

After putting in the extension number Count waited for him to pick up even though it was the middle of the night. Count never knew Klunkel not to be there and sure enough, he answered. “Detective Klunkel Quartertown Police Department.”

“Klunky, its Count. I’m at work over at Sweeney’s Supermart and it’s a real store of horrors. We got two masked assholes trying to kill everyone. Two are already dead.”

“Good one asshole,” Klunkel said.

“I’m serious, Klunky they already killed Karen from produce.”

“CAROL was a cashier,” corrected an employee.

“You need to get your gun-toting, badge-wearing ass down here.”

“I would honestly Count, but all these camp counselors are being killed down by the lake and I won’t even get into what’s happening with this babysitter’s batshit crazy brother. So, have another drink and Happy Halloween.”

Count got out, “you dumb son of a,” before the call ended.

Before he could tell Irma or the crowd that help wasn’t imminent the Vampire’s voice came over the loudspeakers again. “Hello once more, this is going beautifully, but sadly a little slow. So far, my lovely partner has taken a customer’s life and I’ve split an employee’s head in two. Frankly, I thought we’d be a lot farther along by now either; I’d have what I came for or there’d be a pile of bodies but two does not make a pile. So, let’s speed things along. I would like some personal information that only one person here has and that person is Count Whorley Whorton. Like before, either I get what I came here for or you all die. I’m content either way. You pick. Thank you.” The 80’s jams returned with a hit from The Cars as Count Whorton mumbled a swear, all eyes turning towards him.

“Throw the ugly bastard out,” said the voice towards the back.

“Now wait a second,” said Doctor Box holding up a hand, “let’s think now.”

The woman employee who’d asked about Carol took a pocket knife out and flipped open the blade.

“Listen here you fuckers, we ain’t going anywhere,” Irma said.

“It’s you or us,” said the woman with the knife before charging forward. Count hardly blinked, Irma moved defensively in front of him and Doctor Box hit the woman with a chair and said, “sorry Becky.”

“Nice one, Doc Box,” Irma said, “but Countey I think we should be scootin’ on out of here on second thought. They got awfully hungry eyes and I think we’re on the menu this Halloween.”

“Right next to the mummy hot dogs. Doc, you comin’?”

Becky had started to stir on the ground while the rest of the room formed an angry looking group. “I don’t think my actions will be kindly forgotten, so yes please.”

The Mole Man unlocked and unbarricaded the door to let them out then whispered good luck before quickly slamming it behind them.

“Three against two we got the majority at least,” Count said taking out his flask.

“Well, two and a half,” Doctor Box said with a slight smile.

“There’s someone I can call for help, I think he’ll come.”

“Who?” said Irma.

“The giant,” said Count finding the number on the phone. After he finally got it dialed and ringing a teenager’s voice answered saying, “Happy Halloween this is Bing Bing Burger would you like to try our Super Slick Slammer Slider for two-ninety-five?” in a slow unenthusiastic tone.

“No,” Count said, “I need to speak to Kenny.”

“Hold please.”

After a second of silence, there came a booming voice, “yeah?”

“Kenny, good, this is Count Whorton.”

Filling him in the same quick slurred enthusiastic summary he gave Klunkel only moments earlier Count Whorton had Kenny coming to the same conclusion.

“Stop fucking with me, you drunken ugly bastard,” was Kenny’s response before hanging the phone back up on the wall. He sighed, shook his head and walked three steps before the phone rang again. This time it was Irma. She had two profanity injected sentences for him that had the gorilla-sized Kenny apologizing and running out the back of the burger joint.

Returning our attention back to the Supermart, Irma hung up the phone just as Count Whorton started talking. “Good, the Giant’s on his way, but he’ll be a while. This is the plan to figure out who those Universal Horror wanna-be fucks are, why they want to kill me while keeping them from killing anyone else as we hopefully kill or at least maim them. Surviving the night while staying generally not dead ourselves. Since its Halloween, I call it Plan B: from outer space.”

“What happened to Plan A?”

“Plan A was to have a quiet fucking night at work where none of this shit happened. Now, Irma call back the coppers, but instead of dialing extension 666 for demon dumbass Klunky, try to get Miss Pinky. She’d try to get the national guard over here. Doc Box, you be as stealthy as a one-eyed pussy cat and try to see what the killers are up to. I’m gonna head to the cereal aisle and grab a few weapons so we don’t end up living life in a lead-lined coffin.”

After hurried plans were made to meet back up at the handicap accessible bathroom, everyone went about executing Count’s Plan B: from outer space. I could tell you which route Count took to the knife possessing cereal aisle or how Doc Box army crawled up to a view of the cash registers but I’m not going to. Instead, I’m sticking with Irma.

She ripped her wig off which had started to sweat and itch then ran a hand through her short hair all while dialing the phone. It rang twice then a voice which Irma knew well answered. “Miss Pinky its Irm-”, dropping to her knees pain burst from Irma’s back where she’d been kicked in the kidneys. Slipping the phone in her pocket Irma got herself up and saw the Sheet Ghost.

“You gotta pretty high, hard kick there for a skinny little bitch in a bed sheet,” said Irma.

The Sheet Ghost waved a large butcher knife in front of her face. “And you’re gonna die screaming an old hag in clown’s makeup.”

“Bitch, that’s on my bucket list, let’s get to it.”

Irma kicked the Ghost in the stomach sending her reeling backward just as Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams” started playing. The Ghost ran at Irma, knife slashing through the air in front of her. Irma blocked the knife with her arm, the blade cutting her skin-deep. Then grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the knife, she twirled the Ghost around ripping the knife from her. The Ghost fell back, then ran at Irma again although she now had no weapon. Irma had had enough. She punched the Ghost in the head once, twice, three times to lay her out cold.

When Count Whorton finally rounded the corner making his way in the handicap accessible bathroom both Irma and Doctor box were already standing by the door nervously waiting.

“I went as fast as I could,” he said, “ripped a few packages right off the shelf we’ll just have to take the fucking knives out the plastic.”

“I don’t need one,” Irma said showing the bloody butcher knife.

“Where’d the hell you get that, Irmie?”

Irma opened the door to the handicap accessible bathroom. Tied up on the floor was the Sheet Ghost.

“Bitch cut me, I bandaged my arm with my oversized bow tie.”

“Fuck, Irmie you okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“Your clown costume’s practically a utility belt,” said Doctor Box, “got bandages and everything.”

“More than that,” said Irma pointing at the Ghost on the floor, “look, tied her up with my handkerchief rope.”

“What?”

“You know, clown pulls out a handkerchief, but it’s actually fifty all tied together different colors. That’s what I used. What else was I gonna use? My ten feet of chain?”

“You did amazing, Irmie. Get anything out of her?”

“Yeah, she wanted to kill me.”

“Good to know, Doc, what you see?”

Doc pushed up his glasses scratching his nose in the process. “Um, not much really. The man in the vampire mask is sitting at register thirteen eating candy.”

“Alright Doc,” Count took another nip from his flask. “Fuck a rickety rocking chair, who are these bastards?”

“It’s someone who knows you, Countey,” said Irma, “maybe even someone you know.”

“Hey,” said Doctor Box, “didn’t you just start up a detective agency? Could it be a disgruntled client?”

“The Bloody Whorehouse Detective Agency has only had one case, a missing dog.”

“Find the dog?”

“Naw, funny story, guy was a nut, never had a dog.”

“Come on, Countey, other than the mask, did he look like someone you know? Did his voice sound familiar? Anything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Count closed his eyes and put his hands over his temples. A few minutes later, looking on the verge of tears Count opened his eyes again and said, “I think I know who it is.”

Irma tore open the plastic of one of the hunting knives. “Then let’s go get him, Countey.”

Devo’s “Whip It” snapped through the aisles as the three of them made their way to the front of the store like three very odd trick or treaters. Creeping past aisles and aisles of deathly quiet items, Count whispered to Doctor Box. “Doc, could you make out what kind of candy he was eating? I want to confirm somethin’?”

“What? Yeah, caramels. The same that are on sale.”

Count nodded.

As they reached the front, they poked their heads around the end of a shelf to see if the Vampire had moved. He hadn’t. The best plan they could come up with was one of surprise attack. So, the three of them crouched down and began to crawl with knives at the ready across the slightly sticky store floor. Their Olympian swim to register thirteen wasn’t a fraction of the way over before the Vampires’ voice pierced their ears.

“So, this clown, dwarf, and ugly drunken bastard walk into a bar…stop me if you’ve heard it.”

Irma, Doctor Box, and Count stopped and exchanged stunned glances for a moment that felt like an eternity then Count stood up. Brushing himself off while still holding the knife, Count said, “Thank God you said something. I’ve never been good at the whole sneaky thing and I just want to get this whole fucking thing done with, all while keeping my asshole hairs from getting plucked in the process.”

“What a way of putting it, Count,” said the Vampire sitting atop the conveyor belt, “I’m disappointed you didn’t dress up today. Then again, maybe you did. What has snow white pale skin, dark circles under the eyes, crooked yellow teeth, a twisted hunchback, and a drinking problem?”

“My mother?”

“I was going to say a rotten son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. You care if I go get a pack of cigarettes while you talk?”

“Have your little friend do it.”

Count turned around to Doc and Irma standing behind him. “Could you Doc?”

“Sure, Count,” said Doctor Box.

“Who is this man, Countey?” asked Irma.

“Count Whorton pointed his knife at the Vampire and said, “This, dear Irma is Stuart Stegman. Former accountant, current murderer and forever a psychopathic asshole… right?”

“That’s not very nice,” said Stuart, popping another caramel into his mouth.

“It’s true though,” Doc returned with Count’s cigarettes. “Thanks, Doc. You’re just in time to hear about Stuart there. You see, years ago, before I met you Irmie and before I sent you up the river, Doc, I was a regular Quartertown private investigator. And one day Stuart the accountant got off work and was heading home to kill his wife, Carmilla. However, Carmilla, a bright woman either aware of the plan or fed up with her spindly-ass toothpick psychopathic asshole husband decided she was leaving. And before her husband got home, caught her and killed her, she hid their daughter, Mina, somewhere he has never found her. In his search for his daughter, he hired me of all people. I didn’t find her but if I did, I wouldn’t tell that skinny fanged fucker over there.”

Taking off his vampire mask Stuart said, “Allegedly killed, Carmilla. It was never proven that I killed my love.”

“Maybe not by law, but common sense has you frying in the chair,” Count said looking at his face. A face Count hadn’t seen in years. A face consisting of two beady eyes and a boney nose tied together with a receding hairline. In other words, just a normal fucking face. “By the way, asshole, what’s with the old lady caramels you popped those back then too.”

“My vice is a penchant for hard candies similar to your booze.”

“Uh-huh,” said Count lighting a bent cigarette, “let’s get down to brass tacks the blue boys are on their way and your ghostly henchman is tied up in the handicap shitter, so hand over the machete and weep in the fetal position until we haul your ass off to the hoosegow.”

Stuart didn’t move, but he did smile. “I’m not going anywhere until I learn where my daughter is.”

Irma stepped forward with a question, “Why do you think Count knows?”

“Well, because in spite of looking like an incompetent dumb fucker he gets things done. I read a while back he solved a case where a woman came to him with just a finger. Then he took down a murdering drag queen and reopened his P.I. office with a new colorful name. I know he knows where she is.”

Count threw up his hands. “I really don’t. Not. Lying.”

“Since my loves… passing, I’ve learned to love again. With not only one, but two. You met one of my new Carmilla’s earlier, dressed as a ghost. My other new lovely Carmilla has been going by the name Becky and is currently in a crowded breakroom with a knife to the back of a certain pimple-faced manager. One text from me he dies. Then the others.”

“You’re gonna kill Mole Man?”

“And then the others. If you don’t tell me where she is.”

“One last question Stuart,” said Count waving his knife around. “These new women in your life, they’re also named Carmilla?”

“All my loves are named Carmilla.”

“Jesus H. Christ, I didn’t know we were having a Halloween half-off sale on psychopaths. Fuck, Irmie? Doc? Did you know that?”

“Enough!” said Stuart holding his cell phone up. “One text and they start dying. Tell me where she is now.”

“Don’t you do it, Stuart,” Irma said.

“I will if I hav-” Stuart suddenly ducked as Count’s knife came flying at him. “What the hell was that?”

“Worth a try,” Count said with a shrug.

“That’s it, they’re dead.”

Stuart started to make the text as the front door exploded inwards. A twenty-pound Halloween-decorated rock skidded and rolled across the floor. Emerging from the broken glass of the sliding door was Kenny. He stood tall and wide wearing a stained apron, Bing Bing Burger paper hat and for Halloween a large red cape that flapped in the wind. He tightened his grip on the bat he held looking around. He saw Stuart who had grabbed up his machete upon hearing the glass break. Knowing the threat, Kenny ran full speed ahead across the store like a lunatic loose of the ward, cape flapping, bat swinging. When Stuart glimpsed the bullet that was Kenny coming for him, he ran without stopping to drop his machete.

Count, Irma, and Doctor Box stayed back as Kenny’s blur passed them in pursuit of Stuart.

Count said, “I don’t know if it’s a hallucination or this story’s narration, but did Kenny look like a superhero?”

Ignoring Count’s comment Irma said, “Look he dropped the phone.”

“Did he send the text?”

Irma picked up the phone and hit a few buttons. “Text unsent.”

“Thank God,” said Doctor Box.

“Yeah, they’re still alive. Let’s go make sure they stay that way.”

They reached the back of the store just as “Another One Bites The Dust” split through the air. They had a rough time getting Mole Man to open the door to the breakroom but at least that meant he was still alive. After they kicked their way in Irma went up to the girl with the Becky nametag sitting amongst the others. Before a word could be said Irma had her out cold, bleeding and the pocket knife she went at Count with earlier taken away. The crowd started to panic, yelling and screaming.

“Hey,” Count said, “she was one of them. God dammit, ready to kill you all. Now either get the fuck back or help tie her up.”

The room went suddenly quiet, no one moved or breathed. Count was amazed his speech had such an effect until he realized that Kenny was eclipsing the door behind him, his bat still ready to roll heads.

“Jesus Christ, Kenny, you get him?”

“I hit him a few times, but then he disappeared.”

“What?”

“I shit you not. I got two good whacks in then he went around a corner and disappeared. I’m so sorry Irma, Count I mean it.”

“It’s okay Kenny,” said Irma, “the police will be here any minute they’ll find him.”

“I already heard sirens.”

“Good…shit, we need to check on the Ghost.”

When they got to the bathroom the door was open and the room was empty.

“Well, Happy Halloween, Irmie,” said Count drinking from his flask, “Happy Halloween.”

When Klunkel showed up Count asked him if he caught the camp counselor killer or that babysitters’ brother. Klunkel didn’t respond.

Count Whorton and Irma walked out of Sweeney’s Supermart just as the sun was rising. Klunkel had said they couldn’t leave yet, but Count said his flask was empty and that always meant his shift was over. As they got in the car Irma started it up and Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing” came on the radio. Just before pulling out of the parking lot Irma said, “I gotta ask Countey. Do you or do you not know where Stuart Stegman’s daughter is?”

“Of course, I do, but I’m not telling that fucking psychopath,” Count said and turned up the radio.

The End

The Pursuit of Presley Penguin

By Michael D. Davis

It was four days till Christmas and Quartertown was blanketed with snow that turned to mush upon hitting the ground. Count Whorley Whorton sat in front of his television in his small apartment, attempting to soak up the heat and survive another Iowa winter. Through the pocket doors behind him in the office, Count’s love and partner in every endeavor, Irma Side, sat trying to pay a few of the red lettered bills. Kenny, a giant from the tip of his toes to the bridge of his nose, sat across from Irma and complained.

“I tell you I’m doing my best but I lose’er every time,” Irma didn’t look up at him or respond which frightened Kenny more than if she chewed him out. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry Irma, but I’m not cut out for shadowing somebody. I ain’t good at it. Why don’t you get Alfred Box over here to do it?”

Irma still didn’t look up, but she did respond, “First of all, Alfred just started this week at the paper as well as working at the Supermart and you can do it yourself if you stop fuckin’ whining and mebbe keep your eyes open. I’m not gonna tell our client, hey your wife mebbe cheating, but we couldn’t fuckin’ follow her and find out. Get your head outta your ass, dumb shit.”

“Yeah, you’re right Irma…so, Alfred started at the Times Zephyr? That’s cool.”

“Uh-huh, I’m trying to work here, leave me the hell alone.”

Kenny got up and walked through the pocket door saying, “What ya watching, Count?”

“Nothin’ at all,” Whorton took a sip from a large pop and turned the channel, “every year I watch ‘A Werewolf Christmas’, but this year I keep missin’ it.”

“That old crappy cartoon special with the narration and all?”

Count was on his feet faster than Kenny had ever seen him. “How dare you? ‘A Werewolf Christmas’ is the best Christmas special of all time. All those old cartoons are the best. What is wrong with you?”

Just as Kenny was about to respond there came a knock at the door. Not the apartment door, either, but the office door. All the while looking down at what she was doing, Irma called out for whoever it was to come in. Quickly, before the knocker entered, Kenny and Count Whorton slipped into the office, closing the pocket doors behind them, hiding the messy apartment.

A man in an expensive wool coat and Homburg hat with flecks of snow about him came into the office, shivering. Without moving from the entryway, he said, “Is this the… um, The Bloody Whorehouse Detective Agency?”

“It’s what it says on the door,” said Irma looking up for the first time in this story to eye the man in the coat, “what can we do you for?”

“Yes, my name is Doug Astor and I was given your card by a lady at the police station. She said you could help me.”

Irma gave Count a side-eye look, and said in her high-pitched screechy voice, “Told ya givin’ those cards to Miss Pinky was a good idea.”

Count didn’t respond and Mr. Astor continued. “I’m only passing through town, but last night I was robbed. I am staying at the St. Belvedere hotel and an item has been taken from my room.”

“What kind of item, Mr. Astor?”

“I have a bronze statue worth roughly fifty thousand dollars that was taken.”

“Shit a biscuit,” said Count Whorton, “why would you travel with such a thing?”

“Well, some pay to see it, but I’m traveling with it now because it looks like it’s going to be my father’s last Christmas. In actuality, it’s his statue. I just handle it for him since he doesn’t get off the estate anymore. You see, I’m taking it to him.”

“Why didn’t you put it in the safe?”

“What?”

Irma repeated her question saying, “I’m sure a fancy joint like the Belvedere has a safe for such things, why wasn’t your statue in it?”

“Oh, good question, I’ve had some trouble with past hotels and their safes, so I’ve acquired an impenetrable bulletproof case for it. However, last night I took it out for regular cleaning, then in a moment of stupidity that I regret, I dozed off. When I awoke my wallet and the statue were gone.”

In an attempt to be more of a detective rather than the strong arm he was Kenny asked a question. “What’s the statue of?”

“It is a statue of Presley Penguin,” said Mr. Astor making Count jump forward in alarm.

“You don’t mean,” said Count Whorton, “the wisecracking cartoon penguin with top hat and bow tie?”

“Yes.”

“Hot damn, he’s my favorite cartoon. His creator, Chuck Freleng, also made my favorite Christmas special, ‘A Werewolf Christmas’.”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Astor, “Chuck Freleng created a lot of the older cartoons.”

“Wait a minute,” said Irma, “a cartoon penguin is worth fifty thousand dollars?”

“Correct. The creator, Chuck Freleng, hand-sculpted four different statues of Presley Penguin that were cast in bronze. One is with his children. Another is in a museum in California. The third was supposedly given away to a friend, but no one knows exactly where it is and the fourth was in my possession until last night.”

“We’ll do what we can to retrieve your statue, Mr. Astor,” said Count Whorton.

After discussing the situation and price some more Mr. Astor left. As he crossed the threshold Count beamed, a crooked yellow smile was spread from ear to ear on his ghostly white face.

“This is great,” he said.

“What’s so great,” said Irma, “it’s just another case.”

“Oh, Irmie baby don’t you see? We are living Dashiell Hammett’s dream. You, me, chasing down through the city streets the statue of a bird, Irmie, we are in ‘The Maltese Falcon’.”

“For you, every day is a Humphrey Bogart Picture.” Irma got up from behind the desk and made her way to her purple fuzzy coat on the rack. “I got an appointment across the alley I gotta get to. Kenny, keep following what’s her name and don’t be a dumb fucker, you’ll get the hang of it. Countie, you start thinkin’ up ways to work this penguin case. Tomorrow morning, we can go out to the St. Belvedere and see if anyone saw anything.”

“No use in that,” said Count, “Mr. Astor said he went to the coppers before he came here and that’s the first place they’ll start. He ain’t payin’ us to shadow the blue boys, not that I think Kenny’d be able to do it.”

“Hey,” said Kenny making a face.

“Then figure out where to start.” Irma walked over and gave Count a kiss before saying, “Gotta go, client’s already probably outside my chamber door.”

After Irma left, Count poured some booze into his pop and lit a bent cigarette while asking Kenny if he wanted to join him in front of the television.

“Naw, Mrs. DeSilva gets off work in an hour, I gotta see where she goes.”

Count nodded then said, “That’s an idea, or we could watch Presley Penguin cartoons for the next fifty minutes, givin’ you enough time to get wherever DeSilva works. And if Irma asks, we were just doing research on the case.”

Kenny thought for a moment then agreed.

Count Whorton slept most of the next morning, but by early afternoon he and Irma were on the case. Their first stop was the only gay club in town, Dynamite Dotty’s. A tight-jeaned man taller than most pine trees escorted them back to Dotty herself who sat behind a big desk in an even bigger office. Before Stretch left them to their business, Count said to him, “Would you bring me back a glass of something? My tonsils are itchy.”

When Dotty saw the hunchback in the hat and the fuzzy coat with the scratchy voice coming into her office she said, “I knew this was going to be a bad day. You’re never here this early without wanting something, so what the fuck is it?”

“How rude, yet how accurate. Dotty, we need to see Wilmer.”

“Fuckin’, why?”

“He still works for Kasper French, doesn’t he?” Irma said taking a seat in front of the desk.

“Actually, he doesn’t, but he does have dealings with him. Fuck, most the town does.”

“Well we need to get to French and the only way I thought of was your brother Wilmer,” said Count, also sitting.

“How fortunate for me and Wilmer, fuck.” Dotty leaned back in her chair, “Knowing my luck, Wilmer would get you to him. Then you’d piss him off drinking his booze and generally being your fuckin’ self, then we’d all end up floating in the fuckin’ Iowa River.”

“You don’t have more faith in me than that?” asked Count just as Stretch came in carrying his drink.

“You gonna pay for that?” said Dotty.

“Don’t I always?” Count smiled and sipped as he looked straight at Dotty who wore a less amused expression.

“Look Dotty,” said Irma, “we need to get to French for a case. So, we need Wilmer. You gonna call him or not?”

“Fine,” Dotty picked her phone up off the desk. “but I’m leaving the decision up to Wilmer. I’m not going to fucking force him to do it.”

“Thank you,” said Irma, taking Count’s glass and finishing it off for him.

After a few minutes of semi-pleasant talk on the phone, Dotty hung up and said, “He said he’d do it. Meet him here around eight and he’ll take you to French.”

Count stood up saying, “Thank you, Dotty. It’s been a pleasure as always, leaving me feel all warm and special inside.”

“Stop spoutin’ bullshit.”

“Alright then, I think I’ll be moseying on over to the bar since we got a few hours to kill.”

“Fuck you are,” Dotty said getting up, “you’d drink us out of house and home.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t,” said Irma, “thanks again and see ya later.” She ushered him forward and out the door.

Wilmer was short, with a forever puffed-out chest. He had more spit and fire than sense, shown by his right ear, which was lopped off in a fight before he got out of grade school. When eight o’clock rolled around, Count Whorton and Irma were already at the bar, it was a good twenty minutes after that Wilmer sauntered in.

“Ya ready to roll?” Was Wilmer’s greeting.

Irma started saying, “We’ve been ready,” when Count cut her off, asking to have a word with Wilmer privately. She made her way to the door to wait and Count said, “Wilmer, I’m looking for somethin’.”

“What kind of somethin’?”

“The kind of somethin’ that falls off the back of a truck.”

When Count and Wilmer were done talking, they found Irma and went out. When they hit the street Wilmer said to them, “One of youse is drivin’.”

Irma got behind the wheel of their old Buick station wagon and Wilmer told her when to turn. A few minutes later they were pulling up to a little old diner. The place was mostly empty inside. Next to a door on the back wall sat an old man in a suit reading a sleazy paperback, highlighting the smutty parts. When they walked up to him the old man looked at Wilmer then hit his fist on the door. A moment later it opened.

On the other side of the door, Wilmer spoke to a man who looked like he’d been hit one too many times in the head, then left saying they’d get in to see Mr. French in a few minutes. It made Irma nervous, Wilmer leaving before they saw the big man behind the curtain, but true to his word they were ushered into his office only minutes after Wilmer left.

Kasper French was a heavy-set man who wore expensive suits and a dead-rat looking toupee. It was said that when his own mother made fun of the animal hide on his head, he had her shot. Count and Irma were directed to large leather chairs opposite his desk, all while trying to keep their eyes off his horrendous hairpiece.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. French,” said Irma.

“You’re welcome, I hear Wilmer’s with you.”

“He left after Orville Redenbacher let us in,” said Count gesturing towards the door.

Mr. French stared at Count under furrowed eyebrows, making Irma think dotty was right, they were going to end up in the Iowa River. Then he burst into laughter, bouncing in such a way that the squirrel on his head came back to life flipping this way and that way.

Addressing Irma but pointing at Count, Mr. French said, “that’s a funny guy.” Sucking back in his chubby finger, talking through a big smile, “I’ve said before the bastard’s anywhere from sixty to a thousand years old. All he does is sit there all day highlighting pages. So, what can I do you for?”

“Well,” said Count, “we are private investigators and are on the search for a statue that has been stolen.”

“And you want to know if I heard anything or even better have it in my possession.”

“That is what we were hoping Mr. French.”

“Well, umm… names?”

“I’m Count Whorton and this is Irma.”

“Well, Count, Irma, let’s see what we can do.” Mr. French hit a button on his desk and spoke into a speaker, “Get me Luxor.” A few moments later a small man in a tuxedo with a cigarette stuck on his lip came swaggering in. “This,” said Mr. French, “is Peter Luxor, my right-hand man and the knower of all things.”

Luxor simply tilted his head in greeting to Count and Irma.

“Peter, these people are looking for a statue that’s recently been stolen, I thought you may be able to help.”

“What kind of statue?” said Luxor.

“Bronze,” said Count, “about a foot high. It was pilfered from a man who was staying at the St. Belvedere. It’s worth roughly $50,000.”

Mr. French whistled, “That’s a pretty big chunk of change.”

“That’s why our client wants it back,” said Irma.

“Client?” said Luxor, “You people cops? Or what here?”

Count smiled showing crooked dog teeth, “Private investigators, Mr. Luxor.”

“P.I.’s looking for a statue, what is this? ‘The Maltese Falcon’?”

“Oh, stop joshing, Luxor,” said Mr. French, “and tell us if you know anything.”

“There is only a handful or two of people in town that would go after a fifty-grand job. But I haven’t heard a thing.” As he spoke Luxor kept his eyes on Count and Irma. Even when Mr. French addressed him, he didn’t look away.

“Looks like we can’t be of any help tonight,” said Mr. French holding up his hands.

“Well, thank you,” said Irma getting up to leave.

“Yeah,” said Count doing the same, “thanks a lot.”

“No problem, come again,” said Mr. French waving them out the door.

Out in the station wagon, Irma steered them from the parking lot saying, “Now what do we do?”

Count, laying down in the back seat, sipping from his flask said, “Head around the block then park it at that gas station over there.”

“Why, Countie?”

“Had a thought.”

Irma parked the rusted old Buick station wagon at the gas station and they waited. Count remained in the back propped up just far enough so he could see out the window while Irma stayed behind the wheel praying she didn’t get hypothermia.

“What are we waiting for, Countie? It’s colder than a witches titty out here.”

Just then he saw it and said, “We were waiting for that.”

Irma looked in the rearview mirror and saw Luxor exiting the diner, heading for a big black car. He had with him the guy that looked like he took one too many to the head and a couple of others that were probably born with bloody knuckles. Irma started up the station wagon and slowly followed them through the dark winter night.

Where the big black car finally stopped was as seedy a place as the diner it originated from. Parking just outside what looked like an abandoned garage, Luxor walked up and banged on a dented metal door. A ways away on a street corner Count and Irma watched from the station wagon.

“What is he doing?” said Irma.

The dented door opened and a skinny guy with more tattoos than clear skin peeked his head out.

“Leopold there is asking the homeowner a question,” said Count.

After they seemed to have had some words back and forth, Tattoo shut the door on Luxor. Turning towards the car, Luxor made a hand gesture that had the other three exiting in a determined fashion. One of the knuckle draggers forced the dented door back open and they all rushed in like a swarm of bees in spring with Luxor following behind lazily like the queen bee he was.

“I don’t think he liked the answer he got to that question,” said Irma.

After the better part of an hour, the dented door opened once more, all four of them streaming out, the queen bee leading the workers. They loaded up in the big black car and drove off. This time Irma didn’t start up the station wagon.

The two of them crossed the snow and slush-covered street on foot. When they got close to the garage, they slowed up to listen. There wasn’t a sound, not a voice. Count opened the dented door hesitantly then went in followed by Irma.

Shit was everywhere. The whole place had been trashed, glass broken, shelves overturned. Then in the middle of the room three bodies lay in a large pool of blood. Tattoo, who had come to the door was one of them. They were beaten to death with a couple of hammers, which lay next to the pile of bodies.

“Well, I think we know what they were looking for,” said Count.

A radio in the corner played faintly, the speaker was saying, “I’m Six-fingered Sally bringing Quartertown all the hits. Next up, Bobby Darrin singing to all you with the Christmas spirit.” Count and Irma knew that wasn’t going to be anyone in this room.

As they drove through the cold winter night the only thing Irma said was, “Home, right?”

“Yeah.”

At two in the afternoon the next day Count rolled off the bed onto the floor causing the feeble old thing to fold back up into the wall with a smack, then come catapulting back down with a thud. Irma, sitting on the couch, said, “About time you’re up. Alfred dropped off the list about an hour ago.”

You see, after they made an anonymous call into the Quartertown police department and quickly fled the scene of the crime at the old garage, Irma and Count came home. Count then proceeded to call multiple times Alfred Box, it being the middle of the night, he was working his shift at Sweeney’s Supermart. That didn’t phase Count much. He needed some information and knew Alfred could get it from his new part-time job at the paper.

So, like Irma was saying, “He came in, gave me the list, cussed you out then left. For a little man, he’s gotta lot of anger in him.”

Count chuckled, laying on the floor, “Naw, he’s just riled up.”

“Whatever, Countie. Here’s the list of every hoodlum and lowlife that Alfred thought could pull the fifty-grand job. He said the paper has pretty good files.”

“Lucky us… you know there’s mebbe a body at every place on that list today.”

“Think they worked all night?”

“If French told ‘em to and the cops didn’t get too close. The Screaming Mimi can cause people to do crazy things.”
“Oh, and Countie, Wilmer dropped off a box for you.”

“Cool.”

“What’s in it?”

“Mutant cucumbers with a taste for human flesh, I’m thinking of making a salad.”

“You’re a witty one,” said Irma in a sarcastic tone.

Less than an hour later the pair were in the station wagon marking off addresses. The first one brought them to an empty house. They probably had the right guy at the second place, but he was drunk and angry. Apparently so was his dog who kept showing his teeth and Count felt like they were getting bigger and bigger with each curl of the gums.

The wind had picked up, blowing snow everywhere, making it hard for Irma to see anything out the windshield. It just wasn’t their day, it didn’t help that Six-fingered Sally on the radio kept playing the same carols over and over again, pissing both of them off. When she asked for requests, Count took Irma’s cell phone and made a call. Soon out of the speakers Sally was saying, “I’ve just had a profane call from what I would describe as a disgruntled listener and I agree with him. Count wherever you are, no more carols. This is Six-fingered Sally playing a classic from Queen. Have a merry musical Christmas.”

The third place on the list seemed to be a nice-looking house only missing a few shingles. Irma and Count knocked on the door till their fingers had frostbite then they kicked in the door. Well, not as much kicked in the door as paraded through the snow bluffs beside the house to an unlocked back door. They entered a dark empty kitchen, meeting a rotten putrid smell. Going through a small hallway to the living room they found the origin of the stench. A man lay dead on his couch, beaten to death like Tattoo and the others, his little heater still running at his feet. The small machine was on oscillate, warming the dead body and spreading his odor all over the house.

“It looks like there’s not going to be any good moments today,” said Count turning Irma, “so, I guess we’ll just have to make our own good moments.”

“Don’t we always, Countie?”

“That we do, Irma.” Count looked at the dead guy and smiled, then turned back to Irma. “I gotta say I didn’t know what to get you, this Christmas. Not a clue. Then it hit me like a brick to the temple when I was watchin’ cartoons with Kenny none the less. Because I’ve had some rough years, but today is good because of you. You are good, Irma. I couldn’t love anyone more, I couldn’t be happier with anyone more, and I couldn’t need anyone more than I need you. So, Irma E. Lanchester Side, in the presence of this dead man would you agree to marry me?” Count Whorton took from the pocket of his overcoat a small box and presented it to Irma.

At first, Irma didn’t move but soon her lips twitched into a big smile and she jumped forward onto Count, nearly throwing him to the floor. She kissed him over and over finally stopping to say yes. When they finally regained control of themselves Count gave her the ring. It was a gold band with a large gold question mark on the front of it.

“I’m sorry about the ring,” said Count, “I got it last minute from Wilmer. He said it’s all he could get and its real gold, not that I believe him. Sorry, Irmie.”

“Sorry nothing, I love it and it fits perfectly.” Irma gave him another kiss just as the furnace kicked on making the smell that much worse.

Eventually, there was a call made to the Quartertown police detective Klunkel. They even stayed around to answer a few questions and deflect a few accusations. When they were back in the station wagon with smiles on their faces the sun was turning it in. Looking brightly out at the dark night, Count said, “Where’s the next address?”

“I just had a thought about that,” said Irma.

“Hit me with it.”

“We’ve been assuming this was a professional job.”

“Well, fifty-grand is pretty professional.”

“Yeah, but it’s a fucking statue of a cartoon character. No one in their right fucking mind are gonna think a statue of Presley Penguin is worth that much. There’s Presley Penguin knickknacks at garage sales all the time. What if small-time asshole looking to knock off Mr. Astor’s wallet, which he did, broke in, saw the statue and thought Merry Christmas.”

“That makes sense. Son of a bitch could work there, maid, manager, whatever.” Count took out his flask and drank saying, “Irmie, hang a u-ey we are headin’ for the Belvedere.”

As they turned into the parking lot of the hotel Count said, “Like I told ya before, we may not learn much here because this is where the blue boys would have started. But I think you’re on to something, Irmie and another thing to our advantage is Luxor and French don’t know what the statue looks like.”

“That’s the spirit Countie, although you know if we find the statue this way then, I was right. And if we started the investigation off at the hotel, like I said, things would have been over in a snap.”

“Yeah, yeah we didn’t find nothin’ yet,” said Count getting out of the car and going into the Belvedere.

Sitting at the front desk in dark makeup with a jet-black Santa hat was a girl who looked barely out of her teens. As Count and Irma approached the desk the girl said in an unenthusiastic tone all while looking at her phone, “Checking in?”

“No, we just need to ask a few questions,” said Irma.

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, firstly, what’s so damn important on your phone you can’t look at me when I speak?”

The girl sighed and put her phone away saying, “I was just watching ‘A Werewolf Christmas’, okay?”

“Oh my God,” said Count, “I love ‘A Werewolf Christmas’. It hasn’t been on like any fucking channel this year.”

“I know,” said the girl, looking at Count, “I’m watching it online. They have the other ones on a fucking loop, but not the one I watch.”

“I’m right there with ya, that fuckin’ blond-haired elf and red-nosed son of a bitch are everywhere. But no Werewolf Christmas.”

“Exactly…so, what questions?”

“There was a statue stolen from a room here the other day, did you happen to see anything?” Said Irma.

“No, I was off that night, but I heard about it. Apparently, the police were here talking to everyone. Even talked to me and like I said, I wasn’t here.”

“Do you know of anyone on the staff or otherwise who has a tendency to take wallets from rooms? Or other items?”

“Not like statues or anything but this night supervisor that used to be here. I know he got fired for taking money out of rooms and stuff. We’re not supposed to let him come around the building but he’s dating on and off one of the maids.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Dicky Hazen.”

Irma and Count thanked the girl at the desk, gave her a card and left. Out in the station wagon, Irma drove while Count took a phone book that he’d left on the floor of the backseat and read by the dim illumination of an old flashlight. There was only two Hazen’s in the book, neither of them was named Dicky, but they both had the same address.

It was well after midnight when Count and Irma rolled onto the Hazen’s street. The snow had been cleared well and there was only one car parked out on the curb. When Irma saw the car, she had to believe she was mistaken, but she wasn’t. They pulled up behind the vehicle and proceeded to get out of their car and into the one with the hulking figure behind the wheel.

When they got in Kenny said, “What the fuck are you two doin’ here?”

Irma said, “I was about to ask the same question.”

“I followed Mrs. DeSilva here, didn’t lose’er once.”

“You’re shittin’ me,” said Count.

“No, I’m not, didn’t lose’er once.”

“Good boy,” said Irma reaching forward from the backseat to pat Kenny on the shoulder. “But I believe Count was referring to the fact we think the guy in that house has the statue.”

“Really, now what are the chances? So, what we gonna do?”

Count opened the door, “I don’t see why we can’t knock.”

At the front door, Count allowed Kenny to knock and crack the house’s foundation. Quickly there was a response as a thin man came to the door in his boxer shorts with a bat. As he opened the door Kenny took it upon himself to pluck the bat from the swearing semi-nude man’s clutches, it proved to be not that difficult. From there Count said a cheery hello and the three of them pushed their way inside.

“Who the fuck are you people?” said Mr. Boxer Shorts.

“We,” said Count, “are private detectives. I’m Count Whorton, this is Irma and that is Kenny. What is your name?”

“Dicky Hazen, now get out.”

“We could, but you see we have two cases at the moment. One where a woman seems to be runnin’ around with the local fool. And another where a statue was taken by what we assume was a low life, small-time, two-bit moron and wouldn’t you know both cases brought us here.”

A woman covering herself with a man’s dirty old robe came into the room asking what the interruption was. Irma leaned over to Kenny and said, “Is that?”

“Yup,” said Kenny taking out his phone and snapping a shot of Mrs. DeSilva with Dicky in his underwear (no pun intended). “For the client,” he said.

“Would you fuckin’ people be quiet,” said Dicky, “you’ll wake my grandma.”

“This keeps gettin’ better,” said Count, moving to sit down in a recliner next to a brightly lit tree. “Well, look here, Crabapple, I know you got all the brains of a snowman with a yellow block of ice for a head, so I’ll lay it out for ya. That statue we know you took, from the Belvedere where we know you used to work, is worth more than your puny ass organs at a blackmarket yard sale. If I were to call the big blue men in matchin’ caps right now, your ass wouldn’t be gettin’ out of the slammer until you had grey hair on your toes.” Count stopped speaking for a moment and looking at Dicky, the man was trembling in his shorts. “However, I’m thinking of playing Santa because its, what? One AM on Christmas eve morning and there’s no reason to disturb Nan Nan Hazen. If you give us the statue, we will leave you in peace, not calling in the coppers.”

“Its under the tree,” stuttered Dicky, pointing a finger.

“Well, go get it then,” said Irma urging him on.

Dicky stumbled over to and around the tree knocking off ornaments and kicking presents. Finally, he stood up holding a badly wrapped green and red box. “Here it is. I was gonna give it to my Grandma, she likes little statues and things. Honestly, I was just gonna take his wallet then I saw this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Count standing up and taking the box. “I tell ya, ya fool, if we find that it isn’t in here the only one coming back here is him.” Count threw a thumb at Kenny. “So, don’t be on our naughty list, fool.”

After they left the Hazen place Count and Irma went back to the Belvedere, the girl at the desk didn’t seem to have moved since they’d last been there. She called up to Mr. Astor’s room and he came down to the lobby wearing a pair of striped pajamas that must have been from the Cary Grant collection.

“Mr. Astor,” Count said, “we want ya to open your present early.”

Doug Astor pushed up his glasses and ripped open the wrapping paper right there at the front desk. In an old shoebox smothered in green tissue paper was the bronze cartoon penguin. Presley Penguin was grinning under his top hat, the little bow tie he wore glinted in the light.

“It looks great,” said Mr. Astor, “not damaged or harmed at all.”

“What is it?” said the girl at the desk.

Before anyone else could answer, Count said, “It’s the stuff Saturday mornings were made of.”

Once they were paid and Mr. Astor was on his way again with his statue safely secured, Count and Irma went home. On the way, they stopped to send a nice card to Mr. French and Luxor thanking them for their help in the retrieval of the bird, hopefully, they’d appreciate the sarcasm. Christmas morning, they headed over to Mother Whorton’s. She was found stirring a pot of something that smelled wonderful while a cigarette hung from her lip and oxygen tubes swung from her nostrils.

As always Mother Whorton’s was the beacon for every stray dog in town bringing in Miss Pinky, Kenny, Dotty, and her new girlfriend. Even the little goth girl who worked the desk at the St. Belvedere showed up, Irma being the type of person to invite any and all. At least with Mother Whorton’s cooking, there was no shortage of food, including when Wilmer showed up late, ate three helpings then left with a wave.

Before dinner Count and Irma announced their engagement and showed off the ring. They were met with excitement and questions about the question mark ring. Mother Whorton’s only comments were, “Son of a bitch, I thought I’d be dead by the time this happened, it’s been taking forever. But Irma, are you sure you thought about this, my son’s an idiot. I’ll pray for you.”

As Christmas day started to wear to a close, Irma took Count aside and gave him his present. When the first bit of colored paper tore, Count Whorton knew what it was and the hunchbacked old man became a kid again.

“Oh, Irmie,” Count said, “a VHS copy of ‘A Werewolf Christmas’. You know me so well.”

“Now, you know you can watch it every year.”

“I love you Irmie,” he said pulling her close.

“I love you too, Countie and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” said Count, “to everyone.”

The End

The Return of The Ladykiller

By Michael D. Davis

“I will kill you slowly so I can watch your eyes go dull with death. I will drain your blood into pots, pans, cups, bowls … and other items of the like. I will strip the skin off your body like I’m plucking the feathers off a chicken. I will make your meat into savory jerky then go on a hike, I will walk into the woods up a hill over another hill towards a mountain sustaining myself on the jerky I made from your remains and the juice I mixed from your blood. There I will start fresh, form a colony of people in which I will be elected ruler, your skull will be my crown.”

Count Whorton turned over on the floor of the Quartertown jail cell. His head ringing with a hangover. He looked at the old man talking who had Rip Van Winkle hair and wore a shabby soiled suit. Count said, “Darwin, you’re my lawyer do you have to keep threatening me with death?”

“Yes,” was the raggedy man’s response.

Count sighed and peeled himself from the floor. He stretched slightly, which helped slightly, however, the crick in his neck was a lost cause. Leaving his left ear to lay on his shoulder, Count sat down and asked Darwin for the time.

“For you it’s limited,” said Darwin with his eyes gleaming with sinister intent and his cracked lips parting to show his expensive dentures in a smile of dark delight. “For soon I will begin the journey that will lead to your death.”

“Yeah, yeah, so what’s it like, nine-ish?”

“The time at the tone will be twelve-thirty-seven…bbeeeeeeeepppp.”

“Oh, fuck that was like a bullet goin’ through my brain. What are you tryin’ to do kill me?”

“Not yet.”

“Wait, its noon already? Where the fuck’s Irma?”

Count wandered over to the bars and motioned to an officer a ways away. The officer didn’t get up but instead let out a groaned, “what?”

“Can you get me Miss Pinky from the front desk?”

“I’m not here to get you people.”

“Then can I make a phone call?”

Count was walked over to a phone on a wall with the officer hovering over him like an angered parent. “This’ll just be a minute,” said Count dialing the phone. It was picked up immediately. “Hello, Miss Pinky,” said Count talking into the receiver, “no, I’m fine and you? Oh, that’s good. Hey, I got a favor to ask, I’m down here in a cell…yup right in the building.” Count changed his voice some while saying, “the call is coming from inside the house, yeah, yeah, anyways could you call Irma for me I don’t know where she could be. I know usually she already knows I’m here, but if you could call her I don’t remember numbers too good. What? Oh, well its on fucking posters all around me. Okay, thanks see ya.”

Count hung up and turned around to see the officer scowling at him. “What?” Count said.

“Very funny calling the station from the station,” said the officer in a voice deeper than the bottomless pit.

“Thank you, Lurch, and I hope late tonight when you’re sitting alone in the dark getting ready for that one laugh and smile you allow yourself each and every day you’re thinking of what happened here.”

The officer grunted and led Count back to his cell.

It wasn’t long after that Count was sprung. He left Darwin spouting another death threat behind bars to find Miss Pinky at the front desk talking to Kenny.

“What are you doing here?” was Count’s greeting to the kid giant.

“I’m bailin’ you out, what the fucks wrong with your neck?”

“Slept on it wrong, where’s Irma?”

Kenny shrugged his shoulders, “Workin’?”

“I called,” said Miss Pinky, “she didn’t answer. Maybe she’s off doin’ wedding preparations? Only two days till the day.”

“Irma?” Said Count leaning on the desk, “I don’t know? Technically you only need six things to get hitched. First, you need a couple, two cake and booze, three, good flowers and good music, four fancy-ass clothes, five family, and six church. And speaking technical, all of those are optional except the cake and booze. All right, let’s get out of here, Kenny and I’ll pay you back the bail.”

“Why? It’s your money.”

“What?”

Kenny took an envelope out of his pocket saying, “Irma gave me this envelope labeled Count’s bail money. Told me to keep it and wait for the call.”

“Yeah,” said Miss Pinky, “I got one too, I just figured you’d need a ride and I’m workin’ so I called Kenny.”

“I’ll be damned, well thanks.”

Count squeezed in next to Kenny in the big man’s little car and they started towards the apartment. It was February 12^th, two days before Valentine’s Day and two days before the wedding. The roads were clear, but Quartertown was blanketed with dirty snow filled with thirty-degree temperatures. Count flipped on the radio where Six-fingered Sally was playing “Tainted Love” by Softcell.

“Fuck,” said Count after they parked, “what the hell did you have the heat set at in that toy car of yours, hellfire?”

“Well, shit its colder than an Eskimo’s asshole out here.” As Kenny spoke the door of the bar that Count lived above opened as people entered letting out an animal. The black-furred thing sauntered along the sidewalk up to Count and Kenny. Upon noticing the beast’s presence Kenny jumped back with a slight yelp. Count turned around just as Kenny said, “What the hell is that thing?”

Count grinned crooked teeth saying, “Don’t be a pussy, Kenny it’s just a dog. This little guy is King Charlie Archibald. Found him awhile back in the alley. Took him to the vet, now he’s usually either in the bar or upstairs with us.”

Kenny, staying back as Count ushered the animal up the stairs to the apartment said, “Are you sure that’s a dog?”

“Of course, although the vet said he’d seen nothing like him before.”

As Count opened the inner door to the apartment The King shot right inside. He ran across the apartment through the open pocket doors into the office right up to Doctor Box who lay unconscious on the floor.

“Fuck,” was all Count could find to say as he looked about the wreckage of his home and office. Furniture was overturned and broken as well as just thrown about. Quickly joining The King at Doctor Box’s side, Count and Kenny looked over the little man who didn’t seem to be bleeding. With a little shake and The King’s sloppy tongue on his face, Doctor Box was soon aroused.

Kenny flipped the couch back right side up and laid Doctor Box down.

“Are you alright? What happened?” Were the questions slipping off Kenny and Count’s tongues.

“My head hurts excruciatingly and I’m not sure. I came in, saw the place was a wreck and Irma…”

“What about Irma?” Count pleaded.

“She was tied up, then everything went black.”

Count moved away from the couch, his hands were on the side of his face and he repeated, “no,” over and over again. Kenny put his hand on counts shoulder saying, “It’ll be alright, she’ll be alright.”

Shrugging off Kenny’s hand Count said, “Take care of him, I’ll be back in a minute.” Then he went out the door and down the steps, The King on his heels.

The bar below Count’s apartment had changed names and owners multiple times over the years. It was currently called The Toe Tap Bar and Grill, and it had a good-sized crowd when Count stepped in.

When the bartender saw him, he automatically put a full glass on the table. Count emptied it in one swallow, then turned to face the room and said at the top of his lungs, “I’m gonna need every dumb ugly son of a bitch’s attention in this place.”

There were grumbles and swears as a sea of eyes turned reluctantly towards him.

“Good,” Count said, “I need to know has anyone seen Irma today?”

“Who’s that? Your mother?” Came a voice towards the back.

“Listen up, you alcoholic pea-brain fuckers, some of you may not know who I’m talkin’ about, but I know a lot of you do. I need to know about Irma. Have you seen her today? Talked to her? Was she here? Upstairs? Outside? I mean did you glance out the window and see her walk by? Or were you all too busy watchin’ your fuckin’ ice cubes melt?”

“Yeah, I seen her,” said a blurry-eyed man at the end of the bar. Count knew him to be a regular, but couldn’t remember his name. The man looked like he’d played in the mud as a boy and hadn’t taken a bath since. Count went up to his stool.

“Where’d you see her?”

“What’s in it for me?” asked the man slurping his drink.

“What?”

“I’ll tell ya if ya give me a little inspiration if ya know what I mean.”

Count Whorton was never a man of violence, but he was even less a man of money. With his last nerve losing the battle to hold on Count grabbed the man by the throat and shoulder pushing him backwards. With a high-pitched yelp, the drunk was thrown off his barstool landing hard on the floor. Count stood over him as The King growled.

“Tell me where you saw her,” Count said.

“Outside… she got into Rick’s car. She’s a pay-for whore ain’t she?”

Count kicked him hard in the crotch then turned around to the bartender saying, “Who the fuck's Rick?”

He’d been gone more than just a minute, but when he came back through the apartment door, he had a few answers.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” Kenny said.

“Irma’s in trouble, we need to go now, we’ll drop off Doc Box at the hospital on the way.”

“Not necessary,” said Doctor Box getting up from the couch, “I’m fine, it’s just a knock on the head.”

Count wasn’t going to stop and argue with him so he just said, “Fine, let’s go.”

They were rolling away from the curb as the man from the bar came out the door screaming obscenities with one hand on his crotch and the other making rude gestures. Before the door to the bar could close The King slipped out running away from where Count had left him and going right up to the drunk growling and barking.

Kenny’s car stopped half in and out of its parking space, the passenger’s side door opened and Count yelled, “King.” The ghoulish looking dog stopped growling, ran over to the car and jumped up onto Count’s lap.

Kenny started driving again saying, “Who the fuck was that guy?”

“Beats the hell outta me,” said Count, “now head to Dotty’s.”

“Fine, but can you fill us in on what the hell is going on?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m gettin’ to it, keep your flip flops wet. A customer back there at the bar kindly offered up some information sayin’ he’d seen Irma get in a car, black Chevy, with a man named Rick. Bartender said this Rick has been hangin’ around a lot the last couple weeks. Said he was a nice guy, a real ladykiller. He thought good’ol’Rick asked about the people upstairs, but he wasn’t sure. I asked just what Rick looked like and I got a pretty good description which made a few wires connect. Bartender said he was dark-skinned, tall, good shape, looked damn near like a movie star. That’s when it hit me… Rick is Brick.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” said Kenny taking his eyes off the road.

“Who’s Brick?” asked Doc Box from the back seat.

“Brick, is Brick Side, Irma’s Ex-husband.”

“What?” Kenny swerved in his lane.

“I didn’t know Irma’s been married,” said Doc Box, “and the man must be a complete idiot using Rick as an alias for the name Brick.”

“No, he’s no idiot. The bastard has used dozens of different names, fuck he goes into the shitter as Jeff and comes out as George. He used Rick on purpose, he wanted Irma or me to know he was there.”

“You sure it’s him, Count and not a coincidence?”

Count reached into his coat pocket and took out an old wallet that held three wrinkled one-dollar bills. Beside the money was a folded yellowed newspaper article. He took it out then handed it back to Doc Box. The headline read, “Man Suspected of Local Area Murder”. There was a picture between the text of a dark-skinned handsome man.

“That picture’s a few years old, but when I showed it to the bartender, he recognized him right off. I know what I’m talkin’ about. She was born Irma Elsa Lanchester, she had a rough childhood then, she met him when she was in her twenties, and she thought she was in love. Or at least she did before he started beating her senseless, but by then she was trapped. Married and living with him. They stayed like that for years—he bruised her, scarred her, broke her, nearly killed her a few times.”

Kenny parked out front of Dynamite Dotty’s and said, “I can’t believe Irma went through that or didn’t stop it, she’s so strong.”

“Every superhero has their weakness,” said Count, “she wasn’t able to stop it. Finally, she got out with not much more than the clothes on her back. Irma bounced around, hiding, getting a divorce without ever seeing him. Then she found herself in Quartertown going through some bad times, she became a prostitute. That’s when she moved in across the alley.”

As the three of them walked into Dynamite Dotty’s, Count addressed the bartender saying, “Could you get me somethin’ to soothe my streptococcus de fungily throat, Rita Haywart?”

A chunky man with a long beard and exquisite eye makeup turned around saying, “It’s WARP. My name’s Rita Haywarp, legally and all, you hunchbacked asshole.”

Count had his drink down practically before Rita was done pouring it, then asked, “Dotty in back?”

“She ain’t out front, is she? So, she must be.”

“Yeah, yeah, Haywart,” Count started to walk away then turned back. “There been a man named Rick hanging around?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here,” said Doc Box handing Count the newspaper article. Rita glanced at the picture and scratched at her beard. Then said, “Oh, I do happen to recognize that beauty.”

“Beauty? Ya didn’t read the headline did ya, Rita?” Count said.

“I did, but often the more rotten the core the sweeter the surface. Never see a picture of Ted Bundy? Talk about ladykiller.”

“Alright, where you see him?”

“Here, of course, he’s maybe come in once or twice in the last few weeks. A smooth talker, again ladykiller, why?”

“He took Irma,” said Count before walking away. Kenny followed him to Dotty’s back office as Doc Box stayed upfront asking Rita for some pain meds.

Dotty sat behind her desk and when she saw Count said, “Aw fuck. If this is another thing about your damn Valentine’s Day wedding here you can go to hell. Valentine’s is a big fucking day for this place and like a big fucking idiot, I’m shuttin’ it down all day for you two’s. So, be happy with what you fuckin’ get and why the hell ain’t Irma with ya? I texted her just a minute ago and got nothin’ back.”

Count stood in front of Dotty’s desk listening quietly, then said, “Can I speak now? Brick Side took Irma.”

Dotty stood up. “What? Where’d he take her?”

“The zoo, they’re pettin’ the baboons.”

“What?”

“I don’t know where they are, but I’m gonna find out and I’m gonna need a gun.”

“Why?”

“Because when I find him I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna put that ladykiller right in the ground.”

“Fuck, very 80’s straight to VHS action hero, Count,” said Dotty looking into Count’s dark-ringed bleary eyes, “but bullshit. I give you a gun and you’ll blow your foot off like a drunken version of Don Knotts in ‘The Shakiest Gun in The West’. I’ll hold the fuckin’ pea shooter, and I’ll fuckin’ drive. You drain the booze out of your brain and figure out where that fucker took her.”

“Fine, we need to attack this at all angles. We need to call Miss Pinky, even that ass Klunkel to get the blue boys on it. APB and whatever. I got a tech wizard I know that can try to track Irmie’s phone. Kenny, I want you to take Doc over to the paper, go through the files, see if they have anything on Brick Side, everything is useful. Dotty, I want you to talk to all of your regulars, your employees, everyone. The son of a bitch has been following us at a distance, Rita out there said he’d been here. So, see if he slipped up, said the smallest thing that could lead to the location. Brick’s a smart asshole so, he’s had this planned. He knew where he was gonna take her.”

Count paused, he had to catch his breath after having such a lucid moment. The silence was soon broken by the song “Beth” by Kiss coming out of Dotty’s cell phone on her desk. She picked it up, looked at it, then turned back to Count saying, “It’s a text from Irma’s cell. Just says ‘Hotel Hinchley’.”

“Okay,” Count said nodding, “fuck everything I just said, let’s go get Irma.”

“Wait,” said Kenny still standing in the doorway, “it could be a trap or somethin’.”

“Doubtful, Brick already has what he wants, Irma. There’s nothin’ I could give him. Plus, if it is a trap, I’ll have you guys to help me get outta the snare.”

Dotty grabbed her revolver and the pump shotgun that stayed behind the bar. Kenny got his bat from the trunk of his car and they all met at the garage beside the club. Dotty hit the button that rolled up the door revealing her fire red 60’s Oldsmobile nighty-eight four-door. They quickly got in the big boat of a car including The King who sat in the back seat between Kenny and Doc. Dotty hadn’t noticed the creature until it was scrambling up onto the bench seat. Count’s only explanation was, “Don’t worry—he’s with me.”

When Dotty turned the key, the radio came on rivaling the roar of the engine and Six-fingered Sally introduced the next song. “This is an old one,” she said, “The Shangri-Las with ‘Leader of the Pack’, enjoy this classic, wherever you are, wherever you’re going.” As the music started, they were already out on the road and soon out of Quartertown.

Their destination was in the next county. Just twenty miles southeast out of Quartertown and you hit Hinchley Haddon. Officially two towns, one of them the county seat, but they sat so close together most referred to them as one. Dotty sped down the highway towards the two towns. The Oldsmobile flew over the Iowa river and zoomed past the Meskwaki Settlement right into the town limits.

Only Count had been to the Hotel Hinchley before so he gave directions to the old building uptown. It was still called hotel, but years before had been converted to apartments, it had obviously seen better days.

“Black Chevy out front,” said Count as they parked, “they’re here.”

“What’s the plan?” Dotty said.

“I’ll go in the front with Kenny following behind. You make a loop of the building see if you see anything. Doc will stay in the car, he’s not in the best shape anyway. If things go bad he can either get help or keep the car running.”

“Seems like the best plan to get us killed, let’s go,” said Dotty getting out of the car.

As Count and Kenny went up the stairs into the old hotel, Dotty slipped around the side. Stepping in the empty lobby Count realized The King was right on his heels, coming with him.

“What now?” said Kenny ready with his bat.

“I guess we start knockin’ on doors.”

The first apartment they came to was dark and empty, so was the second. The third door was opened by a man with thick glasses wearing not much more than boxers.

“Have you seen a good lookin’ man holdin’ a woman against her will?” asked Count.

“Huh?” Was the man’s reply.

Count dug out the old news article again and showed the man the picture.

“Yeah, I think I know him. Why you askin’?”

“What apartment’s he in?”

“You a cop or somethin’?”

Kenny stepped from around the corner and said to the man in the boxer shorts, “Or somethin’.”

“Fine, put Baby Huey away, second floor on your left.”

“Thanks,” said Count starting to walk away.

“Hey, hunchback, you can’t have dogs in here.”

“He’s a service animal.”

“Oh, yeah, what service?”

Count turned back to the man and said through clenched crooked yellow teeth, “Military, the pooch served in Nam.”

Boxer’s swore and slammed his door.

Standing at the top of the second floor Count loomed in front of the door that he hoped Irma was behind. Kenny stood quietly a few feet away, out of sight; his grip tight on the bat. Count knocked and waited, there wasn’t any movement inside, no one came to the door. He knocked, again and again, there was no response.

He tried the knob; the door was unlocked. Count walked in the apartment and was shot.

Okay, let’s pause here. I know what you’re thinking, “This bastard just shot the main character. How could he? I love the odd, strange looking, always drinking, Count Whorton, and now this son of a bitch killed him off! What the fuck?” Well, untwist your knickers because I’m not done with this story you dumb pot-lickers. Now, we need to rewind a little, to no more than twenty minutes earlier in the Hotel Hinchley. As Count was talking to Rita Haywarp at Dynamite Dotty’s, twenty miles away in the second-floor apartment Irma was sitting on a ratty old couch, her hands zip-tied, her mouth gagged, and a gun in her face.

On a folding chair a few feet in front of her Brick said to Irma, “Now, I am going to be taking the gag out. I hope you will have learned by now that screaming will only bring you pain. I do not want that at all, I love you my darling, always have, always will.”

He reached forward, leaving the gun on his thigh, carefully untying her gag. When it was off Irma moved her jaw slightly trying to ease the pain. Two large bruises were already forming on her face.

“Now,” Brick said leaning back in his chair, “may we speak civilly?”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself to death.”

Brick clenched his teeth then took out a pocket knife. Leaning forward he lifted Irma’s shirt and sliced her stomach.

“Let’s try again, start fresh if we can. It seems like your days on the streets have certainly soiled you.”

“Yeah, it did. I’m not the same fucking Irma I was when I was bein’ beatin’ by you. You don’t want this dirty, old nasty woman so just get the fuck outta here.”

“Oh, now don’t say that. I am sure my Irma is still in there, deep down. I will just have to carve away the disgusting parts like a sculptor.”

Irma smiled slightly saying, “You’d be carvin’ away an awful lot.”

“You’re worth it.”

“You know Brick, I’m gettin’ married again. To a man I love, a man that doesn’t need to carve me away.”

“That ugly thing to which you refer could use some carving of his own… a lot of carving.”

“So, what are you gonna carve away, Brick? My job and the horrible things you think I’ve done?”

“Are you speaking of being a whore?”

“I say prostitute or hooker and I wouldn’t trade a day of it. I met Count through it and I learned a lot from it. Like one of my first regular clients, said he was an ex-navy seal, not that I believe him. Into bondage, that man was, tied me up every way he could think of, and each time he taught me how to get out of it.”

Irma lifted her tied hands behind her then brought them down hard on her lower back breaking the plastic binds. Before Brick could move Irma was off the couch. She punched him in the face once and then again causing him to fall off his folding chair. She picked the pocket knife off the floor and stabbed Brick in the leg repeatedly until he hit her hard in the head causing her to fall backwards.

Getting up from the floor, his leg bleeding profusely, the little knife still stuck in his thigh, Brick went for the gun. Irma saw him and kicked it away, causing it to slide across the floor into the open door of the bathroom. He again lurched for it, Irma put her shoulder into him from behind throwing him to the ground. Then quickly she got around him and to the gun. As she turned back to the room, gun ready, Brick was out the door. He slammed it behind him, then said from the other side, “Old building this is. The door here is your only exit and I’ll be here waiting. I’ve got the pocket knife here and I’ve done worse with smaller items.”

Irma went around the room, finally finding her cell phone in one of his bags. The battery symbol was flashing red. She quickly sent a text before it died. Accidentally, a response to her last text received. She looked for another phone, but there was only the landline and he’d cut the wire. So, she sat the folding chair in the corner, held the gun ready, and watched the door. Someone had to show up eventually, anyone, and if it was him coming through the door, she’d shoot him dead.

Irma sat quietly, waiting, as he constantly spoke through the door. He wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t stop saying such vile things. Then he was suddenly silent. There were footsteps outside and then a knock. She knew it was Brick, it had to be. He was playing her, a sick game. There was another knock, Irma started to breathe heavily. The knob started to turn and she tensed. When the door opened Irma saw a man step in so she shot him.

When the bullet hit Count, he fell to the floor having said the strange spur of the moment obscenity of, “Fuck a toe!”

Upon hearing the odd shout, Irma knew instantly what she’d done and ran to the bleeding Count, The King already by his side.

“Oh, God Countie, are you alright? Are you okay I’m so sorry?”

“I think you just got me in the arm, I’ll be alright. How are you? I’ve been worried sick.”

Before she could answer there came a noise from the far end of the hall. Kenny who had been standing in the door looking at the bleeding Count turned to see Brick Side. He was watching everything from behind an open door.

Kenny started down the hall and Brick limped out from behind the door. The little knife in his hand. “Let me warn you, big boy,” he said looking up at Kenny, “I’ve hurt a lot bigger than you.”

“Just shut up,” said Kenny as he swung his bat. Brick ducked the swing and the bat made a dent in the wall. Stepping forward Brick slashed at Kenny’s arm and hand making him drop his bat and pissing him off. Kenny pounced forward onto Brick. The two men stumbled and crashed through the second-floor window. They fell onto the tin roof of the shed beneath, then onto the ground.

Dotty came rushing around the building just as Kenny was getting up.

“What the fuck,” she said, “you okay?”

He cracked his neck and said, “Yeah, just a few scratches.”

“Not just scratches,” Dotty pointed at the pocket knife now sticking out of his shoulder. “You want me to pull that out for ya big guy?”

“Naw, that will just make it bleed more, leave it in.”

Brick started to stand up until Dotty pointed the shotgun at him and told him to remain seated. Sirens were whistling in the distance.

Two days later in front of a sizable group of unconventional people in Dynamite Dotty’s club Count and Irma were married. Count with his right arm in a sling said, “Irma, when I first saw ya cupid shot me with his arrow, which didn’t hurt as bad as when you shot me the other day. Everyone here, or in the state, can agree I’m a better drinker than detective which isn’t sayin’ much. But with you as my partner, I get better every day. And I know you’ve been to hell and back a time or two, I’ve been to hell and back a time or two, but now with you by my side, I’ll be happy to go to hell because with you there, it will be heaven. I love you so much Irmie; down to the bloody whorehouse end.”

They exchanged question mark rings, made supposedly of gold as they’d been acquired in an unusual fashion. Mother Whorton sat in the first row, her eyes tearing up during the ceremony. Afterward, she congratulated Irma and hugged her before saying, “I hope you know what you got yourself into, my boys a moron.”

As the evening wore on the music kept things going. A few different acts from the club played, a woman dressed as Elvis Presley did “Can’t Help Falling in Love”. While later on a golden-voiced drag queen sang The Searchers song “Love Potion No. Nine”.

A while later Irma found Count in the alley out back smoking a bent cigarette. “Everythin’ okay,” she said taking his cigarette.

“For me, it couldn’t be better. I was just thinkin’ we just got hitched on the cheap, with these probably stolen question mark rings, and there isn’t any way we can go on any honeymoon. Unless you want to spend a few hours in a yellow mattress motel across town because I think I might be able to swing that.”

“Countie,” Irma said, “shut the fuck up. I love our rings, I loved our wedding, and I love you. Honeymoons are for assholes. What I want is to just sit at home with you or even better have someone come in the office tomorrow with a suspiciously dead grandma. That’s what I want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, now let’s get back inside, it’s colder than a witches titty out here.”

“You’d know,” said Count making Irma laugh in that screechy fashion of hers, “did you see Klunkel dancing with that drag queen? I can’t believe he crashed our wedding.”

“I invited him,” said Irma going in the back door.

Count Whorton following his bride said, “Why the hell you do that? He’s an ass and a bad dancer. He kept stepping on the drag queen’s toes.”

The End

Epilogue

Darwin stood in front of the judge in a clean suit with dirty wild hair and said, “This is obviously a cut and dry case of temporary insanity. He had just learned his fiancée had been abducted, he was out of control with emotion, obviously not responsible for the so-called victim losing a testicle.”

As the prosecutor spoke Darwin leaned over to Count and whispered, “One of these days I’ll cut your throat and use the skin of your ass to make little flags that I’ll stick in my garden.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Count dismissing him, “you’re doin’ a hell of a job today. Keep it up.” Count gave a smile, Darwin smiled back then returned to paying attention in court.

The End….Again

Doctor Flytrap’s Home for Women

By Michael D. Davis

It was a regular day in Quartertown, Iowa, there were clouds in the sky, earth underfoot, and the faint sound of profanities on the wind. Count Whorton was sitting on an old seat with a torn cushion in the dank, dark auditorium of Double Dan’s X-rated theater. He sipped from his flask and watched the bald spot on the head of the man three rows ahead.

Count wasn’t there long before there was a slap on his knee and he pulled back his legs to let Irma get in next to him. When she was seated, Irma glanced at the screen and blurted out, “Sweet damn, all that hair.”

A shushing sound came.

Count said, “I know right, I don’t think ol’ Double Dan has any films from this century.”

“What I miss?”

“Well, he was deliverin’ a package and she answered the door in nothin’ but-”

“No, you dipshit, I mean with bald spot up there”

“Ohh, him, nothin’. He’s just sittin’ there, I got a picture on my phone for the client.”

“Well, then there’s nothin’ else to do here.”

“Nope, I was just waitin’ for you.”

Count shifted in his seat leaning closer to Irma and lowering his voice. “Look two rows back and about half a dozen seats to the left.”

“Why? Someone, we know?”

“Just do it.”

Irma shifted and stretched to cover, to make the glance over her shoulder less conspicuous. What she saw behind her was a woman closing in on a hundred. The lady had white hair, a shrunken deflated body, and she seemed to be gnawing on something.

“Grandma over there,” Count said, “was here when I got here. She hasn’t taken her eyes off the screen and she’s eatin’ grapes from a baggy.”

“So, what?” Said Irma.

“I just never figured this skin flick house catered to old Presbyterian ladies.”

“What, you thought it was gonna be all middle-aged men?”

“I just didn’t think it was gonna be Estelle Getty. Ready to go?”

“Sure, unless you wanna stay and watch Debby does Des Moines?”

Count and Irma walked out of the theater, only stopping to slip Double Dan himself a twenty. “Thanks for the tip-off, Double D,” Count said when he gave him the bill.

As they walked away from the theater that sat across the street from the courthouse Irma said, “So, how do you think the client’ll take it? I mean her hubby’s not cheatin’, but yet he’s a regular at a porn theater.”

“Eh, who the hell knows?” When they reached their old rusted Buick station wagon, Count lit a bent cigarette before getting in. Then he said to Irma, “You know why they call him Double Dan?”

“Cause He’s got Big ol’ Double D’s.”

“It’s cause he’s nuts, says everythin’ twice, wears two pairs of pants, two shirts.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.”

Irma drove down the street, the Buick running fine, but the muffler making noises that frightened children.

“Wanna get somethin’ to eat?”

“Cool with me,” Count said.

“Good, cause you’ll have to do some more work later. We got a call earlier from that girl, Stella.”

“Who?”

“You know, a little thing, always in black. She works at the St. Belvedere Hotel, helped us at Christmas, datin’ Kenny now.”

“Faintly rings a bell.”

“Well, her grandmother’s possibly in trouble.”

“What’s wrong with Mema now?”

“Stella thinks she may be in a cult or somethin’. Needs us to see about it.”

“And so, we shall.”

Later in the afternoon Count and Irma were on the north side of town. Parked on the street between luxurious old mansions Irma said, “That’s the one there. It’s a home for women or a boarding house or somethin’. Just head in and figure out what you can.”

Count took a sip from his flask and said, “Good plan.”

Irma straightened his tie, took his hat, slicked back his hair, changed her mind and replaced the hat.

“To get in the door you’ll say you’re from the paper.”

“Will do.”

“Just one more thing.” Irma took out an old pair of glasses from her purse and stuck it on Count’s head. They were a thick prescription making his pupils appear the size of quarters.

“Will I really need these magnifying glasses, Irma?”

“They were a dollar at a garage sale and they complete the look. Now, go. Do this then we’ll head home and watch an old beach movie.”

Count walked across the street, tripping over the curb as he struggled to see out of his new spectacles. A young woman came to the door of the house when Count rang the bell.

“Can I help you?” She said firmly.

“I do hope so, dear. I’d like to talk to the head… in charge lady.”

“Doctor Flytrap does not see unscheduled visitors.”

“Well, I’m sure an exception can be made if you could just tell the um… Doc I’m here.”

“And who are you?”

“I am Martin Bipple of the newspaper,” Count Whorton said.

There was a long sigh then the woman told him to wait. When she returned, she showed Count into a room with couches, paintings, and more books than leaves on an oak. Count took the room in for the most part before catching his foot on the leg of the couch and falling to the carpet with a swear.

“Is everything alright?”

Count pulled himself back up from the floor to see an older woman with a stack of high hair in a sweater and skirt come in the room.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Count picked his glasses off the floor and said, “now I can see ya.” Although the opposite was in fact true. “Might I assume you’re the doctor?”

“Yes,” said the woman with more of a growl than an answer, “I am doctor Charlotte Flytrap.”

“Well, I’m Martin Bipple from the paper it’s good to meet ya.”

“Yes, have a seat.”

Count stumbled his way to a couch and sat down in front of a coffee table that held a bowl of caramels.

“Tell me, Mr. Bipple,” Doctor Flytrap said, taking the seat opposite Count, “Do all of the Quartertown newspaper people show up without appointments, the smell of booze heavy on their breath?”

“No, that’d just be me. I was in the area celebratin’ a friend’s birthday. I was obliged as it were to imbibe. And if you wish me to come back another time, I will. I just thought it might be a good article, you know, this place.”

Doctor Flytrap scowled, not that Count could see that.

“Well, I’ll give you a few minutes.”

“Good, so first of all, what technically is this place?”

“This my home for women, started by me and my husband. A place for ladies that need help, support, care, or simply a roof over their head.”

“No men?”

“No men.”

“What about your husband?”

“He travels.”

Count leaned back on the couch. “This is a nice place. How do you pay for it? Donations?”

“The house has been in my family for years. And yes, we do take donations.”

“What made you wanna start this up?”

“I wanted to give back.”

“Like a wise man once said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country’.”

“John F. Kennedy, exactly.”

“So, how many women do you got currently?”

“Fifty-two.”

“That’s a big number.”

“It’s a big house, are we about done here?”

“Sure,” Count said standing up, “and if I come back, I’ll make an appointment first.”

“You’re learning,” Doctor Flytrap said, directing Count out of the room.

“Well, like another wise man once said, ‘Experience, that’s what separates the girls from the girl scouts’.”

“Is that also JFK?”

“No, that’s George Hamilton in the 60’s beach party classic ‘Where the Boys Are’. The wife and I have been on a beach movie kick, you know, Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello, that sorta thing.”

“Ah, well, goodbye, Mr. Bipple.”

“Oh wait, one more thing,” Count stood in the open front door. “What type of Doc are ya?”

“I am a psychiatrist.”

“Oh, workin’ on the noodle, seein’ why things don’t come to a boil. Alright, have a good one Doc.”

Count walked across the street and got in the Buick with Irma.

“Learn anything?” Irma asked.

“Do chickens like muffins? ...Some, I learned a little, I’ll tell ya about it while we watch ‘Beach Blanket Bingo’ tonight.”

Early the next morning there was an annoying insistent ringing of the doorbell as Count and Irma tried to sleep.

“What the fuck is that?” Count asked his eyes clenched shut.

“The doorbell and I’m gonna kill who’s ever ringin’ it,” Irma said getting out of bed and finding her slippers. She went out the door leaving it open a few inches, down the stairs and opened the outer door. There on the sidewalk stood two uniformed officers and detective Klunkel of the Quartertown police department.

“What do you want?”

“Good morning Irma,” Klunkel said, “Is Count around?”

“Why?”

“Just asking?”

“Bullshit, what do you want, Klunky?”

“We need to bring him in, there was a murder last night and he’s our number one suspect.”

“He was with me all night.”

“Not that I don’t trust you, of all people, but we still got to bring him in.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“May we see for ourselves.”

“Why not,” Irma said leading the officers up the stairs.

They looked around for a few minutes in the apartment and office but didn’t find Count. Only the King, Count and Irma’s beastly little dog which seemed to frighten one of the officers.

“Know where he is?” Klunkel asked.

“Nope, I didn’t even notice him leave.”

A few minutes back, when Irma was down talking to the police, Count was still in bed, but his ears were open. He could honestly say he didn’t feel like headin’ down with some bulls to the cop shop at the ass break of dawn. So, he went with plan B which he’d used multiple times over the years. Count slunk on the floor and crawled quietly to the closet. The King following him all the way, he quickly slipped on his shoes, hat, and trench coat over his pajamas. Then Count stuck his finger into a knothole in the floor and pulled up the trap door. Below his closet was another closet, particularly the broom closet for The Toe Tap Bar and Grill below. Count hooked his foot on an old wooden ladder and descended as the King licked at him. He came out of the closet (literally) then exited out the Toe Tap’s side door. As the officers were heading up the stairs.

As he walked away from the apartment, Count contemplated the dilemma of where to go. He could only think of one place that was within walking distance so he started for it.

Kenny’s mom opened the front door wearing pajamas and a scowl. She led Count through the small house to the stairs leading to the basement. Before he went down, she told him emphatically to use the outside door to the basement next time.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Kenny asleep on the couch. Count walked over to him, picked a magazine off the floor rolled it up and whacked Kenny on the head. Nearly jumping off the couch Kenny awoke with a scream and a swear.

“Morning sunshine, the earth welcomes you to a new day,” Count said sauntering over to an old beat-up recliner.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m wanted by the cops for murder and I need a place to stay until the heat dies down, that good with you Rocko?”

“Yeah, good one, what’s the real reason?”

“That was the real reason, now where’s your clicker?”

Kenny sat up, and threw him the remote saying, “Who’d you off?”

“No one.”

“Who’d they think you offed?”

“Not a clue, ooh ‘Starsky and Hutch’ is on. You know I think I have the good looks of Hutch and the personality of Starsky.”

“And you’re as annoying as Frank Burns and live like Fred Sandford.”

“Damn, that was a good one, you’re smart in the mornin’, too bad people have to put up with ya the rest of the day.”

Count wasn’t there long before the back door opened and someone came in. He didn’t notice her, in his half-sleep state until she was nearly on top of him.

“What the hell’re you doin’ here?”

“I come and go like the neighborhood cat,” Stella said standing above him, “you know you’re in my chair.”

“Oh, yeah, well I ain’t movin’.”

“Why ya here?”

“Hidin’ out.”

“Cool, did you find anything out about my grandma?”

“Who? Oh, I checked the place out and looks on the up and up. We’ll sniff around some more, see if there’s secretly an eyeball in the punch bowl or somethin’.”

Stella sat down, leaning forward she said, “There is just something really weird about that place. Since goin’ there my grandma hardly ever talks to me, she never calls, and when I visit, they hardly let me in. One of the few times I was allowed to see her she sat in her chair just smiling and mumbling. That’s not like her. Plus, I heard this other woman call my grandma by this weird name, I tell you the whole place puts off major creepy vibes.”

“Uh-huh,” Count said, only half listening, “What they call her?”

“Some C name, Carol or Carmen…no it was Carmilla.”

Count sat bolt upright, “What did you say?”

“Carmilla, why?”

“Fuck.”

Count jumped up and threw the magazine again at a sleeping Kenny. After he woke with a scream he said, “Fuck! Stop doing that.”

“Get your ass up Kenny, we got an eyeball in the punch bowl.”

“What? An eyeball?”

“Stuart and the Carmilla’s are here.”

Kenny laid back down saying, “That’s nice.”

“You fuckin’ moron, don’t you recollect Halloween,” Count kicked the couch, “the supermart.”

Kenny sat up, “Shit.”

“Yeah, so get your ass up, we got shit to do. Start by callin’ Doc Box, tell him to go through the files at the paper lookin’ for anythin’ new on Stuart, the Carmillas, or this Doctor Flytrap and her boarding house or whatever.”

Kenny was starting to stand up when Stella said, “Wait a damn minute, what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

Count dropped back into his chair.

“Stuart Stegman is a skinny, psychopathic asshole accountant-turned-killer. He’s killed multiple, most notably his wife, and was never convicted. That doesn’t mean no one knows what he did, everyone with a functioning brain cell knows. Before he killed his wife she stashed his only child, a daughter, away somewhere. He’s never been able to find her, hired me once to do it. But I came back to him with zilch. Then last Halloween he held me, Irma and Doc hostage at Sweeney’s Supermart while him and his girlfriend knocked off employees. Stuart wanted me to spill on the location of his offspring, I kept my lips locked. Your boy toy here finally chased him off. And now I think he’s back. No, scratch that lottery ticket, I know it.”

“How do you know?”

“Carmilla. He calls every woman he’s with that name. Plus there was a bowl of caramels on the table at Flytrap’s. I don’t know how I could have missed something that obvious.”

“But why was my grandma called Carmilla, then? He’s not with my…”

Count sighed and stood up again. “I think you weren’t just eatin’ crackers earlier when you thought Flytraps place was cult-like. You see, at Halloween, he had just one girl with him that he called Carmilla, now, I think there’s a whole league of ‘em.”

“And my grandma—”

“I don’t know,” Count said cutting her off. “All I know is I need a smoke and a drink.”

Count Whorton took out a bent cigarette from his coat and lit it. He was still in his pajamas, a pair of old holey sweatpants, and a large black shirt that said, “Time To Pass Out.” Through washings and much wear, letters had faded away leaving the shirt to say only, “me o ass Out.”

It was at this moment Count had a realization and said, “I just had a realization, I don’t have my flask.”

Kenny went off into another room to get dressed, saying as he did so, “My Ma has some prickly pear flavored stuff up in the kitchen.”

Count was already up the stairs, off to interrupt Kenny’s mom’s breakfast. As he came back down Count said, “I don’t think your Ma likes me, Kenny, but she made me a sandwich. Okay, here’s the plan: we hunker down here till dark. Doubt the coppers will check for me here. But you, Kenny, head over and update Irma on the goin’s on. And I’ll need ya to pick somethin’ up from Dotty for me.”

“What’s that?” Kenny was putting on his jacket.

“You’ll see, just tell her I need the boom boom and the cookies.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Sitting down, Count said to Stella, “You got one of those computer phones?”

“A regular phone? Yes.”

Kenny waved and went out the door.

“Good, do some searchin’. Look up that Flytrap place and see what it says.”

“What’cha lookin’ for?”

“Anythin’ really, but the mention of Stuart’s name, name of Flytrap’s husband, and when the boardin’ house got started. But again, anythin’ really.”

“Right,” Stella worked on her phone for a minute then said, “Well, I’m not finding any names. I’m on their website. It does say here, ‘Doctor Flytrap has worked her whole life to help her fellow women never more than when she started her home for wom…’ Blah, blah, blah, November. She started it up in November.”

“Interestin’, that’s right after the run-in with Stuart at the Supermart.”

“Coincidence?”

“Get your head outta your ass.”

“It’s not saying much else here.”

“Well, keep lookin’. I’m gonna use the landline to call Miss Pinky.”

Count got up and grabbed the phone off the hook. He dialed then held it to his ear soon he was saying, “Okay, okay, sorry, sorry, how was I supposed to know?” Count slammed the phone down sayin’, “Fuckin’ shit.”

“What was that?” Stella asked.

“Kenny’s mom’s on the phone, she ripped my ass like old underwear.”

“Here, use my phone. I’ll dial.”

Count was talking to Miss Pinky in a matter of seconds. The conversation was short, to the point, and disappointing.

“I’d tell ya Count,” she said, “but Detective Klunkel has been keeping things quiet and the like. Especially since he knows we talk. So, I don’t know who you supposedly killed. This time, again, how many times are you gonna be accused of killing someone?”

“Not a clue, keep your ears open, Miss Pinky,” she said bye and Count handed the phone back to Stella to hang up.

“Now, what do we do?”

Count looked at Stella and said, “Now we do the real work. We think… ponder… go over everythin’ a thousand times in our heads… all while drinkin’ and watchin’ T.V.”

“Really?” Stella asked sarcastically.

“Oh yeah, shits ‘bout to get real good in here,” Count tapped his forehead and sipped from a bottle of prickly-pear-flavored booze.

Hours later, after darkness fell over the city, Stella, Kenny, and Count walked out the back door of Kenny’s parent’s house. Sitting out front in the idling station wagon was Irma. When they were all loaded up Count said, “Drive, Irmie, drive.”

“We actually doin’ this, Countie?” Irma asked piercing the night with her voice.

“It’s the only plan I could come up with, and I think its pretty damn good, more or less.”

“Okay then, your flask’s on the dash.”

“Thanks, Irmie, hey Kenny, hand me up that bag you got from Dotty.”

Kenny handed Count a big brown paper bag.

“What’s that?” Irma asked.

“A gun, and some girl scout cookies.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I think it’s Dotty’s niece or something that’s been sellin’ ‘em. I said we’d take a few boxes.”

“I meant the gun.”

“Oh, I don’t know how things are gonna go down here with Stuart so I thought we could use some extra help.”

“Just don’t shoot yourself with it,” Kenny said, “or even better one of us.”

“Well, that wasn’t the plan, but let’s see how the night goes.”

It was roughly twelve-fifteen when Irma parked across the street from Doctor Flytrap’s home for women. Count, Kenny, and Irma all got out while Stella stayed in the car, the keys in the ignition.

They approached the house, going straight for the front door. The plan was to pick the lock, but before they even tried Irma opened the door wide. It wasn’t locked at all.

“Lucky,” Kenny said.

“Doubtful.”

Inside, they took different directions on the first floor. All heading towards the back of the house. Kenny carried his bat, Irma had a knife in her pocket, and Count forgot the gun in the car. The rooms were all dark and empty, everyone asleep upstairs.

Creeping through the big house, the three of them found each other in the kitchen. None of them had found Stuart. Looking down another hall, Count saw a light on. He motioned to Irma and Kenny, they started down the hall. Only a few feet from the lighted doorway a voice came. It said, “You all would be piss-poor cat burglars.”

The voice wasn’t Stuarts, but Doctor Flytrap’s. Count stuck his head in the door, she was just sitting at a desk. “Do please come in,” she said.

Count, Kenny, and Irma went in the office, Count leading the way saying, “Damn it, where is he?”

Doctor Flytrap looked at Count and just said, “Hmmm?”

“Don’t give me that. Where’s Stuart? I’m done with this. I’m not gonna have him come around every few months to threaten, kill, and terrorize. This all ends tonight. So, where is he… Carmilla?”

Doctor Flytrap smiled.

“Answer him, lady,” Irma said, “or I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass I’ll have to reach down your mouth to paint my toenails.”

“That’s not necessary,” Doctor Flytrap said, “now please sit and things will become evident.”

The three of them sat awkwardly on the one couch in the room.

“Now, as you maybe could tell I come from money. This house was my grandfather’s. Too much house for one family, let alone one person. I’d always wanted to do something with it, but didn’t know what. Then I met a woman.”

“Sorry to interrupt here,” Count said, “but is this fuckin’ goin’ anywhere?”

Ignoring Count, Flytrap went on. “She came to me for treatment. In her sessions she went on and on about this man. It was Stuart. I was so intrigued at his power over her that I had to meet him. When I did, I learned that my patient wasn’t the only woman this man controlled. There were nearly twenty of them and he called them all by the same name.”

“Carmilla,” Count said, “then you joined them, moved in here, and are now hidin’ him.”

“No, I married him.”

“What? Did you know what he did to his previous wife?”

“Yes, I did. Stuart wanted access to my money and living here wasn’t too bad either. I also know about you, all of you. He wouldn’t stop talking about you, Count.”

“Yeah, yeah, where is he?” Growled Kenny.

“Oh, resting, laying peacefully, not bothering anyone anymore,” Doctor Flytrap smiled.

“Oh, fuck,” Count said.

“What?” Irma asked.

“He’s dead,” Count stood up, “Stuart’s dead ain’t he?”

“Yup,” Flytrap smiled.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” Irma said.

“The cops at our door this mornin’,” Count said, “They weren’t sent by Stuart or because he bumped someone off. It’s because he’s dead himself.”

“So, who killed him?”

“I did,” Doctor Flytrap said.

“Why?”

“Sit back down Count Whorton and I’ll tell you. Why’d you even stand up, did you think it would help your point? Fuck, sit down.”

Count sat and Flytrap spoke. “When I saw the control this measly worthless man had over these women I nearly threw up. No woman should be controlled by a man. So, I helped him, built things up, established the house. All to stop him. When you came here yesterday bumbling about and talking about ocean movies-”

“Um, correction beach party movies, Frankie and Annette are in ‘Bikini Beach’ not ‘Titanic’, but nevertheless go on.”

“Well, I knew you instantly, even with those glasses. Stuarts gone on and on about your hunched back, pus-white skin, and rat-like teeth. I knew shit would hit the fan once he saw you on the security cameras. So, when he got home, I shot him. He was going to get one of my girls in trouble or dead with his obsession over you.”

“That was your plan anyway, wasn’t it, to kill him?”

“Yes, now the Carmilla’s can work without the corrupting influence of men. We will work together, live together, and most importantly protect each other.”

“How do I know that we didn’t just go from one asshole to another?”

“I don’t have a problem with you. Unless you work against us, try to harm us, we will have no problem.”

“Alright show it by getting the cops off my back then everythin’ will be groovy like a late-night movie.” Irma gave Count a look and he said, “Starsky said it on an episode this mornin’ or I may have dreamt it.”

“Fine, I’ll do what ya want,” Flytrap said.

Count was silent then hesitantly said, “So, we’re just free to go?”

“The door’s unlocked isn’t it?”

Count, Irma, and Kenny stood up. “Well, alrighty then, but know this; If I start smellin’ somethin’ ripe in the pipe I’m comin’ back with the plumber.”

The three of them started towards the door then Count turned back. “Another thing, a lady named Ruth—”

“The grandmother of your little friend, she’s fine. She can come and go as she pleases, and visit with her grandchildren as much as she wants. Stuart had some rules that are being amended.”

“Alright, well, have a good one, I guess.”

As they walked out of the dark house Count heard a noise and looked behind him. At the top of a large set of stairs standing in the black night were several women all staring down at him. Count gave a wave and went out the door.

As they were getting in the car Stella asked repeatedly what happened. Count finally answered saying, “Nothin’ much, nothin’ much happened all day. Now, who wants to go back to our place and watch, ‘How to Stuff a Wild Bikini’?”

“I’m up for it Countie,” Irma said, starting up the car.

“Good, I need to go home anyway. I’ve been in pajamas for twenty-four hours that says, ‘me o ass Out’ on the front and with no underwear. But hey everything worked out so maybe I should make this a thing.”

“I’d kill you first,” Irma said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Count drank from his flask, “It’d be groovy like a late-night movie.”

The End

The Sequel: My First Novel

By Michael D. Davis

When the van came to a halt, Who did nothing. Sitting in the back seat his wrists shackled, Who waited as the driver got out and came around to let him out.

“Home sweet home,” the driver said as he opened Who’s car door. The man hadn’t stopped talking since they began their little road trip. Who had not spoken a word along the way opting for the occasional glance out the window.

Out of the car and in the lobby of a new building, Who stood quietly in his rumpled suit as the driver took off his handcuffs and filled out a form. Saying a needless goodbye, the driver then left as a tall strait-laced man with slicked back hair came through the door.

“Welcome to the Quartertown halfway house,” said the slick-haired man. “I’m sure you’re happy to be here.” He proceeded to go through a checklist of items starting with a pat-down. Who remained silent and still only moving or speaking when necessary. After a while the slick-haired man took Who into a small room lined with windows set up with an old television and VCR. “Okay, now your gonna read this packet and watch a little movie. After that, we’ll find you a room.” Slick Hair pushed play on the VCR then left. As he got back to the front desk the alarm went off. Swinging around he saw Who walking out a side door.

A woman sitting behind the desk said, “Who the hell is it this time?”

“The new guy, I’ll go after him.”

A skinny guy with a tattoo on the side of his head quickly said, “Don’t do that man.”

“What?”

“Do you know who that was?”

“Yeah, I got his name right here.”

“No, man that was Who.”

“Who?”

“Exactly.”

“No, who?”

“Exactly, man.”

“Mayer, get the hell away from me, I need to go find the new guy.”

“Man, I’m sayin’ don’t. I know him.”

“From where?”

“Preschool…fuck—the joint man, stupid ass question. And you don’t wanna mess with him. So, just fill out your report and let him go.”

“But I—”

“Listen, I like you, that’s why I’m sayin’ this, cause like if all of us in here came at you at once you’d have a better chance of gettin’ away, hear me?”

“Sure, sure, Mayer,” Slick Hair said brushing him off, but not leaving the facility.

Who walked on the side of the road. He stood just over six feet with broad shoulders and large tattooed hands. He was a rugged figure and looked to be carved from wood or chiseled out of rock. As he started walking through town he got quick side glances and other longer lustier looks. But nothing slowed him.

Eventually Who came upon a little apartment house. The front door was standing wide open, so he walked right in. Who went up to the first apartment door and knocked hard. There wasn’t an immediate answer, so he knocked again. There finally came a, “fuck knock it off and come in.” Who went inside and found an old man that was no more than a skeleton in boxer shorts with an oxygen tank and a bad mood. “Who the fuck are—” the old man said before a pause. He squinted his eyes at Who then said, “Well, fuck me it’s you ain’t it. Hadn’t seen your ugly fucking mug in what, four, five years?”

Who waited in the door for the old man’s ramblings to be over.

“It’s in the safe in the back room there, but I fuckin’ ain’t gettin’ up to get it so do it your own fuckin’ self—combos 02-14-41.”

Who walked past the old man into a dirty small back room and opened the safe. He took an envelope which had been there for four years and walked back. The envelope was thick with hundreds and fifties, making up nearly twenty thousand dollars. Who took out five hundreds and sat them on the small table next to the old man.

As Who walked towards the door the old man said, “You know as you can plainly see I’m not in the best of shape, just miserable, but I did as you asked, kept the envelope safe, for years now. Maybe for my efforts and health, you could extend a few more bills, Derek.”

Derek wasn’t Who’s name, but it was the name he gave the old man four years prior. “How about,” Who said standing in the doorway, “since you’re in such bad shape I come back in a few days and put a bullet in your head. End the misery.”

The old man sat silent looking at Who before descending into laughter. “Fuckin’ damn that’s a good one, you’re colder than a snowman’s dick, you son of a bitch, fuck!”

Who left the man with the offer, still laughing. With the envelope snug against his chest resting in his pocket Who continued his walk across town. As the sun started its nightly fall Who came to an old little diner. Inside he found the place mostly empty. As Who got a seat at the counter a middle-aged woman came up to him, her name tag read Sue, and she said, “whatcanigetya?” Somehow making the question only one word.

Who took a hundred and placed it on the counter. “Will that cover a burger and fries?”

“Yup,” Sue said.

“Tell me, would you? French still behind that door?” Who threw his thumb towards a door off to the side with an old man sitting out front of it reading a paperback.

Not taking her eyes off him Sue said, “Yup.”

“Alright, does a man named Greasy Gary Miller visit him every Tuesday night?”

“Yup.”

“Today’s Tuesday.”

“Yup.”

“He been here?”

“Nope.”

“When he due?”

“Usually… about a half an hour from now.”

“Alright, a different subject, Ringworm still sell?”

“Only small pieces.”

“Could you get me something that makes a loud noise?”

“Depends.”

Who put four more hundreds on the countertop.

“When you want it?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“I think I can do that.”

“Thank you, Sue.”

“No, problem.”

“One more thing, can I also get a Diet Coke?”

“You got it.”

Who ate and sat quietly at the counter for about fifteen minutes before Greasy Gary Miller walked into the diner. He went straight over to the old man in front of the door. The old man pounded on the door and it opened. Greasy Gary Miller disappeared behind it.

Who wiped his face with a napkin and said to Sue, “Ringworm show up yet?”

“Nope.”

“May I have a fork?”

Sue looked at Who’s empty plate and gave him a fork.

Standing up and walking over to the old man in front of the door Who said, “I need to see French.”

The old man looked up at him then said lazily, “he’s with somebody.”

“I need to see him too.”

“Wait your turn.”

Who put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Open the door.”

The old man pounded his fist on the door several times in quick succession. The door opened and was replaced by a large armed man furrowing his brow. “What’s the problem here?” He said.

Who glanced down at the old man then said, “I need to see French.”

“He’s with somebody.”

“Just step aside.”

“Fuck off.” Who didn’t move so the large armed man threw a punch with his right. Who blocked it, shoved the fork in the man’s throat then put his fist in his chest sending the big man backwards.

The large armed man moved out of anger while Who moved to kill. Yet before stepping over the guy, he said to the old man, “I didn’t hit the artery. Put pressure on his neck and get him to the hospital.”

Walking in the back office, the bloody fork still clenched in his fist Who found Mr. French. A heavy-set man sitting behind a big desk with a piece of fake hair on his head. Standing in front of his desk was Greasy Gary Miller. He started to turn as Who came in the room. Who punched Greasy in the stomach, making him double over, then kneed him in the face, straightening him back out. Greasy staggered backward tripping over French’s chair and falling to the floor. Who kneeled next to him, put the fork in one eye, pulled it out, put it in the other and left it there. Greasy lay dead.

Who stood up. Mr. French behind him said, “All don are ya?” Who turned towards him, having forgotten his presence.

“Was that really necessary?” French said.

“Yes,” Who said.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. But we now have a problem. That man owed me money and, well, I don’t believe he will be continuing his weekly payments. So, will you be paying me?”

A small man in a tuxedo came into the room. He had a gun focused on Who. “What’s going on here?” He said.

“Just some new arrangements, Luxor,” Mr. French said, “this man here will be taking over the late Mr. Miller’s debt.”

“Oh,” Luxor moved to French’s side but kept the gun steady.

“How much does he owe?” Who said.

French looked in the big book in front of him and said, “A measly sixty-five-hundred.”

Who saw no way around it. He took the envelope from his pocket, counted out the bills and then sat them on the desk.

“Debt paid,” said French, “mister?”

“I know his name,” Luxor said.

“Good, I’m going to leave now,” Who said, “also your muscled doorman’s going to need a hospital.” Without another word Who walked out, back in the diner he went into the bathroom. Who washed the blood off his face and hands. He walked back out. Sue was staring at him. She put a plastic bag softly on the counter as he approached and said, “Ringworm finally came.”

Who looked in the bag and saw a revolver. He took it out of the bag and put it in his pocket. He paid for it, he might as well have it even if it arrived too late for its original purpose.

“Thanks, Sue, could you do one more thing for me? Call me a cab?”

The dingy little cab didn’t take him far but Who paid with a fifty since it was the smallest bill he had. Who got out in front of a bar and grill, the neon sign shining brightly in the night. He went to a far door and pushed a bell, like the apartment house. No one came at first, then there was some swearing. The door finally swung open revealing a pale white, hunch backed, dog-toothed man named Count Whorton. When Count realized who it was at his front door this late at night his face lit up. Staggering outside in his slippers Count pulled Who in for a big hug, even though he resisted, saying, “Fuck, little brother, what a fuckin’ surprise, you son of a bitch.”

“It’s good to see you too, Count,” said Who, “It’s been too long.”

Count pulled his little brother upstairs and into the apartment, grinning termite-riddled teeth from ear to ear. His wife Irma was sitting on the couch in her pajamas with a strange-looking beast of a dog called King as they came in the door.

“Who was it?” She asked before she saw that Count wasn’t alone.

“Exactly, Irmie,” Count said, “It’s Who.” Count giggled at what he said.

King jumped off the couch and Irma stood up saying, “Who, fuck its been forever. If I knew you were coming, I would have been wearing clothes.” Or at least a bra, she thought.

“Oh, that’s what Who does,” Count said. “He just pops up out of nowhere.”

“You look fine Irma, as beautiful as I remember,” Who said, “or should I call you Countess now?”

“Oh, please.”

They all sat down and Count said, “So, when did you get out?”

“Today, I was escorted to the halfway house. Then I left the halfway house.”

“That sounds about right,” Count said reaching for his glass of whiskey. “Like Baron Who would stay in a halfway house.”

“Eh, I had some things to take care of.”

“It looks like it.” Count pointed at the blood dried on Who’s clothes.

“Yeah… one of the reasons I’m actually here is to hire you. You said in one of your last letters that you’re a PI again?”

“Both of us now.”

“The Bloody Whorehouse Detective Agency,” Irma said, “or some people say the BWD Agency. Either way.”

“Well, good because I need ya.”

“Find Greasy Gary Miller,” Count said, “the prick that fucked up your last job got you sent up for three years and also stole, married, and killed your girlfriend?”

Who shifted slightly in his seat, “No, I took care of… that issue. You see, when I was in prison I got to writing.”

“Your memoirs? The Baron Who Whorton story?”

“No, fiction, a novel actually.” Who was nervous for the first time all day. “It’s a comedy crime story set in the ‘30’s, about two brothers. One is a hardboiled private eye and the other is a criminal and they get into shenanigans.”

“This wouldn’t be based on us would it, little brother?”

“Only in the barest sense, Count.”

“And comedy crime, do people still read that?”

“I think so. Anyways, I had a cellmate for about a year, he got out ten months ago. When he left he took the only copy of my book with him. I need you guys to help me find him and get my book back.”

“Sure thing.”

“Did you have a title yet?” Irma asked.

“I certainly did, ‘The Sequel: My First Novel’.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“Thanks, Irma.”

“Just think Countey, we now have an author in the family. How cool is that?”

“Pretty cool, pretty cool, my little brother the next Stephen King.”

“I don’t know if I’m even going to be able to get it published. If it does happen in a far off distant future I’m going to do it under a pen name. Something that sounds like an author along the lines of Raymond Chandler, James M. Cain, or Michael D. Davis.”

“Eh, don’t know about the others but, you can’t use that last one,” Count said, “that’s who’s writing this story.”

“What,” Who said.

“Come again?” Irma said.

“Huh,” Count said, “just never mind. So, you want to stay here?”

“If I could,” Who said.

“Of course,” Irma said, “There’s this couch, the couch in the office. Whichever you want, both are nice.”

“And I still got your case,” Count said, “the one you left here for whatever reason. So, you should have all you need. Unless you wanna go to ma’s?”

“I couldn’t handle that tonight.”

“Alright, in the mornin’ we’ll get the guys over here and start findin’ your book.”

“Thank you, Count,” Who stood up, “also real thanks for the wedding invitation, asshole.”

“It was my wedding, I’m not gonna invite my brother? You bein’ in prison was just a formality.”

“Whatever, asshole.”

“Oh, go take a shower, you smell like crime, and make sure not to drop the soap.”

Who smiled and shook his head.

It wasn’t the morning, it was more like the mid-afternoon when Count brought everyone together. Kenny and Stella were the last to arrive, the two of them coming together. Doc Box had been inside waiting an hour already.

When everyone was seated Count said, “So, everybody the reason I asked y’all here is twofold. One, we got a new case. And secondly, the case is brought to us by my brother the mysterious figure in the corner.”

Who gave a little wave as everybody stared at him.

“Sweet fuck,” Kenny said, “since when do you have a brother?”

“Always have, you’ve all been to my Ma’s house you’ve probably seen his picture. And my sister’s.”

“You got a sister too?”

“Yup.”

Stella chimed in with, “But your ma told me she thought she couldn’t have kids and then you came along and she thought she was dying.”

Who smiled.

“Yeah,” Count said, “ma likes to tell that story. Here’s the full version. Girl that comes from a family of criminals and farmers meets a cop. They get married. They think they can’t have kids, then horrible pain. The woman thinks she’s dying, but she’s just giving birth to me, nonetheless, the great Count Whorton. But after me, ma definitely couldn’t have any more kids, the old-fashioned way. And since they wanted one of each, they adopted my little sister, Princess. Then somewhere along the line and a-whole-nother story later they find Baron and adopt him. We all caught up now? Any more questions?”

Kenny, Stella, and Doc all raised their hands.

Count called on Kenny. “So, your name’s Count Whorley Whorton and his name is Baron Who Whorton?”

“Pretty much, it’s Baron Grant Whorton. He got the Who name because of grade school. He’d do something bad the teacher would say, ‘Who did this?’ and since it’s the first three letters of our last name he went with it and started signing the shit he did. Ain’t that right?”

“Yeah,” Who said, “you are the one that told me to go along with it.”

Stella was next. “We gonna meet your sister?”

“Princess? Doubt it. I haven’t seen her in years, she’s a mystery. For all I know she could be the Chicago police commissioner, a jewel thief, or a schoolmarm. You heard from her?”

“Last I seen of her was about six years ago,” Who said, “We worked a job together. She took her cut, fifty-grand, and split, haven’t seen her since.”

“Well, she calls Ma every Friday.”

Doc Box said, “I have to ask, do I know you from somewhere?”

Who looked at Doc and said, “Yeah, I’ve seen you before. Up at Kauffman.”

“I knew I knew you. When did you get out?”

“Yesterday.”

“We got that all settled?” Count looking around the room said, “Good. Now, we’re looking for one Bo Ray Chambers. He got out of Kauffman prison less than a year ago. According to what he told Who he was in for selling his Grandma’s prescription meds on the street and he comes from a family of farmers or something like that. But I’m sure we can take all of that with both salt and pepper. So, this is how it breaks down. Doc, head to the paper see if you can dig up anything on both Bo Ray himself and any possible relations. Look for criminal backgrounds and farm type backgrounds. Stella, check the interweb for Bo Ray, try to focus mainly on the last year and locations. We got to find him. And Kenny, let’s head to the TV. Bogey Bear is about to start.”

Doc went out the door. Stella pulled her laptop out of her bag and sat down at Count’s desk. Who stood up. “That it?”

“Yeah, Doc and/or Stella will find something that will take us somewhere else. If not, I can always call Miss Pinky at the cop shop, she may give us something. Right now, we wait. Wanna watch Bogey bear with me and Kenny? You used to love that cartoon as a kid.”

“Alright, haven’t seen it in years.”

“Well, Kenny hadn’t seen it ever till a month ago, kid’s today.”

As the three of them made their way to the TV Irma came in the office door, the King greeting her first with a wagging tail. Her high-pitched voice rattling the windows, “the woman I was following for that boyfriend case stopped off for ice cream today. So, who wants a chocolate shake?”

Stella took a shake. “Another cheating case.”

“Somewhat,” Irma handed out the rest and put the one she got for Doc in the fridge. “So far the only lover she has on the side is a triple chocolate swirl.”

A tick over an hour later Doc had returned and he had some news. The little man sat down with his shake and rattled off what he learned. “Bo Ray Chambers has been featured in the police blotter multiple times. The last being six months ago for starting a fight outside a gas station. I also found many other Chambers, couple of which I think are strong possibilities for relation. Firstly, a Steve John Chambers took a fall for assault, currently lives about ten minutes outside of town in a little farmhouse. The second is a Mary Beth Chambers married to a Danny Chambers.

“Those names sound slightly familiar,” Who said cutting off Doc.

“Well, they live about half an hour outside of town on a moderately sized farm. Daniel Chambers is always writing in to the editor with ridiculous views on issues no one cares about.”

Count took his pop poured in some bourbon then took a sip on the straw. “Stella, you find anything?”

“I as well found the gas station fight; he got a few days in lock up and two more months at the halfway house. He also has both Facebook and Instagram. On Facebook, he has everyone Doc listed as friends except Danny Chambers. I think because the man just doesn’t have an account. On Mary Beth’s page, there’s a picture from three months ago.” Stella turned her computer so everyone could see. “The caption is, ‘A good old Sunday family dinner.’ And I believe that’s Danny there and next to Mary Beth is Bo Ray.”

“That’s him alright,” Who said.

“Probably his parents then,” Irma said. “Mary Beth and Danny.”

“That was my thinking,” Stella said, “now, all of his Instagram photos seem to be of him shitfaced with his friends. However, there was a picture, this one here, he’s drunk on a tractor and his buddy there is urinating on the tire. Either way, he’s on some sort of farm.”

“Probably mommy and daddy’s,” Count said.

“Well, I don’t know,” Stella said, “that Steve John, he posts many pictures on Facebook of tractors. I think he has a few. So, the Instagram picture could have been taken at his place.”

“Alright,” Irma said, “seems to me we have two possible locations for Bo Ray. One is ten minutes outside of town, the other thirty, tomorrow me, Count, Who, and Kenny will go on a little ride and check them out. Hopefully, come back with a book.”

“Sounds good to me Irmie,” Count said.

Irma walked over to Stella. “You’ll be HQ again, won’t ya?”

“What’s HQ?” Who asked.

“Headquarters,” Count said.

“I know that much.”

“Well, she stays here or at her place. If we need any info on the triple, she gets it for us while we are right there on the phone. And if things get squirrely, she can always call in the bulls, tell ‘em where we’re at. I doubt that’ll happen.”

Well past noon the next day they set off out of town. Irma was behind the wheel of their rusted Buick station wagon, sitting next to Count who was working on the last few inches of a whiskey bottle. Sitting in the back seat was Baron Who, he kept glancing out the window as Kenny tried chatting with him.

“So, if you’re a professional robber type do you know how to crack a safe?” As the road switched from pavement to gravel the car bounced making Kenny hit his head on the roof of the wagon.

“Depends,” answered Who, “some you can just pop open. If you’re talking about the bigger jobs, then no, but I know people that can.”

“That’s fucking cool.”

Irma pulled off the gravel road onto a small gravel driveway in front of a small farmhouse. Count said, “Irma, keep the car running. Baron stay put. Kenny, grab the package from the back and come with me.”

“I’m coming with you,” Who said.

“Fuck Baron, no, if he’s in there he may recognize ya right off and start off runnin’ or do worse. So, stay here, if we need ya we’ll signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“I’ll yell Baron get your ass out the car.”

Count and Kenny started walking up to the house. Count straightened his hat and said, “Let me do the lip smackin’ kay?”

Kenny grunted and handed him the package.

Right before they got to the door a man walked out. “What y’all want?” It was Steve John Chambers.

“Hell, I’m looking for Bo Ray Chambers, would he happen to be here?” Count smiled slightly and awaited an answer.

“Why you askin?”

“Well, my names Beauregard Chamberlin and I believe I got some of his mail.” Count held up a slightly bruised and torn brown package.

“I’ll take it.”

“No, no that simply won’t do. I will only feel right if I put it right in his hands. So, is he here?”

Steve John spit in the grass. “Naw, he lives down the road a ways with his folks.”

“Okay, well we will try there then. Thank you.” Count and Kenny started towards the wagon.

“Wait up there.”

Count turned back to Steve John. “Yes?”

“You don’t want the address?”

Count hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “The address, slipped my mind. Yes, I would love the address thank you.”

“Continue down the road, take a right on B avenue, it’s the first little white house you see.”

“Thank you again.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve John spit in the grass again as they pulled out of the driveway.

“How’d it go?” Irma asked.

“The package worked as usual. He said Bo Ray’s at the other address, but I don’t know. I got bad vibes off him. I may of tipped him.”

They pulled up onto a farm in front of a little old white house sitting atop a hill. Count got out. Kenny started out too, but Who stopped him, took the package and got out himself. Count looked at him and said, “This goes squirrely, I blame you.”

They walked up the hill, again before they got to the door a man came out. This time he was swinging a shotgun. Danny Chambers pulled the trigger just missing Count and Who. The two of them started running back down the hill. Count only went a few steps before he tripped, fell to the grass, and started rolling down the hill. Who continued on in gazelle-like fashion as Danny Chambers shot again. When he got near the wagon Who jumped and slid across the hood landing safely on the other side just as Count rolled into the back door with a loud thump. The two of them quickly got in the car.

“Either I tipped them off or this guy’s fuckin’ nuts,” Count said.

Putting her foot to the floor Irma sped forward. “When that guy started shootin’, a car came barrelin’ out of that shed down there and onto the road.”

“Then make a u-ie and get back on the road,” Who said.

“Fuck that,” Irma raced between two barns and down into a cornfield. She was pushing the old Buick up past ninety as they mowed down corn stalks. Everyone held on as they came flying out of the corn and soared up onto the gravel road. They could see the tail end of a little gray car a ways ahead of them. Irma pressed harder on the pedal as rocks and dust were catapulted behind them. She started to gain on the little gray car, the space between them closing. Irma slowly veered into the left lane and started coming up alongside. Who, sitting in the front passenger seat, rolled down his window. He took out the gun he bought off Ringworm, aimed and shot out the back-side window of the little gray car.

When the back window exploded inwards, Bo Ray slammed on the brakes. The little car skidded on the gravel and went nose first in the ditch. Bo Ray shut off the car, sat a minute then got out. His neck was wet with blood and glass fell out of his hair.

Irma had turned the car around and drove back to Bo Ray in no big hurry. Who got out before she had a chance to shift into park and went right for Bo Ray.

When he saw Who coming, Bo Ray started to yell. “Get back you fucker, get back. Stop right there or you’ll never see your book again.”

Who stopped, stood rigid.

“That’s right,” Bo Ray said. He opened the back door of the car and took out two spiral-bound notebooks held together with a rubber band. He held them high then he held high a cheap cigarette lighter. “You give me at least fifty grand and you get your book. I know you have it!”

Who took a step forward and Bo Ray flicked his lighter so it gave off a little spark.

“What should we do?” Kenny said standing next to Count and Irma behind the car.

Count answered. “Stay outta the way.”

Who held his hands up. “You remember these, Bo Ray?” Who showed him the tattoos on the back of his hands. “This can go one of two ways.” Who held forward his right hand showing the tattoo of a smiley face on the back of it. “Option one. I get my book and you live.” Who put down his right hand and held up his left showing the tattoo of a skull. “Option two. I get my book and you don’t live. Your choice.”

Who put his hands down as Bo Ray started to yell again. “No! No, it’s either I get my money or your book burns.”

“Fine,” Who said, “I’ll decide.” He took the revolver out of his pocket and leveled it at Bo Ray. He pulled the trigger hitting the car. “Warning one,” Who said. The sound of the shot made Bo Ray jump. Who pulled the trigger again. Putting another bullet in the car, this time nearly hitting him. “Warning two, there isn’t going to be a third.”

“Fine! Fine! You rotten son of a bitch no good mother fucker!” Bo Ray threw the bound notebooks onto the gravel road at Who’s feet.

Who bent down to pick up his book, as he did so, Irma, Count, and Kenny yelled out. Who already knew what was coming. Bo Ray had started to charge him, running up out of the ditch. Who moved quickly, he brought his right fist in for an uppercut, his whole body behind it. The punch sent Bo Ray flying back, tumbling down the ditch. Who collected his gun and book, walked over to the car and said, “ready to go?”

That night, fresh out of prison, his book back in his possession, Who had to do something he’d been putting off. With Count and Irma behind him Who walked into his ma’s house. The first thing he heard was the snippy little bark of her tiny old dog. She came around the corner, hunched over, oxygen hose in her nose and long ashed cigarette dangling from her lip. “Well, look who it is. My jailbird baby.”

Who walked over to her and she forced him into a hug. After the embrace, she gave him a swift slap across the cheek. “That’s for getting’ sent to prison. Don’t do it again. I’ll be dead before ya got out.”

“I’ll do my best, ma.”

“Good boy.”

“I wrote a book. It got stolen, Count, Irma, and their team helped me get it back, but I wrote a book.”

“Well, you’ve always been very talented. Whorely, invite your little friends over. I’ll cook a good supper and we’ll celebrate Grant bein’ back.”

“Sure, ma,” Count said.

After dinner, sitting on a couch both with a deluxe chocolate brownie with frosting courtesy of Mother Whorton was Kenny and Who. “So, what’s the main way a job goes bad,” Kenny said, “I bet its security cameras, right?”

Who finished his bite and said, “If a job goes wrong ninety percent of the time it’s the same thing that goes wrong in any job. You could plan a job like Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa. Every inch of it just filled with intricate detail, but it can all go wrong in a snap. That one thing is your crew. I mean look at you guys, Count, Irma, Doc, Stella, you. Whether you’re robbing a bank, going to war, solving a murder, or finding my book the reason you’re successful is because you got each other. If one of you falls, another comes along to pick you right up. If you got one bad pickle in the jar the job is guaranteed to go bad.”

“That makes some sense.”

Who left Kenny thinking hard while scarfing down his brownie. He found Count outside in the dark, lighting a bent cigarette. Who took out a new pack. “You want a brand new one?”

“I’m good.”

Who lit his new smoke as Count puffed on his old bent wrinkled one. “Got any plans?” Count said.

“Move into ma’s guest room. See if any publisher wants my book. Also, talk to the aunts and uncles, see if they heard of any new score brewing I can get in on.”

Uncle Milt kicked the bucket, but Uncle Fabio or Aunt Charollette may of heard of something.”

Who blew smoke out his nostrils. “You got a good crew in there if you want we could all do a job together.”

“It’s a thought, but I don’t think so. Maybe you could come join us, be a PI?”

“That ain’t my groove, you know that.”

“Well, the offer stands.”

“I may start on a new book.”

“Yeah? You got a title yet?”

“Yup, ‘The Ending: Where It All Began To Go Bad’.”

The End.

Stormy Night at Pussycat Manor

By Michael D. Davis

The rain was coming down slow and steady in Quartertown, making the rats swim and the birds take cover. Count Whorley Whorton lay sleeping on the floor of the office wearing a full-body plush rabbit costume. When a knock came loud and persistent at the door he roused just enough to yell out, “Who is it?” There was an answer, but he didn’t make it out. Count let loose a horrible groan as he stood up.

At the office door was a middle-aged woman dripping wet in a dark coat. Count left her at the door, staggered over to the desk and dropped into the chair. Tentatively, the woman followed him inside, closing the door behind her. Count lit a bent cigarette, put his big floppy bunny feet on the desk, and said, “So, whatch’ya want?”

The woman sat down and started by saying, “My name is Beverly Hedren. I would like to hire you for a party on Halloween night.”

“For what? Make fuckin’ balloon animals?”

“No, no, in more of a security sense. We’ve had a few rowdy guests before and wish to have peace of mind.”

“What kind of rowdy guests?”

“There have been broken statues and even one small fight. We’ll pay your fee plus a bonus, since it’s a holiday.”

“That’s all I need to hear,” Count sat up, riffled through the desk drawers, and threw her a pad and pen. “Write down all the nitty-gritty and if you could pay half now and half later, well, that’d just be peaches.”

“Will do… oh and one more thing, Mr. Whorton, it’s a costume party.”

Count shrugged in his bunny suit and said, “Does it look like I have a problem getting dressed up?”

A few minutes after Beverly Hedren left, Irma walked in the door.

“It’s comin’ down like hell out there,” she said, seeing Count.

“Hadn’t noticed… ya just missed a new client.”

“Good, we need a new job, what is it?”

“Security. Gettin’ paid to drink and watch a bunch of dumb fuckers stumble around sippin’ booze while playin’ dress up.”

“Your dream job.”

“Ain’t it though? Now, wanna play grab-ass with Peter Cottontail?”

Halloween night brought high winds and lots of rain, blowing and washing away all the little trick or treaters. Count and Irma got to the party an hour early, making a mad dash from their old station wagon to the house. Before they’d even rung the bell, they felt out of place. It was the west end of Quartertown, where old money had deep roots and no house had less than three stories.

A woman that no doubt worked in a servant’s position opened the door. As she took their coats and disappeared, Count noticed a curious white cat dash through the hall, followed quickly by another of a different color. Thinking no more of it, he and Irma moseyed into a large sitting room to which they were instructed.

That’s when they saw them. Cats! They were everywhere. Big, small, fat, thin, fluffy, hairless, one only had a single eye, another was missing a leg. Everywhere they turned more cats seemed to pop up. The sheer number of them was astounding. One chubby cat with only patches of fur on its head walked over Count’s foot instead of making the tiring trip around it.

As they stood in awe of the cats, Beverly Hedren came into the room. She had a large blue dress on and a princess tiara. “Happy Halloween,” she said, “you came right on time, the guests should be arriving in the next hour.” She then glanced at Irma saying, “let me guess um… vampire?”

“Yup,” Irma said. She stood wearing nearly all black and red, a high-collared cape draped over her shoulders. Irma’s light brown skin had been painted pale white with ruby red dripping from her lips. “No fangs,” she said, “but Bella Lugosi didn’t have any either.”

Before Irma could continue Beverly had moved on to Count with, “And let me think you’re…Igor?”

“Um…no,” Count said. He stood in a suit and tie with his hunch-back and ghost-white skin. He looked like he did every day. Pulling a magnifying glass and pipe from his pocket Count said, “I’m a detective.”

“Right, sorry about that.”

“Uh-huh, what’s the deal with all the fuckin’ cats?”

Beverly twirled around with a slight smile glancing about the room. “Oh, they are my uncle’s, he is our host. Cats are his one great passion and love. He started a cat food company in the mid-fifties. That is how he’s made his money. All of our feline friends, you should know, have been rescued from shelters all around the world.”

“Amazing,” Irma said, “how many are there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’d have to ask the cat crew. They take care of all of them.”

“Your uncle employs people to take care of his cats?”

“Of course.”

The doorbell soon rang between crashes of thunder, sending Beverly off to greet a new guest. As more people arrived the storm got worse outside, causing the lights to flicker and the guests to whisper worriedly.

Well after the party was supposed to start it was clear not all the guests had made it. If Count Whorton hadn’t already noticed it would’ve been brought to his attention. A short man dressed as a caveman wandered up to him and said, “Low turnout this year. The weather I’d say. Heard a tornado touched down outside Des Moines and it’s headin’ this way. Anyways, Pluckman’s the name, A.J. Pluckman. Who are you and what ya dressed as on this spooky night of nights? Quasimodo?”

“Name’s Count and I’m a sleuth.” Count pulled his magnifying glass out of his pocket.

“Ooohh,” Pluckman said, “very Sherlock Holmes, I love it. I tell ya of all the people here that lady over there scares me the most.” He pointed to Irma who was pouring herself a drink and getting Count one of the same, only larger.

“Uh-oh, she’s coming this way.”

Irma approached and gave Count his bourbon as he said, “You know you’re scarin’ Captain Caveman here?”

“Oh,” Irma said smiling, “really?”

Pluckman started to stutter before Count cut him off saying, “This is my wife Irma. Irma, Pluckman. By the way, do you know the guy who’s supposed to be hostin’ this shindig?”

“Why certainly,” Pluckman said, “Frederick Pussycat.”

“That can’t be his name,” Irma said.

“He was born Frederick Hedren, then he changed it after he started making his money. Some people jokingly call this place Pussycat Manor.”

Count gulped down more of his drink, nearly draining the glass. “So, which one around here is he? The clown by the cat statue or the zombie by the other cat statue?”

“Neither, seems he hasn’t come down yet. You’d know him when you saw him, older fella.”

The lights in the big room flickered off and on, then went out completely. The room was silent, the loud sound of the wind blowing through the trees outside filled everyone’s ears. Tensing their muscles. “Don’t worry,” Beverly Hedren announced to her guests, “We, of course, have a generator, which should be kicking in any-”

The lights came back on and there were a few cheers. Then, just as suddenly as they came back on, they went back out again. One of the guests turned on their cell phone light. What was meant to bring comfort and help did nothing but amplify the feeling of uneasiness in the room, as the tiny light let off from that one cell phone glinted off the thirty-some cat eyes all around the room.

Beverly spoke again, saying she didn’t know what was wrong with the generator, but she’d have some lamps and flashlights out soon. Before she could finish talking, a blood-curdling scream came from another room in the house.

Everyone seemed to scramble out of the room, most having turned their cell phone lights on.

In a backroom they found a young woman still screaming and panicking. She had pressed herself up against a wall and wasn’t moving. A flashlight on the floor illuminated the origin of her terror. It was the body of a dead man.

Count and Irma pushed their way into the room. A window had been broken by the storm and the body was damp from the rain. It was a man in his mid to late twenties, dressed as Count Dracula, and there was a dent on the side of his head where it had been caved in.

Count picked the flashlight off the floor, pointed the beam at the face of the corpse, and said, “Bela Lugosi’s dead, anyone know him? I doubt its Mr. Pussycat, but ya never know in a story like this.”

Pluckman had the answer, “I believe that’s Lyle Van Der Klok.”

“Oh, sweet fuck,” someone in the back said.

“We need to call the police,” said Beverly, speaking up, nearly shouting over the screech of the wind coming through the broken window. “We need to call the police now.”

“There’s no service,” someone said, “storm must’ve took them out.”

“There’s a landline in the kitchen.”

“First thing,” Irma said, “everyone get out. Go back in the other room!”

The group of them shuffled out. Pluckman, the last to go, picked up a box marked ‘flashlights.’

“What should we do?” Irma said, “even if they get the cops on the line, they won’t be able to get here in this storm. And chances are our killer is someone out there in costume.”

Count let out a grunt and said, “I need another drink.”

Back in the main room, amongst all the murmuring guests, Count made his way to the booze, which was hard, but not impossible, with everyone’s flashlights flitting back and forth. He’d poured himself a glass, downed it and poured another by the time Irma and Beverly Hedren found him.

“I got ahold of the police from the landline in the kitchen,” Beverly said, shining a flashlight in Count’s eyes. “They said they’d get here when they could, but with the storm no one’s going anywhere. What should we do?”

Count groaned again, glanced at Irma in the dark then said, “We’re gonna set up at your dining room table. Talk to everybody in the house. See if anyone knows anything, see if anyone saw anything, and maybe just maybe, solve a murder. But first I gotta take a leak.”

Seven minutes and one piss in the dark later, Count and Irma were sitting opposite Pluckman, an electric camping lantern on the table between them.

“So, you knew the dead guy?” Was Count’s opening question.

“Not really, I just met him a couple of times. When I came to see Mr. Pussycat, visit with him on his porch, Lyle would be there. I live a few blocks down, not in a house like this, but it’s not too far away. Anyhow, the last few times when I stopped and chatted him up this Lyle fellow was there.

“Why was he there?” Irma asked.

“Well, he works or worked for Mr. Pussycat. Mr. Pussycat isn’t a spring chicken, he needs help doing this and that. I’d call Lyle an assistant or something. He was just always there fussing with the old man. Making sure he had this, or that making sure he wasn’t cold or whatever.”

“Anyone not care for the way Lyle treated Mr. Pussycat?”

“Well, he seemed to be good at his job, but you know how people talk. There’s been a rumor goin’ around the neighborhood that…” a cat jumped up on the dining table and startled Pluckman, he glanced around the darkened room. Then went on, “A rumor that Lyle and Mr. Pussycat were more than just employer-employee. Some have gone as far to say that Lyle abused him, but I don’t believe that at all.”

After a little bit more they excused Pluckman and talked to Beverly Hedren before they brought in another guest.

“The storm seems to be getting worse,” Beverly said, “we may have to stop all this and all have to go to the basement.”

“No one’s gonna want to be stuck in the basement with a killer,” Count said.

“What should I do? The woman who should be taking care of my uncle is freaking out because she found a dead body and everyone else is freaking out again because we found a dead body! So, what should I do?”

“Calm down… we’re gonna talk to people and figure this out. How many servants do you have in the house?”

“Um…five, four kitchen and one for my uncle.”

“Okay, now go help your guests—we’ll deal with this.”

Beverly went off and they brought in the next guest, a woman dressed in a 50’s nurses’ uniform.

“I’ve been here all night, even here before you. To help set up and do this and that, Beverly is one of my oldest friends. And I can tell you right now who’s done this awful thing.”

“We’d be delighted to know.”

“It’s that Thomas whoever… you know Lyle is gay, right? And that Thomas was his boyfriend but then I heard that Thomas got jealous that Lyle was spending all his time with Mr. Pussycat. Apparently, there was a big ol’ fight between ‘em on the front lawn just last week.”

“Is Thomas a guest here?” Irma asked.

“Of course not… he works in the kitchen.”

Count and Irma excused her and the nurse started to leave the dark dining room then Count said, “Wait a second, Nurse Ratchet, you were here all day?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Lyle?”

“Um… I don’t believe so.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you thinkin’?” Irma said when the woman was gone.

“Not much, just a passing hunch.”

The cracks of thunder outside were nearly constant as the next guest made his way in. He was an older man dressed as a zombie and he sat down saying, “Let’s get this over with.”

“We only have a few questions.”

“Uh-huh, don’t know nothin’.”

“You never know.”

“I know I should’ve stayed home.”

“Did you know Lyle?”

“Met him.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Nothin’ much.”

“What about his relationship with Mr. Pussycat?”

“It was weird… he was always fawning over the feeble old man. Did you talk to him?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Pussycat.”

“Not yet, but by calling him a feeble old man it makes me doubt his value as a suspect for murder.”

“I’d say, the man’s ancient.”

Count interrupted the back and forth between Irma and the zombie by saying, “When’d you arrive tonight?”

“On time,” was the zombie’s answer.

Count took a sip from his glass which needed to be refilled once again. “You see Lyle tonight?”

“Not before he was lying on that back room floor.”

Count and Irma quickly and methodically questioned all the guests. When they were done Count leaned back in his chair as a cat used him to jump from the floor to the table. “Fourteen guests,” he said.

“What?”

“Fourteen, I kept count. At the beginning of the night, we had fourteen living guests. We still have fourteen living guests.”

“So, if he wasn’t a guest, did he come as a servant?”

“I don’t know. Let’s talk to the servants.”

In the back of the house in a little room off the kitchen, the five servants sat around a table. The girl who’d found the body was sobbing into the shoulder of another woman.

“Can we talk to you for a minute?” Irma said to the girl.

Wiping her face the girl said, “Can we do it here?”

Irma didn’t see why not and started by saying, “How did you find the body?”

“After the lights went out the second time Thomas told me to go to the back storage room and get some flashlights out of the box. I was walking in the dark hall when I heard glass break. When I opened the door, I felt the wind blowing in the broken window. I stumbled around until I found the flashlights, turned one on, and then… screamed.”

Count looked at the men in the room. One had wet bloodshot eyes. “You Thomas?” Count said. The man nodded. “Why’d you send her to go get the flashlights?”

“I was working, cooking.”

“Did you see Lyle today?”

“No.”

“What time did you get here?”

“I don’t know, me, Maria, and Ray here all drove in together an hour early.”

“You had a rumble with Lyle the other day?”

“It was just nothing. I was upset that he was always here. That Beverly was always being a bitch so I didn’t know why he would want to be here anyways. Oh but Mr. Pussycat! He just loved Mr. Pussycat!”

It was deadly silent after Thomas’s shouting ceased. Irma broke the silence saying, “What kind of things did Beverly say?”

“Normal rich-bitch comments. Boiling down to how Lyle… or any of us are lucky to be working for them. Earning some good money. But how we can all be replaced like that.” He snapped his fingers. “She kept telling Lyle that she was going to have him fired. I don’t think she liked how close he and the old man were.”

After a few more minutes Count and Irma went back to the main room. The guests were still milling about nervous and scared as the windows shook. Pluckman came over to Count and asked if he’d want a flashlight of his own. Count thought why not and was taken over to the box. Pluckman first picked up a flashlight that didn’t work then one that just flickered, the third one he grabbed actually seemed to shine bright. Count took it, shined the light here, there, then down at the box. Something caught the light as he did so. Bending down, Count pushed the flashlights out of the way and saw a bloody bronze cat statue at the bottom of the box. Count called over Irma and showed her.

After pouring himself another drink, Count said loudly to the room, “We’ve had a murder tonight. And the murderer I think is in this room. We had fourteen guests at the beginning of the night and we still have fourteen guests. Lyle Van Der Klok could have come as a servant tonight, but I believe he was coming as a guest, he was invited. Because he was in costume and all the servants tonight are in uniform. With not one of us seeing him tonight, I believe the murder happened this afternoon. Before any of us arrived.”

“Do you have any proof?” Someone yelled out.

“We have the murder weapon or is there a lot of bloody cat statues around here?”

“Then who did it?”

“A person who was here before the party had access to the statue and the back room. The woman who hired us… Beverly Hedren.”

There were some shocked gasps and people looked at Beverly. She screamed out in anger, “Fine! But you would have done the same. Anyone of you that lives on this block, in this neighborhood. He was a shitty little piece of scum that was trying to worm his way into my uncle’s will.”

Irma had a pair of handcuffs in her purse right next to her gun. She slapped them on Beverly’s wrists when she was through yelling and screaming.

The cops showed not too long after the storm lightened up. It was nearing four A.M. and detective Klunkel was the one on duty. “So, why the hell’d she hire you two if she was plannin’ on killin’ this poor bastard?”

Irma answered, “She figured everyone would just blame Thomas and no one would figure it out especially, as she put it, a fuckin’ drunk and a part-time whore.”

“They always underestimate us, Irmie,” Count said as he rifled through kitchen cabinets. “Been here all night and haven’t eaten a damn thing. Electric stoves went out with the power.”

Just then Count opened the pantry doors and out rolled Mr. Pussycat. A shriveled up old man in a tuxedo with cat whiskers painted on his face. Mr. Pussycat was slumped over in his wheelchair, a cleaver stuck in his head and a calico in his lap chewing on his dead fingers.

“No wonder we hadn’t seen him all night,” Irma said.

Count reached around the dead body into the pantry and grabbed a package of cookies. Walking out of the room he said to Klunkel, “This one’s yours. We solved the last one, had a great date night doin’ it too. Happy Halloween.”

The End.

Michael D. Davis was born and raised in a small town in the heart of Iowa. Having written over thirty short stories, ranging in genre from comedy to horror from flash fiction to novella he continues in his accursed pursuit of a career in the written word.