HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Monday, October 11, 2004Who's the Beige Private Dick Who's a Sex Machine with All the Chicks?
Jose sat behind his desk, looking at the day's race card. Like almost every other P.I. he knew, the man had a weakness for the ponies. Not just the really pretty ones with the spots, either. He took a drag off his Chesterfield and blew the smoke out in Morse code. That's just the kind of guy he was.
A fifteen year old in the third with the catchy name of "Fuckin' Old Pony" caught his eye. They were giving him three thousand to one. Jose liked those odds. His standard two-bits bet would yield him a cool two grand. Or something like that. Math was never Jose's strong suit, so go to hell. He circled the pony and reached for the phone, dialing a series of numbers that he figured would connect him to his bookie. They did. "Hey, Mom," he rasped into the phone. (He was a little phlegmy.) "What the hell do you want?" the lady returned. Jose sighed inwardly. It was his favorite way to sigh. His mother'd been a little difficult to deal with since he helped the cops bust her last year. Money was money, though, and she loved the stuff, so he was pretty sure she wouldn't turn him down. "I wanna put fifty cents on Fuckin' Old Pony in the third. Will you do that for me?" He tipped the last of the morning's bourbon down his throat, wishing he had a cleaner mug to drink it out of. He almost spit it back out when he heard his mother's reply. "Get bent. You still owe me a sawbuck from last week." The old lady was playing hardball. And Jose only had a softball mitt. "Listen, Mom. I'm good for it. I've got a number of irons in the fire right now and I'm pretty sure one of them will get hot enough to do whatever you're supposed to do with hot irons." He said it with his suavest voice, which sounded like pure velvet stapled onto a really soft pillow. No woman could resist it, unless they were gay. His mom was bi, so he figured he could pull it off. "All right, all right," she relented. "But if you don't get me what you owe me by next week, I'm sending your sister over to break your fuckin' legs." With that, she slammed down the phone. Jose poured himself some eggnog and turned his attention to his gun, which he'd dropped in the toilet last night after he'd come home a little drunk. He wiped the vomit off of it and began cleaning the spinny part where the bullets go. He used his finest Q-tips. That's when she came in. Jose didn't know who she was, but he could see that she was built for speed. "Mr. Amador? I'm Louise Argle." This dame was tall and willowy, like the tree, only without all those leaves that make annoying noise in the slightest goddamn breeze. She slid her fur to the ground, which Jose should have told her not to do, because there was some gum on the floor just there. Her dress clung to her like a drowning man clings to his booze, highlighting her curves and a half-intriguing, half-disturbing lump on her hip that might have been a pair of panties that got stuck in there in the dryer or might have been a goiter. It didn't ruin her beauty, though. Only something like an open wound or finding out she had a penis would have done that. Jose put down the gun. "What can I do for you, Miss Argle?" "Actually, it's Mrs." She drooled a bit on her chin. Jose gestured for her to sit down. "Mrs., then. If you're here in my office, you've got some sort of trouble. The kind only I can solve. So what say we cut to the chase, lady. Let's cut right to it. Just hack away everything else except the chase. I'm saying we should take a pair of scissors or a scalpel, maybe, and remove everything that's not the chase, then what we'll have left will be pure chase. And that's the only kind of chase I like outside of the lounge kind." "Fine, Mr. Amador. I don't like to waste time, either. My husband is cheating on me." "Not with me, if that's what you're thinking." Jose wasn't about to be branded a hussy. "No, Mr. Amador. He's cheating with a singer at his club. They meet in the afternoons at a clown college near our apartment. I began to suspect something last week when I noticed he was wearing another woman's panties, so I, I followed him. I saw them. I saw them together. It was horrible." Jose knocked back the last of his nog. "What do you want me to do, Mrs. Argle?" She fixed Jose with a look he'd only seen from wolves in the zoo and from Martin Landau. This dame appeared to have ice cubes floating through her blood stream. Really tiny ones that wouldn't damage the arterial walls. "I want you to kill him." Happy Birthday, Beigey!
Comments:
Fuckin' Old Pony placed, I shoulda bet the trifecta.
thanks, bud, and i hope your day is nearly as entertaining as this entry. I may never live down my past, thanks to bastards like you.--tbo
# posted by
 : 12:32 PM
Jose--
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Happy Birthday!!! What's your e-mail? You should check out craigslist for 10/10/04--in Seattle. Under arts blah blah. Someone is looking for a Spanish speaking collaborator playwright. Love to you, Megan
# posted by
: 4:02 PM
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