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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Wednesday, October 11, 2006The Return of the Son of Beigey, P.I.
The Beige One struggled against the ropes binding his wrists. He knew he wasn't going to able to free himself, but his wrist was itchy and the ropes did a nice job of scratching. He thought back to the Thai prostitute who was responsible for the itching and wondered vaguely why it would have spread to his wrist.
A slap across his face brought him back to the here and now (although he was still itchy). He looked at his captor; took in the twisted scar which divided her face jaggedly in half. If it wasn't for the scar, Beigey thought, she might be worth a dinner and a cheap hotel room. "So let me get this straight, Mrs. Minniverer," Beigey said, "You're not only the damsel in distress in this little fairy tale, but you're also the big bad wolf." The dame tossed her hair. Then she caught it and put it back on. "Is it wolfish to want to protect what's yours, Mr. Amador? Is it wolfish to expect one's mate to be monogamous?" "Yes," Beigey shot back, "Yes it is. In fact, the more I think about it, the more apt I feel my metaphor is." The broad raised her gun and fired a bullet into Beigey's shoulder. "That's what I think of metaphors, Mr. Amador," she purred. Beigey screamed inwardly. He hated getting shot. It was right up there with tobasco enemas on his list of Things to Do Only If Someone's Going to Pay You a Lot of Money or Give You a Steak. And somehow, Mrs. Minniverer didn't look like the kind of gal who knew her way around a T-bone. The trick, then, was going to be to make sure she didn't shoot him again. Pretty tricky. Beigey figured her for the type of broad who got panicky when the screaming started, so he decided to play this first bullet hole cool as a frozen cucumber. Which is pretty damned cold. "A bullet? You wound me, Mrs. Minniverer." Beigey grinned at his wordplay. Her eyes narrowed like a tie from the sixties. "If you'd like another, please, by all means, use a simile." "No, no," said Beigey, "one will more than suffice. Let's go ahead and dispense with the linguistic gymnastics, then, Mrs. Minniverer. I'm curious as to why a woman such as yourself would want to kill her husband." The dame's nostrils flared. It was breathtaking. " 'A woman such as myself'? And what kind of woman would that be? You think because I have this scar that you know what I'm thinking because scarred women always think a certain way which is different than they used to think before they got all scarry? Don't presume to know what kind of woman I am, Mr. Amador. When you presume, you make a pre out of you and me." Beigey blinked. "Huh?" "It means I'll shoot you. Presumption is right up there with metaphors in the me-hating department." She pouted, which was actually kind of hot in a psychotic and scarred way. "Mrs. Minniverer," Beigey began, because it's often useful to begin sentences with the name of the person you're addressing, "your husband was obviously a bastard. He got what he deserved. I'm not gonna argue with that. Now I think it's time that you got what you deserve." "Which would be what, exactly?" Beigey gave her The Look, for which he had recently filed the paperwork with the Patent Office. "I think you deserve a good three minutes of Beigey-Style." The dame thought about it as she scratched her ass with the gun. She shrugged, "Okay." And that was that. (Happy Birthday, Beigey!)
Comments:
I have this love/hate thing with having my birthday be just before yours, you glorious bastard.
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This is one of the things I love. One of the things i hate is that you get the first salvo... Friggin' hilarious, as always, mon ami.
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