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The adventures of Stan Quentin, private dick
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by The Alchemist, Unknown News
April 11, 2006
He was young, sleek, startlingly good looking and smoking a $45 Cuban stogie with relish. A busty blond on his left and a curvaceous brunette on his right as he reclined in the red leather horseshoe booth were giving him their undivided attention. Under the rich tobacco aroma however, one could detect a slight whiff of sulfur. I sat down.
“How’s it goin’ Scratch?”
“Stan! Good to see you, you bastard.”
“Back at ya. Who’re the babes?
“Avarice, Lust, meet Stan.”
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“That peckerwood has served his purpose. Besides, I got a bet with my boss that I can get his poll numbers down to 25% before the next primaries.”
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The diamond covered blonde and silk-clad brunette spare me a brief, uninterested glance, then return to their ministrations. We were in an upscale joint in a decidedly downscale part of town, just north of the wharves. The joint was quasi-private, and as a semi-regular, the bouncer usually let me in for free. Not exactly free, “entertainment value” was how Sal, the chain-smoking aging biker chick who “owned” the Barge Inn put it. Tonight I wasn’t looking for any dramatics, I was on a mission. One that just might get my whiskers singed. But WTF, right? No one lives forever. Well, almost no one.
“We’ve met. So what, you slumming?”
“Yeah. Thought I’d check out the midwest for awhile.” He gave me a cheshire grin, and I twitched a little at the sight of his uncannily long canines. Gotta watch that, he responds to weakness like a snake to a hamster buffet.
“My Business is pretty much taking care of itself these days. Shit, I got so much capital I can’t spend it all, and dopes are lining up to join my crews all over. Business is goood. He was purring, in the way that a 500-pound hyena might, and punctuated this last with a long thick plume of smoke. He broke out a cherry-red iPod video and proffered it to me. “Check it out.”
I fished a handful of slightly linty gummy bears out of my vest pocket and began chewing them up as I watched. “Big deal!. More bloodshed. Got anything new on the horizon?”
It had the desired effect. Slick as Scratch was, he was predictable as paint when you stuck a pin in his ego. His grin developed menace, but his eyes held a disdainful glint, of a veteran con-man encountering a rube fresh off the bus at midnight. The redhead (where the hell did she come from?) extended an unnaturally long, pointy tongue and began licking his left ear in a most lascivious way. It was kinda like watching crocodiles mating - fascinating, yet scary.
“Let’s just say I hope you don’t have all your dough tied up in 20-year treasure notes,” he oozed. That would be a waste.”
“I’m scared. All my dough would just about cover the price of a plate of beans. So, did you call me here just to show off for the broads, or do you have a job for me?”
He slid a manila envelope at me. “See that your friend at the Tribune gets these.”
I opened the dingus and pulled out a series of glossy black and white 8 x 10 photos. Great. Bestiality. I wondered how many Viagra the man in the photos had taken to get aroused enough to screw that goat. It wasn’t even a cute goat. I grimaced and started to re-close the packet, when the penny dropped. Dang, he was ugly without his makeup and dark grey suit, but it was unmistakably the Commander n Chimp doing the nasty with a barnyard beast.
“Photoshop?”
“Nah, when he gets full of cocaine that horn-dog will prong anything warm. Moderately warm”, he corrected, “wait till you see the necrophilia series next week.”
“WTF? First the White House memo, now this? I thought he was your boy?”
“That peckerwood has served his purpose. Besides, I got a bet with my boss that I can get his poll numbers down to 25% before the next primaries.”
“You have a boss?”
“Sure. Right now he is in an undisclosed location, but I hear he’s going lawyer, I mean pheasant hunting real soon. He sure loves to hunt. Anyway, I got a gallon of white lightning on the line. Plus if I win, I get to spend a week in Vegas. Love that town. So, take care of this?”
“Usual rates?”
“Check your pocket.”
Dang. I hated when he did that. Sure enough, a freshly minted “Get out of Hell Free” card was nestled in my shirt pocket, along with tomorrows winners at Santa Anita.
I gathered the fashion shots and made to leave. “Give me a call if anything else comes up.”
“I’ve got your number.” I hated the way he said it. But it was true.
© by the author.
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