The following has been approved for adult reading. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent and my penis size embellished to protect my reputation. My testicles requested no anonymity. These are their stories.
It had been nearly a year since my last case; an extended vacation not because I desired one, but rather because the dust just had to settle. I'd wrapped up the case of the double-dealing dentist, named Dante, desiring desperately to discover who'd dared disturb them and dumbfounded as who had them dead to rights, dammit! He was stuck in a loveless sham of a marriage, suffering verbal, sometimes physical abuse, when he decided his wife made a better beard than she did a bride. Where upon he began getting his 'fluoride treatments' from his two male dental hygienists.
My investigation uncovered a trio of men caught happily performing the Mega Man Train with one another by two nosy young patients waiting to get their braces turned up. Fearing embarrassment, and potential dental retribution, they kept their mouths shut and offered up a prayer of gratitude for neoprene gloves. The three were normally discreet and got caught in a moment as happens with lovers. But for one moment of carelessness, their new found apprehension allowing all angst to abate and their attraction to ass altering activities to always advance came to an atrocious acquiescence. Although acceptable in lieu of alimony, all out depression and anxiety actually attracted and returned them secretly to their sorely missed anal , wrecked 'um for life.
(wait , what?)
Though the first indiscretion, was grudgingly 'forgiven', relapsing repeatedly into rectal romance really riled the repulsed wife, leading to terrible tragedy.
They would 've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for those meddling kids.
(Damn right, I went there)
The less than careful dentist was married to an insufferable harpy whose shrill voice was anathema to your average every day erection and had an attitude that could actually drain the will to live, much like Hillary, but without all that glamour and sex appeal.
The embittered disagreeable woman was my client and I regretted that sincerely. I only took the case because I was once a fan of her raw unabashed sexuality.
While watching her fuck on camera, I must've spilled more seed than Michael J. Fox feeding birds during a hurricane. That was then, way the fuck back then. I hadn't take into account how cruel a bitch fate could be nor that time was one chicken shit motherfucker.
Though her looks hadn't changed that much , her soul had become the spiritual equivalent of dog shit. I couldn't blame the man seeking affection elsewhere, though I might have done things differently as I am no fan of floss .
I disliked my client and it was evident in my demeanor. I tried to fake smiles and agree to get along, but she read me like an ironic 'no smoking' sign on your cigarette break.
My vengeful client, the voluptuous former pornstar , Anita Phisting took matters into her own hands, so to speak.
(there it is again! was that an inadvertent pun?)
She lost it, swearing to the point a sailor would blush and dousing the turgid trio in kerosene before setting them alight, creating a boner fire.
(Stop, please, no s'mores !)
With a cackle that would make Witchypoo spray her rancid pussy juice all over Broom Broom on her way to Lidsville , she joined her victims in the fiery festivities, her life now over. Perhaps she thought she'd rise from the ashes like the Phoenix. Perhaps it was fate that I could not see how truly unstable she was and possibly intervened. Perhaps I would demand payment in full, check in my bank before divulging anything to a client ever again.
Who puts a stop payment on a check right before committing murder/suicide? I mean really!
In proving that she could not, would not take this from her man, she also proved she could not, would not in a van, or even would she after eating bran, nor could she, would she with perverse Stan. I get it, covering all the bases is important, as are pop culture references that tug at a reader's childhood memories, but did she also need to prove what a cheap and vindictive bitch she was?
My father was one mind boggling cheap bastard who could pinch a penny till it screamed and even he wouldn't pull that bullshit.
Perhaps she thought that allowing me to ogle her hourglass figure was payment enough? Well it wasn't, but ogle it I did. Let me tell you, my eyes got their money's worth. She was a stone cold bitch on wheels whose attitude could make a vibrator go limp, but dammit was she hot; a portrait milfness outwardly, but vile on the inside like the business end of a porta-potty at a chili cook off on a sunny Texas day.
She had a pair of long suckable legs that went all the way up and made an ass out of themselves. And what an ass! She sported a pair of ass cheeks that were firm and impossible to fully motorboat yet swayed freely. You could bounce a quarter off that ass and, had she not been such a cheap bitch, gotten back change. I still envision it, back and forth, side to side, beckoning to and fro , up and down … and … I think I'm getting an erection. Oh well, asses to ashes, bust to dust.
(I'm beginning to think these puns are not nearly as inadvertent as I'd first believed.)
Financially speaking , she'd more than fucked me, she'd raped me anally with a splintery broomstick, minus lube , of course, and filmed it in front of a live studio audience then cheated me out of residuals in syndication without so much as a reach around. I got bupkis !
Worse than not getting paid was the assumption that somehow I may have had a hand in their untimely deaths or at the very least I couldn't spot trouble seemingly staring me in the face. Any worthwhile P.I. can spot trouble, it always wears a capital 'T'.
Reputation is everything in this business and unwanted attention from unexpected outcomes, particularly when they involve dead clients, is a stink not easily washed off, like skunk spray or a new celebrity fragrance.
This is particularly true in Hollywood, where dreams die in high definition and hope goes direct-to-video like the careers of a pair of anorexic twins whose heyday was passed long before they could spell heyday ..., or anorexic , for that matter, and never did score another sitcom.
*********************************
A year later and nearly penniless, I feared I'd have let go of my faithful long time assistant, Felcha Cumbubble and that simply would not do. She was more than my strong right arm, she was also the supple wrist that could slide into and out of situations fluidly without fatigue, the thin slender fingers that could apply and release the desired pressure to surprisingly hard-to-reach places.
Believe me, she had access to places not easily reached. I benefited greatly from it and wouldn't have become the top shelf private dick I am today without her. She, more than anyone else, helped make my detective agency great and would help make the agency great again … Let me rephrase that. Make it bigger & better than before … Sorry.
Like my father used to say, "If you're gonna be a dick, be a big one!"
I'm certain he meant I should open the biggest private detective business out there. Sadly, he never got a chance to elaborate as he ran out on us that very same day. In fact, he may have been saying the phrase on his way out the door, I'm not entirely sure.
It was with my faithful assistant in mind that I accepted the case up north. I still don't know if I regret that decision or not, but I owed it to Fella. She stood a semi-petite 5'3 " with a kinda cute smile, an intellect unrivaled by any home based hottie manning a computer on TV, good natured , not mousey, not really, but like, kinda a little, ya know?, but yeah.
She also came equipped with quirky mannerisms, and an uncanny capability to constantly catch the worst conceivable and contemptible cunts currently cajoling her caring character causing this latest catastrophe. It was one of the things we had in common; we were sure to attract the kind of beautiful women that enjoyed nothing more than ripping out the still beating hearts from our gaping chests and eat them before our tear stained faces while laughing uncontrollably because "it's not you, it's me" always kills, and second only to 'take my wife, please'. It is eternally funny!
Some questions are easy to answer such as 'Should you fuck the martial artist's hot slutty wife?'
' Obviously, yes '
or 'What do you do to an elephant with three balls?'
'Simple, you walk him and pitch to the rhino'
or even
'How can I keep a pissed off martial artist from killing me for fucking his faithless wife?'
'You run.'
However with this particular question, this case, I wasn't so sure. The money was great and the damage control would save the agency in the long run, but in the here and now it would mean a new city with limited resources, less-than-ideal financial restraints, and unfamiliar surroundings.
In addition, I had an assistant still reeling from the breakup with her last girlfriend. It wasn't the first time she'd accepted my shoulder to cry on, but it was the first time she would do so while on a case. Even so, I knew she'd give me her all and the only thing she'd ever phone in ... was a sick day.
We would be slumming it, but it was a slummy kind of case; the kind of case you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. Unless , of course, you wanted the slummiest possible cases to befall them. In that case, it's precisely the kind of case you'd wish on them, or would you?
It would be a hardship for both of us, but it was this or remain gainfully unemployed.
Easy looking choices are rarely easy, though they appear so on the surface. It's as you delve deeper where one finds unforeseen complexities. It's like bringing home that hot petite little slut you've been chatting up all night and plying with drinks, but while imagining her tight little asshole joyfully bouncing up and down on your tongue, you reach between her thighs to find a dick bigger than your own. That's one uncomfortable conversation I don't intend to have again.
The week before the scheduled meeting with our potential client, who called herself Freeda , was arduous, long, and more somber than a Johnny Cash song on Oxys . Finally, the day came and we started our drive to beautiful San Francisco.
******************************
Fella & I were going to take turns driving, but I saw she still hadn't shaken off the 'fucking bitch dumped my ass' blues so I assumed full transportation duties, stopping only to eat. I thought that might cheer her up. Her now former girlfriend, Fillatia " Filtee " Hoar, was a skinny snooty better-than-you bitch who disdained most things including non snooty people and eating a normal portion of food. This pretty much put the kibosh on two of my assistants favorite pastimes, cooking and eating.
Felcha was full fledged foodie and was fond of fresh flavorful fun feed for favored friends, frequently featuring her famous fondue, fuck yeah!
Food would cheer her up and there were many wonderful eating establishments up and down the coast perfect for lifting a foodies spirits . With all the different tastes that can bring pleasure via one's mouth, she was bound to bounce back, relax, and dive face first into all that yummy goodness.
Problem, she would not eat. It was worse than I thought and it didn't matter what I suggested, roast beef, papaya, oysters, tuna tacos, honeydew melons, or fried eggs, juicy wet pastrami, or strawberry shortcake, she would put her mouth on nothing. Even yummy sweet shaved ice didn't excite her and neither did soft serve chocolate ice cream. I'd hit bottom.
Before heading out, I even tried two her favorite candies, but they had moved. Watching those three ladies cook was a thing of beauty. I suggested they open a restaurant, but that went farther than they were comfortable with and much preferred preparing sumptuous mouthwatering feasts for one another and occasionally other friends.
I was close with them all but never fully felt like part of their team. Oh, I'm really quite handy in the kitchen, but they were master chefs. I'm told there's no comparison. Both, my ex-wife and my mother were chefs in their own right, though strangely, neither wanted me to join them in the kitchen. With my mom I could sort of understand, but my wife? What was I to do? I cooked alone and became quite good, though a bit lonely. I tried cooking with some of my male friends on occasion , but it just wasn't for me. I could never get completely comfortable and we seemed to go through a lot more oil.
************************************
Eatery after eatery, she'd just sit and watch me eat with profound sadness in her eyes. She just couldn't get that sanctimonious self important sow off her mind. At one restaurant, she simply stared off into space, fingering her now cold pastrami. I had been there myself, devastated after my wife ran off with my mom. Difference was I had no pastrami to finger because I couldn't afford to eat back then. I didn't even have bread. Thankfully, I cleared the case of the brazenly ballsy bank robbing bakers sometime before and had partial makings for sourdough. If need be, I could simply feast on the yeast .
(We cannot repel double entendre of this magnitude!)
Just one more rise on US 101 and we began to see more evidence of commerce and civilization and in the distance, that familiar skyline and iconic bridge silhouetted against a slowly setting sun telling us the initial portion of our journey was nearing its end.
I was more tired than a Time Square hooker during fleet week and wore a defeated look on my face that made Andy Dick look manly, but I'd gotten us here alive.
San Francisco, California, a captivating little town where Tony Bennett once warned he'd left his heart. I vowed not to be quite so careless as my blood still needed to circulate.
Finally pulling up in front of our hotel was anticlimactic , to say the least . Ironically, the word ' hotel' least describes this place.
With a variety of irreversible sins at ones disposal, it was as though there was an unannounced competition to see which room could sink to the vilest, most blasphemous and unholy depth of depravity attemptable by mankind. In the end with nothing else came close to the horrific, hellworthy , hosting the Justin Beiber fanclub .
A suivre ...
****************************
****************************
Chapter Deux: Once a Pun a Time … Deux; Pun Harder
There's a subtle succulent satisfaction in steadily stretching strained sore muscles slowly while simultaneously sidestepping snoring souls, summarily stranded and so very shit out of luck. Another thing to avoid were the rivers and tributaries of pristine alkaline yellow/brown pee running down the pedestrian walkways, thoughtfully provided by pristine homeless tweakers thoughtfully arrayed throughout the city, the pristine city.
I suppose I should be more thoughtful myself. Calling people homeless tweakers is not politically correct. I believe the term is 'roof challenged' or perhaps ' methican American'.
I don't judge. I say it takes Different Strokes to move the world, yes it does. It'd be nice if the world moved to the beat of just one drum, but it don't and the only thing certain is that what might be right for you may not be right for some.
I'll tell you what's not right for me, a proctologist with poor depth perception, butt that's another story where everything fit together just fine in the end .
The payment for solving the case was considerable and would put us on Easy St. for the foreseeable future, but our new client seemed rather chintzy when it came to the retainer and per diem, i.e., there would be none, necessitating frugality on our accommodations.
The hotel chosen as our base of operations, the Chateau Le Condom, may have been in a seedy part of beautiful San Francisco but it was cheap, boasted usable office space, and had a fing
er or two up the real pulse of the city, a real pristine pulse and thoughtful fingers.
Another positive aspect of our seedy hotel in beautiful San Francisco, at least for me, was its proximity to the local prostitute stroll. It was no secret I preferred women born under a particular sign, the dollar sign. In marriage, I tried to pay a woman to stay. Prostitutes are paid to leave. It takes fewer brain cells than you'd think plus a severe lack of blow jobs and the recurring nightmare of walking in on your mother and your wife in a 69 to make that an easy decision. They were my only sexual outlet as most women I met eventually grew to loathe me. Hookers didn't hang around long enough to frown unless I requested a full Around the World, including an Indian Rope Burn and even then only got upset when I joked about not being able to leave the tip.
Everyone's a critic.
Without having worked a case in the better part of a year and with my finances dwindling, the last piece of ass I'd gotten was when my finger went through the toilet paper, butt that's another story where everything eventually fit together just fine in the end .
The front desk snafu should have clued me in as to what kind of time the city by the bay had in store for us. I'd asked for two single rooms, adjoining if possible. Somehow that was interpreted as one twin room, which puts two beds in one room for those keeping score at home. It could have been worse, and in fact, became worse upon entering the room.
As a final twist on an already overly twisted nipple, the room, rumored to have two twin beds, in reality, had one king size bed.
A down in his luck private dick and his faithful longtime lesbian assistant are in a seedy San Francisco hotel room with only one bed. There's a joke in there and I'm nowhere near a good enough detective (Nor is Carlos a good enough writer) to find it.
The first thing to cross my mind was 'I doubted I'd be entertaining anyone, compensated or not, without additional resources allocated to privacy, or at least a sock stretched over the doorknob.' The second thought was: 'This is a really shitty hotel.'
"At least it doesn't reek of rancid urine and meth amphetamines " , I spoke out loud as I turned down the high traffic bed.
I'd spoken too soon.
Having complained to the front desk till we were blue in the face to no avail, we accepted our accommodations and settled in as best we could, thankful we'd both updated our tetanus shots. Unfortunately, we'd have to put up the unwanted fragrance of Eau de R. Kelly, but least we'd scored some meth.
We then set up office space in one of the conference rooms. They agreed to comp our temporary office, phone, fax, and internet as compensation for their carelessness, their pristine carelessness. How thoughtful.
After dinner, we finally met our client in person for the first time; a tall leggy blond with one hell of a presence and a pair of lips that could suck start a Harley. Yes, I'm a right bastard for immediately sexualizing our new boss and her high mileage openings, but fucks about being seen as a right bastard aren't things I readily give, so, I ogle.
I had a nagging fear this case was bigger than I could accommodate and would prove to be a repeated pain in the ass after pain in the ass, stretching my already beleaguered resources to the point numbness as I became accustomed to what was demanded of me. The thing that bothered me the most was that, in going down this dirty narrow road, I might actually succeed and grow too big, preventing me from satisfying smaller clients. Sure, there was another option, but I'm speechless thinking about it. I'm an old school dick, hard as nails and always looking upwards, unless I'm completely spent. Then I just hang out, staring at the ground. A little rest, however, and it's back in saddle again.
I'm not sure, but without much rearranging those last few statements could conceivably tell another story where everything fit together just fine in the end, butt I digress.
******************************
Freeda Hardshaft , was a former exotic dancer, former trophy wife, and ongoing nymphomaniac. Classy speech and mannerisms with a practiced smile in streets and vile, limitless gutter slut in the sheets, she was also a cuckolding, soul crushing shrew who openly proclaimed to be racist, but was privately a class A black cock slut. She was the quintessential user and abuser, expertly coaxing precious resources from her hapless prey, but allowing them time to recuperate while milking another inlet of interest. She'd chew 'em up, but never spit them out.
A lady never spits.
Her husband offered precious little in the way of resistance, ever focused on making her happy at his expense, and what an expense! The federal government wasted less money. You might mistake her weekly expenses for a phone number till you remembered a phone number has only ten digits. His happiness was her happiness, though I doubt either would've been happy trading places. Now I'm not one to judge another's kink if that's what curls their toes, but fair is fair and with her pussy busy collecting cocks while hubby's cock is busy collecting dust, it was clearly a one-sided affair.
(goddamn puns!!)
It was an embarrassment to the Hardshaft family which felt squeezed as though between two gripping and constricting, yet somewhat yielding walls and, while that's generally not a terrible place for a Hardshaft per se, it was scarcely acceptable in this case. Every available Hardshaft involved felt that tight relentless vice like squeeze of her rampant disregard for propriety till they eventually succumbed and were left spent, limp, and raiding the fridge for leftovers.
(I love it when they're built in like that)
The situation didn't allow for any penalty by the family whose fortune she now had a claim to, no prenup, no fucking recourse. The one exception was what their lawyers called the 'bling' clause which prohibited and protected expensive adornments from inclusion in divorce settlement proceedings. In short, if the head of the family or the Hardshafts themselves are compromised,
(Come on, say it out loud. All together now)
They can still protect the family jewels.
The result was a cruel slutty size queen with a chip on her shoulder the size of a guy named Chip. She'd hit the ground running a train with her ever increasing stable of lovers and nearly limitless resources all without consequence or fear of reprisal. To her, restraint was something used to wrap around her limbs so she wouldn't get fucked off the bed.
Word around the campfire was that she had had more black dicks in her than Africa. Her gang bangs were reported to be epic marathons and it wasn't uncommon for a lost weekend to become a lost month. Throwing a hotdog down a hallway didn't even begin describing sex with her and strapping an ironing board across your chest seemed a sensible precaution before initiating coitus. This wasn't fucking, it was spelunking. I'm not saying her vagina was as big as the interior of the T.A.R.D.I . S, I'm saying it was bigger. Some pussies are so big they have an echo. Hers had an ecoboost .
I said " what the fuck is she, a Ford?"
Light couldn't escape her pussy. They recently installed a pulley system to recover the bodies of those who'd fallen to their deaths and this character intro was quickly becoming a Comedy Central roast minus the two drink minimum or any measurable amount of talent. I would continue onward and describe her equally abused, heavily traveled, blimp hangar of an anus, butt I digress.
Her considerable carnal capacity consisted of a constant conga line of cocks confidently corking her cavernous cunt and carefully conveying a copious cavalcade of cum culminating in characters careening out of control, however the same sexual appetite did not extend to, nor include a taste for, other women. They were, as our client put it, ' apendage challenged'. Considering her sexual appetite for dicks that could scare a whale, so were most men.
How sexist of her. Women may be forced to employ cold latex or glass versions of male standard equipment, but they can supersize the next one they buy and battery technology is up to most challenges, a sort of tit for tat, if you will.
(that one was accidental, I swear)
And if warmth is what you want, I'm sure a couple of minutes in the microwave would make it a cozy experience for anybody.
How she was able to get away with this brazenly bizarre ball busting so boldly was by knowing every bone on every skeleton in every closet at every societal level with everyone she came in contact with beginning with the Hardshaft family itself. They got the luxury of choosing the embarrassment they'd live with and paid a luxury price for it. Some might say that's worth a few bucks and a little freedom.
I, however, say 'it's hard to keep your mouth shut when there's a dick in it and harder still to hold a gun to the family's collective head with a cock in each hand.' However, the facts were the facts; the skeletons were real, the gun was real, and she wasn't afraid to loudly agitate brain matter. Way to go, Fast Fuck Freeda , her high school moniker.
I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I felt certain her check wouldn't bounce, but on the other she could simply stop payment on it. I could come up with the answers for her even if they weren't the ones she wanted, but I worried I'd come across another cheapskate eager to save a couple bucks by screwing over the hired help.
Not on my watch … again.
We stared at one another for a moment sizing each other up, and due to my public embarrassment a year ago, I couldn't help but to feel a little inadequate, but I quickly rose to the challenge.
"Mrs. Hardshaft , I presume " , I warmly smiled.
I immediately recognized her from the tabloids, offering my firm handshake.
The face to face first impression is more than a mere formality, it's a kind of living resume meant to add an air of confidence and associate success with your name.
"I'm …"
Which she saw right through.
"Cut the shit, detective. Don't try to impress me with practiced one liners or try to make me associate your name with success. You're starving and I'm about to save your ass which means I hold your leash. You'll go about the business investigating the deaths of these individuals in a professional manner and conduct yourself discreetly. We'll not have a repeat of that fiery fiasco that fabulously fucked you last February."
"Discreet!?! Bitch, you are one to talk! Your amateur hotwife videos have been watched more times than the Zegruder film. You've spent more time being made airtight than a submarine and that's only the first thing you have in common with a submarine. The second being you're constantly full of seamen. And you have the raw nerve to lecture me on discretion?", I thought to myself, lest she fire me."
Nobody who's anybody in Hollywood would hire you to retrieve a kitten from a tree, let alone investigate anything as serious as murder. You are a virtual pariah among your peers, according to my sources. Do I seem to have all my facts straight? I certainly hope so because I need you to have all your facts straight when you work for me. These were my friends and I expect results no matter how much of my husband's money I have to spend. Speaking of which. I played hard balls with you over the phone. When you thought I'd shafted you in negotiating your compensation I was, in fact, testing you to see if you'd even show up. Congratulations, you've shown integrity. " , she said dryly.
" Here's a small stipend for your first week with another to follow same time next week and every week thereafter when you give me an acceptable progress report. Are you still on the same page as me?, she said while tossing off a large, impressively thick envelope containing $7,000. dollars and several phone numbers for contacting her staff.
"Not unreasonable expectations, Mrs. Hardshaft . No need to fear, I can assure you ..."
"The only assurances I want from you are concerning the facts of the case. Whatever personal assurances you can give me about yourself are insignificant. You had a beyond stellar reputation once and is now beneath shit. As a result, no one would believe I or anyone else would hire you and word of any investigation won't get around. In fact, most of your 'peers' thought you were already out of business."
It seemed Interruption was her favorite form of communication and she spoke it fluently.
I was now convinced I'd been in error and that the happiest, most blissfully content member of this marriage was her husband. Any extramarital partner would likely be immune to the crushing despair and if not, he can always ram his sequela sized palette poker down her whoring throat to shut her the fuck up with her eager approval.
About that time, Fella rounded the corner and came to a dead stop in the doorway, her mouth agape and her eyes widened in pleasant surprise at the sight of Freeda 's ample posterior. My sweet dear femme fatale favoring friend, Felcha fancied full fucking fannies, her favorite. An ass girl through and through, she once told me she would drag both her tits across a mile of broken glass drenched in Tabasco sauce just to hear Jennifer Lopez fart via walkie talkie. I felt the same way, only I'd need to volunteer my testicles to convey similar dedication. It sounds worse than it actually is.
Not too many asses could gape Fella's kisser , but this ass certainly could and did . I hoped she'd cut that shit out before Mrs. Hardshaft turned to see her, or at least before a fly landed in her mouth.
In Felcha 's defense, our client had a terrific, if high mileage, little turd cutter and, were it not for the miles upon miles of eager and gargantuan cocks that had trespassed her trou du cul , and subsequent bestial blasts of bona fide baby batter forming several smoldering stalactites so sublime that sexually sated suckers salivate, I too might 've lusted to blissfully bless her bruised and battered balloon knot with my practiced tongue.
Thankfully, Felcha composed herself quickly and announced we were now connected to our server in Los Angeles in an attempt to break the ice with our new boss. Felcha had still not gotten over her breakup with what's her fuck, but now she was sporting a Cheshire cat smile that seemed to take up most of her face. Hope was still alive and if the look in her eye was any indication , my faithful Felcha was craving a little pastrami all of a sudden . Followed by soft serve.
The combination of surprise and lust was not a good look for my assistant. It was a look set in early maniacal. The vampire's faces in 30 Days of Night were less disturbing. She was so obvious that I actually thought it was cute and, though it was a risk, I tried to act as an impromptu wingman.
"May I introduce my good friend and faithful assistant, Fel …"
"I don't care about pleasantries. Boot up that laptop and insert this SD card. Every pertinent detail you'll need is on it.", handing her the minuscule storage device.
Felcha dutifully obeyed with a pep in her step and disappointment in her eyes. It's a well-known fact that confidence, self-esteem, even one's self-worth take a beating after a breakup, but the timing of this dead-end could not have come at a worse time for poor Felcha . It was tantamount to having your car horn stuck blaring behind a biker club on the lonely highway to getting your ass beat. Now that's one uncomfortable conversation I never intend on having again.
"Can she work a computer and not burn an extra hole in my ass with her eyes? I normally ignore the affections of women, but the drool running down her chin staining that unfashionable blouse is giving me pause " , she said deliberately and with malice as if Felcha wasn't even there. A 'No thanks' would've sufficed, the absolute bitch. Apparently, her cruelty wasn't limited to the poor dumb bastard who married her.
Fella was practically diminishing in size , almost seeming to melt. I even thought I heard her mutter under her breath
"cruel world".
Felcha didn't flinch, fortunately for Freeda .
I've always been protective of my assistant and this tawdry testicle draining slut was quickly pissing me off. She saw the offended look in my eye and was about to hear my offended voice.
With a boldness not normally employed towards one's employer, I bore my claws. She'd show a little respect now.
"Now see here, Mrs. Hardshaft , I'll have you know Ms. Cumbubble is a competent and valued member of my staff and has been for a very long time. She will faithfully go above and beyond the call of duty on your case as she has on every case prior to it and will continue to do so in every case that follows. She's not merely indispensable, she's irreplaceable.", said I of my fragile friend.
"Cumbubble?", Freeda asked.
" Furthermore, I bought my assistant that top just last Christmas and I resent you blatantly disparaging both our tastes.", I rebuked.
"Cumbubble?!"
"The successful and preferred outcome of your case is solely dependent on the personnel assigned to it being at the top of their game. Insulting my staff diminishes that edge."
"As in 'a bubble ... made of cum'?!?!"
"I can say without a doubt Felcha can uncover the seemingly uncoverable which is precisely the kind of person you need to solve this case."
"Oh stop it, now you're just fucking with me, Felcha ?", emoted Freeda , her curiosity renewed.
"Yes, Freeda, Felcha. Felcha, Freeda, Freeda, Felcha, Fel ... ", Fortunately, fundamental freethinking facilitated first factoring in foundational formulas, formatted and fine tuned for feeling fairly fearless of finally finding a fucking way for Felcha to fuck Freeda. In the end, we faced the fact, we failed.
FUCK!
To what extent I could chastise, and not get us fired, I didn't know so I took advantage of the distraction provided when the three unfortunate friends of Ms. Hardshaft , whose untimely deaths I'd be investigating, suddenly stared back at us from the screen. Nice save, Fella!
Our first victim was Nestor Weaksauce . He was the useless dipshit son of a mafia under boss , under investigation for undermining undercover officers under the guise of understanding underrated communities ..., down under. He was also the textbook definition of an insufferable asshole you'd automatically hate at first sight. He wanted to know the family 'business' in order to run it someday, but was inept, learning nothing and fucking up everything. Time and again , tempting to trust and taking its toll. The only thing he was ever good at was being a Star Trek nerd. Sadly, in this case, the needs of the one outweighed the needs of the many and the few that complained got fucked. No Pon Farr for him as he'd been banned from every fan site in existence and even Clint Howard, who guest-starred as that lovable pint-sized hair challenged alien, Balock turned down a $50,000 payday for a four-hour personal appearance at Nestor's 21st birthday extravaganza, preferring to sell a kidney instead. Reflecting back years later, Mr. Howard said it'd been easier to live with himself and at least he felt clean.
No Good Nestor, as he was known , had hurt a lot of people so a lot of people had the motive to kill him. This would take time.
Second, Dr. Jenna von Goodlay , a sexy sexologist stalwartly searching for superior sexual stimuli, shinning serious light on several issues simultaneously.
Her reputation: stainless.
In working at the forefront of her field involving radical sex research, her extensive knowledge of both male and female genitals was unmatched. With so many details inherent to the subject, she was often eye to eye with several large perturbing problems all in her face at the same time. Unfazed, she'd attack each difficulty head-on, the harder the better. She'd lay hold of a couple of them, keeping said issues firmly in place till she'd devoured the one she was currently working on.
Other times, she'd simply bury her face into one place and use her skill as a cunning linguist to make her point. Her skill as an orator unmatched, Jenna was often showered with praise.
She could also recall almost any sex fact instantaneously. Question about sex? Don't dig out your … phone, ... just … let … Jenna … … tell ya.
(I presume there was an audible groan from many of you upon reading that pun. You knew the danger was real. You saw it coming and yet you read on. I have no sympathy)
She was found dead in her apartment with no sign of forced entry or obvious cause of death. What was obvious was the controversy surrounding her recent book tour challenging nearly every long-held belief in the field of sexology. It was entitled 'Masters & Johnson and Albert Kinsey Were Assholes, Fuck Them!' and it pissed off a lot of people, but did it produce enough pungent piss punch powerfully potent enough to placate the problem with murder? Murder most fucking foul?
Lastly , came heartland country pornstar , Girth Brooks , whose lifeless body was found sitting in his car with the engine still running and his fire hydrant of a cock faithfully sitting shotgun. Friends had become concerned after he'd failed to show up to the premiere party for his latest film, 'Wide Load', the much- anticipated sequel to 'My Nickname is Cake'. He was also taking advantage of all the media attention by releasing his first music album, 'Purple Vein', featuring the hot new single, ' When Dongs Pry … You Open.'
As if that weren't enough, he was finalizing a book deal which stood to further build up his brand. Neither a concept nor working title had been confirmed at the time of his death, but rumors abounded it might be something phallic in nature to tie in with his claim to fame by creating puns and double entendre, but that would be stupid.
...
I'd watched only one of his movies costarring his favorite on-screen partner, Asian sensation, Ima Loo Swan and it was ultra hot. The claim to fame was undeniable.
There were other two undeniable facts in his case; first, he had zero enemies, making for zero suspects and, second, a closed casket funeral was out of the question.
Also on the SD card was a dossier entitled 'verified video'. It starred some puffy old guy with somewhat shitty fake tan and a truly shitty toupee that seemed shellacked to his skull and shellacked quite badly at that. He was shown on a bed while some Russian prostitutes were joyfully pissing on him. I figured it must 've been accidentally switched in transit. Indeed, it does take different strokes to move the world, hmmm.
As it had nothing to do with our case and only served to remind me I couldn't afford to pay for a single 'Yellow River Stream', let alone a double, I permanently deleted it.
Announcing it had already been too long and needed a ride before heading home to fuck, Hardshaft finally went down. I was impressed by her stamina as she kept at it, hard as nails till the very end.
I caught a glimpse from our second-story window of her absolutely enormous limo tended to by her positively enormous driver standing next to the acceptably enormous driver's assistant, both black, both smiling at their quickly approaching boss, and both rubbing what looked like duffel bags stuffed down the front of their pants. It would take a fool to believe those were actual duffel bags for very long and I soon understood what manner of 'ride' she so severely missed.
My attention now turned to my heartbroken helper who was having a helluva hard time handling her horniness. However, humbling herself is harsh as old habits die hard, yippy kai yay, motherfucker.
Yet how she held on through her hellish happenstance. I'm no homebound hero, but I'm here and I'm honest.
"How about it? You want to talk?", I quipped.
"There's nothing to talk about. Besides, we have work to do.", she replied and began uploading the SD card to our Los Angeles server. To press the issue would have been to insult her and she'd already been insulted plenty. I absolutely love this lady.
Locating a hidden file I'd missed, she hit paydirt and made my job a lot easier. After showing me, with all the enthusiasm of rested happy puppy on crank with a road flare up its ass, she proceeded to find clues the police had missed before declaring the case cold and reshaped tomorrow's itinerary. With a clearer roadmap sent to my phone, she wrapped up as she always did, by asking if I had any questions and I always did.
"Why are the coldest temperatures on a thermostat represented in blue if blue is the warmest color?", I inquired.
My questions are always profound and insightful. So much so, she'd often just stare at me a while. This time she took 23 minutes, a record.
After a couple of hours, we had everything organized, knew what we were looking at more or less, and hopefully where to go. Unfortunately, we could do little else that night. They had next to nothing in common and only knew each other via Hardshaft 's get to know you group sex mixer. Among the additional details, we found nearly the identical description of the intense, almost manic, looks of pleasure etched across each victim's face at the time of death. It was the only other thing tying the three together. I'd start with that and see if our luck held out, but that'd be tomorrow.
Tonight, Fella needed an old friend and a new bottle of tequila and I was going to see to it that she got both.
To be continued ...
