Not A Movie About A Heroic German With A Speech Impediment

Schindler's Lisp

Reasonable Response to the Last Thirty Seconds of Every Police Song Ever Recorded

Yeah, Sting, we fucking get it.

She Brought Me a Murder

Hardboiled Stanton Pierre:  Go To Hell, Bastards!

Prologue

The sun was out.  I'd been driving for hours now.  I was tired.  I was not hungover.  I was mad.  This shitty Chrysler Cordoba isn't the luxury automobile they made it out to be.  Next time I'll buy some Jap car.  There's gotta be something redeeming about a car made by a nation of people that you tried to exterminate off the face of the planet with hell, fire, and hell-fire.

The road was a barren wasteland cutting through endless acres of barren wasteland.  There wasn't anything to see; if there were, it sure as hell wouldn't be that much to see.

The last town I was in probably had more cow shit than brains in it.  But I got myself a soft-serve and went upon my merry way.  Those cud-chewing morons hadn't the slightest clue.  So I said:

"Those cud-chewing morons didn't have the slightest clue.  Jesus, that town probably had more cow shit than brains in it."

I didn't hear a response.

"Hey," I said turning around, "you still tied up back there?"

Yeah, she was.

 Just like old times.

 PART I

I woke up to a Gene Krupa bass-kick of thunder.  Nearly shit myself in the process.  Actually, I think I did soil my undies when my office went nova from the lightning.  I've had the shades drawn for a few weeks now:  haven't seen natural light in quite sometime, which is why the storm scared me back to the days when I'd hide under my bed and then realize that was an awful place to hide from a thunderstorm because there were monsters under there with me.  So I'd dart out and make a break for the closet.  Well, shit- there are ghouls and goblins in there too.  I couldn't go to the old man's room because he was half passed out on the booze and he would think me a monster if I hopped into bed with him and then he'd knock me over the head with a bat.  At least he died a horrible, horrible death in Brooklyn and not in Los Angeles...

Which is where I am now.  It's a third floor walk-up and I'm above a massage parlor that's above a peek-a-boo joint.  Let me put it this way:  it ain't pretty.  But the office is mine and the sign outside the door says it's mine, so nanny nanny boo-boo to all those with less mine's than me..  There isn't much I have in this world, but what I have has my name on it.  Well, except for the bottle of brown eel juice and the Lucky Strikes.

I guess I hadn't been asleep for that long since one of the Lucky's cherries was still a-glow.  I put it out as I poured a shot.  Don't know how long it had been since the last drink I had that I didn't know how long it had been since the one before that, but nothing beats excess like being excessively on the piss, so I threw it down my gullet.  You know how sometimes when you're just about blind drunk you have this moment of clarity?  Like the heavens open up and this beam of light hits you and you realize that maybe you should stop drinking?  Because you have no friends- you have no money- you ain't pitching to any tail unless you pay for it, so you definitely ain't pitching 'cause you ain't got the dough- and life maybe perhaps might possibly become marginally better?  

Yeah.  Me neither.

I put the glass down on the desk along with my head.  Time to pass out.  It's been a long day of being drunk and not drunk enough.  As soon as I close my eyes I hear the familiar sounds high-heeled shoes getting close to my door.  I pull out my gun just in case it's one of them crazy snowbird faggots and not a dame.

Knock.  Knock.

I sit there.  I aim.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

"I can smell you drinking in there, Stanton!  Open the got-damn door!"

I know her voice.

"Uh, not gonna happen, missy.  Hinges are all busted up and my legs is pretty bum."

Legs.  Good Christ!  She had legs that stretched from Aberdeen to Walla Walla.  She used to wear these black leggings that had a seam that ran from the Achilles to behind the knee. 

"'Are' pretty bum, you moron."

And that mouth of hers.  Always had something smart to say.  She was usually right, too.  Like the time she called me a worthless fuck.

"You're nothing but a worthless fuck, you fucking worthless fuck," she said.

"Yeah," I said swigging back another shot, "You're probably right."

And now?  Maybe she's changed.  Maybe she's in love with me again.

"Open the door!  I'm wearing a long skirt and I'm not in love with you.  Nothing's changed!  Open the got-damn door!"

Guess not.

I got up and shuffled over to the door as slowly as I could.  I may not be able to torture her physically, but I can rile that pretty face up and make it red and puffy.  She could be the most impatient...

"Holy shit," I said opening the door.

"You gonna let me in or just gawk at my chest all night?"

"Gawk."

"Move," she sneered as she pushed me out of the way.  She sat down in my favorite chair knowing damn well that it is my favorite chair.  "I love what you've done with the place.  What was your inspiration for the Chinese takeout rotting on your desk can and the pile of dirty laundry?"

"Post-Modern Dumpster-Fire meets Homeless Reprobate Eating His Own Foot.  Why are you here?"

"It's been a few years, I wanted to see how you've been keeping." 

"Keeping up with the Joneses just fine, lady."

"Sure, as long as the Joneses were a bunch of chimps throwing shit at each other."

"Hey, what I do with my shit is my business.  Why are you here?"

 "I have a proposition for you."

"Not interested."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I 'm sure."

"Are you super, super sure?  Like so sure that there can be no more assurance at all?"

"Just fucking spit it out already."

"Would you like to kill my husband?"

"You mean metaphorically?  With kindness?"

"No, I mean with a knife:  a knife through his eyeball and into his brain.  Or into his heart.  Or his back.  You're good at that:  stabbing people in the back."

"Oh look at you," I bent my head attempting the most charming voice I could muster, "you are sentimental.  This is like the first night we spent together; except less fucking and more stabbing to death of your husband.  But hey, beggars can't be choosers.  Am I right?"

"Will you do it?"

"Sure.  Just let me get my stabbin' knife and we can be on the way."

She threw an envelope on the desk.  It was thick.  It was filled either with a giant brick of bologna or a giant brick of cash.  

Either way, I was eating tonight.

Either way, I was going to kill her husband.