I have decided that I will be forcing my brain droppings on you, the unwitting internet, whenever I feel like it for the foreseeable future. It doesn't mean you have to like it, or even read it for that matter. I mean, it would be simply grand if you did, but I wouldn't cry anymore than normal if you didn't.
Here is some new shit. It may be a novel, or a series of short stories, or just the scribblings of a man on the brink of something or other. There's a fine line between madness and genius, and all that. If, after reading, you find that you develop Synesthesia, or start seeing demons in the mirror, put on your big girl panties and deal with it. Also, navel lint is a terrible substitute for tacos.
- C!
The girl’s body was still warm when I arrived on scene. The ball-gag still snug in her mouth, and the scent of sex and leather was strong in the air.
Why do I always get these crimes? How did I win the shit-crime lottery when I never even bought a ticket?
Anyway, she was a Ginger. It was always Gingers or Albinos in this part of town. The Gingers had been trying for years to get a piece of the Albino’s drug and prostitution racket, and in recent months things had begun heating up. You couldn’t turn on the telly without hearing of a sheep farm being blown to high heaven, or a late night shoot-out on the west side docks. It is job security for me, in any case, so that’s good.
I fished around for I.D. but, naturally, came up empty handed, since she was only wearing the ball-gag. She looked familiar though, really familiar.
I searched the scene for a glimpse of what went down, and the room told me such stories. The penthouse apartment was huge, but sparsely decorated and furnished. The heart shaped bed in the center of the room was tacky, but well used. The hardwood floor hadn’t been swept in a long time, except for the obvious spot where there had been a large oval shaped rug. There was a partially deflated sex doll in the corner, the look on its face almost sharing the look I must have had on mine. The cameras, six of them in total, weren’t aiming towards the bed as I’d expect, but instead at the room’s entrance. Dildos and hypodermic needles were all over the place, in equal number. Two framed photos of Bill Pullman guarded either side of the door, or one each of Bill Pullman and Bill Paxton, it’s really hard to tell those two apart. A broken mirror, with a smattering of blood and cocaine residue, lay on the bed next to the Ginger. There were 36 shell casings on the floor, all apparently from the same gun, but only 28 holes in the walls and furniture. Pools of blood, urine, and fecal matter covered much of the floor, yet there was just the one body. This must have been some party.
I went out into the hall to get some air, and to let the clean-up crew do their job. I had what I needed. Except a cigarette, I really needed a cigarette.
Then, I hear it.
“Detective Commons, you’re going to want to see this.”
Back in the apartment everyone looks like they’ve seen a ghost, not that it would surprise me at this point in my life. I walk over, casually, and bend down. The Ginger has been rolled onto her stomach. “What is it?”
Then I see it. A tramp stamp, “Property of the US Government” along with a serial number or something. Things just got a lot more interesting.
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