Inverse Veritas

October 8, 2016  :: 0 comments

“Detective Earl Horsewhite, as I live and breathe, it is you!” Mona LaPiere, chanteuse extraordinaire, had been lounging in the San Angelo P.D. interrogation room for a half an hour, behaving as though she was pool-side at the Hilton. Earl had been observing her the entire time, memories of love and suffering fighting his professional judgment. She’d been exonerated of …

The Train to Discomfort

June 24, 2016  :: 0 comments

David McConnell didn’t realize how tense he’d been until the train left German soil and entered Austria. In a few hours he’d be in Vienna and he and Julia would shop for a cleric. He let out a sigh and looked up from his week-old edition of the London Times. Sitting across from him was a large man with a …

The Generosity and Versatility of Scatology

March 28, 2014  :: 0 comments

“Da-da, do-do, do-da-da.” That’s some good shit, man. You’re shittin’ me. It ain’t worth a shit. It’s all bull-shit. She’s just talkin’ shit. You don’t know shit from Shinola. No shit, Sherlock. Scared the shit out of me! I don’t give a shit. That’s some sorry-ass shit, all right. “Here’s the thing. It sounds low-class. It’s street talk. You’d never …

Small Town Noir

June 18, 2013  :: 0 comments

Phil called his penis “Pounder” because it was so heavy it bowed when it was hard. You might say it was Phil’s version of the L’arc de Triomphe. Anyway, after Maxine personally verified the nickname’s namesake, she spread the info all over Bonita. Soon Phil had rep n’ cred, not to be confused with crabs n’ stank, her info on …

The Beastly Parchment

February 12, 2013  :: 0 comments

“Why do people always die early?” Marshal Marquette wondered aloud as he and Armando St. Germain sped through the damp, steamy streets of Calais at six AM. “They don’t. They die at night and are discovered in the morning,” St. Germain said, trying to keep a cardboard tray of coffee mugs steady as Marquette took out his frustration on the …

Cockfight

September 7, 2012  :: 0 comments

I loved my cock. El Pollo Diablo. He was a quiet cock most of the time. None of the hens could make him screech. Proud and strong, he’d swagger ’round that barnyard, and if any of the gals got in his way, he’d peck ’em to death. With or without his silver spurs, that ol’ blood lust would kick in …