by Norm De Plume
“… ‘The dog did nothing in the night-time,’ he said, so I says to him ‘That was the curious incident.'”
“Oh… uh, ha ha.” Juanita took a huge, bracing gulp of her mangotini so she wouldn’t have to pretend to laugh any longer. How did she end up on a blind date with a guy so boring he tells stories about dogs NOT barking? Mrs Hudson, of course. That old ass bitch was always getting her into stupid situations. He took a dainty sip of his mudslide and looked at her expectantly.
“So, uh…” she began. “You some sorta cop, right?”
“Madam, I am the world’s first, and as far as I know, only consulting detective.”
“So you always, like, chasing bad guys and shit? That sounds pretty tight.”
“Sometimes, but to me, the true excitement is in the mental chase, if you will, the intellectual…”
There was the “i” word. She tuned him out with every fiber of her being and drank for dear life.
“… but occasionally, between cases, I am forced to keep myself stimulated through the injection of a 7% solution of cocaine. Have you heard of it?”
“Uh, yeah. I think I heard of that before.”
A junkie? What the fuck? That does it. Mrs Hudson was as good as dead.
There was yet another awkward pause. “So, uh,” he began. “I see from the wear on your heels that you never gained your father’s approval, which would suggest… Ah ha! It appears our Chicken Parmesan Tanglers have arrived. I deduce that the accompanying Sweet & Spicy Honey Dijon Sauce will be delectable!”
She slammed her -tini and ordered another, and another after she finished that one. The rest of the evening was a drunken blur.
Juanita awoke the next morning plagued by vague memories of pasty white flesh, awkward, birdlike thrusting movements, and a series of profuse apologies. The other side of the bed was still warm, but the angular English detective and his weird front-and-back-billed hat were gone.
She never spoke to him again. But you best believe she told that Mrs Hudson bitch off good.