(Read Part I here)
I’m just having fun with this— writing whatever comes to mind. It’s full of pop culture references and slang and won’t last the test of time or anything. It’s strictly for entertainment purposes. So, um… all that to say, don’t be mean.
Somebody was trying to set me up, and they were doing an excellent job so far. The first person the police suspect in a homicide is the spouse, and I had the misfortune to fit the bill for two murders in a week. It didn’t help that I also had motive out the wazoo. Wife number one had been sucking me dry in alimony payments for five years, and I was cranky about it. And wife number two, well that pretty little number had drugged me and robbed me blind two days ago. You’d think she would have at least waited until the honeymoon was over, but no. I wasn’t one of those lucky in love kind of guys. However, actually having them die in my presence was a new development. And here I had finally overcome my fear of commitment. Go figure.
I needed to clear my name, and clear it fast, or I was well on my way to becoming Americans Next Top Serial Killer. I decided the best course of action started with a beer, and never-you-mind that it was ten in the morning. I headed for Donovan’s, the most un-Irish pub in the city. Shiny, green shamrocks swung gaudily in the dirty window, next to an ancient t-shirt proclaiming, “Kiss me, I’m Irish”. I certainly didn’t come for the ambiance, or the questionable Guinness. There was only one reason anybody came to drink at Donovan’s. For information. Well, that and the complimentary peanuts.
I could make out Donovan, who was no more Irish than my foot, standing behind the dingy bar. He was dragging a soggy rag across the counter, democratically distributing the grime from one end to the other. I pulled up a stool and plopped down in front of him. My jeans stuck to the tacky seat and I grimaced. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to make a quick getaway, or the chair glued to my ass might present a problem.
“Whiskey”, I said, glancing at the cloudy shotglasses above my head. It was a better disinfectant than the beer. “So tell me, Donovan. Where’s Jules today?”
He poured my drink and shrugged. “Jules? I don’t know no Jules,” he said in a bored voice.
I so wasn’t in the mood for this. “Don’t be cute, Donovan. I need to talk to him. Where is he?”
He stared expectantly at me, and I sighed as I reached into my wallet. Information had a price.
“You’re killing me, you know that, right? I don’t get to eat dinner now,” I complained, reluctantly sliding a twenty across the counter. He seemed thoroughly unimpressed with my sacrifice. My stomach rumbled. It was definitely time to increase my intelligence budget. A man’s got to eat.
Donovan crammed the bill into his grubby pocket, and nodded to the back of the bar. I downed the whiskey, and gazed around with watery eyes to see what my money had bought me. An ominous door marked “management” led to a backroom. It was the kind of door that held the promise of shady poker games and broken noses. Lucky me. Too bad guys like Jules don’t hang out at the kiddie pizza place down the street. I could go for a slice, plus fifty eight-year olds tend to keep the thug beatings at bay.
I didn’t bother paying for the drink, I figured old Donnie boy could take it out of his “tip”. He scowled but I was obviously not worth the trouble to him. I get that a lot. I’d find it offensive if it wasn’t convenient occasionally. I grabbed a handful of peanuts, and made my way to the back of the bar.
As I reached for the door, it suddenly swung open and cracked me square in the face. I had a split second to mourn my flying peanuts and then all I saw were big, hairy stars. As my vision cleared, I realized the stars, while painful, were not in fact, hairy. Instead, a huge blonde bison of a man was stampeding over me, every inch of him covered in hair.
“Get out of the way,” he growled, shoving me aside.
“And we were just starting to get to know one another, ” I mumbled. He swung back around, glaring at me. Great. Me and my big mouth.
“What was that?” he demanded, the muscle in his jaw popping like a cut wire.
“Jeez man, nothing,” I said, “Sorry.” This guy was practically sweating steriods, complete with syringe.
A dead body before eight in the morning, and now I was about to play punching bag for Blondzilla before lunchtime. Monday sucks, I thought to myself, and then the whole world went black.