Bad Valentines 2: Six Twisted Love Stories (Stories to SERIOUSLY Creep You Out Book 5) by Vernon Steve

Author:Vernon, Steve [Vernon, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Stark Raven Press
Published: 2014-02-02T05:00:00+00:00

Olivia Newton John Latex Love Doll

You know how it gets.

There are so many challenges and obligations. It’s like trying to juggle a dozen frozen pilsner glasses. You can’t really catch them, can’t claim to be controlling them. All you can do is to try and keep them from hitting the ground.

So what can I tell you about the murder scene?

There are just as many ways to pull it all together. I could talk about the wallpaper, tired and unrolling like a hooker’s hosiery. The pattern, a labyrinth of countless random quick straight lines dashed this way and that like a half-shaken Etch-a-sketch designed to hide the stains badly. The walls were eeled with tobacco smoke tattoos, colonies of mildew, random splatters of poorly primed paint and of course the blood.

Or maybe I could start with the furniture, ransacked from an evil dozen rummage sales, a three-legged couch, a couple of mismatched end tables, a chair and something that looked a little like a broken commode. As far as I could tell there wasn’t a single piece of furniture in the entire room that truly belonged together. It felt a little like a random performance art collage of my last three failed relationships.

Or maybe I could just breathe it all out to you. The rooming house funk, layered like a rummy’s winter jacket with traces of urine, the pungent tang of sweat, dust and carelessly poured booze. Despair and decay reeked from every inch of the room - a life that had all gone to pieces a very long time ago.

And then, what I assumed was the body. The fragments were scattered in a mad geometry that almost made sense. A Jenga-dance of human meat cubed and quartered and squared like a lunatic’s three-dimensional-abattoir-jigsaw-crossword-puzzle, as if all of the king’s horses had hoof danced in razored horseshoes upon the man’s remains before scattering.

At least I think it was a man but the way it looked you just couldn’t really be sure.

* * *

The building used to house a downstairs discotheque. You could still hear that tight electronic rhythm jangling in the decaying ambience. Then, when disco up and rode off in a white polyester hearse, Fat Hilton bought the building and opened a butcher shop where the disco used to be. The Board of Health closed that down and Fat Hilton put his office in the basement and kept the place running as an hourly hotel. The heart of an entrepreneur beats like a drowned frog clogged in the hair-balled gullet of a sewer hole.

Fat Hilton found the body this afternoon and he called me up. He didn’t call the police. Nobody called the police down here. There’s just no room for authority on this side of town. No room for bylaws and traffic tickets. Stopwatches stopped working, police revolvers misfired and detectives got lost and never found again down here on Kelly and Blowers.

Down here when there was trouble they called me, the Gypsy. I get the dirty jobs done, picking up the pieces nobody wants to handle, making sure things stay nice and tidy.

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