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 Post subject: The Dead of Nite
Unread postPosted: Sat Sep 25, 2010 2:28 am 
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The Dead of Nite -- A Pulp Fiction Story:

Midnight. The black arms of the clock read 12, still the city was bright and breathing outside my nicotine resined windows. I sat at my desk, staring at the spiderweb cracks on the off-white walls of my office. If this soliloquy did not give it away, I'm a private eye, investigator for hire. I've also answered to shadow, spy, bloodhound, gumshoe, and many other colorfully cliché monikers that may spring to mind. My name is Max Standard, the black fedora and slicker come with the territory. Whatever the case, if you got the money, I got the time.

It's about this time the door bursts open. There, standing at the doorway, is what seems to be an angel as a halo of ivory light surrounds her. She's wearing a white trench coat that barely conceals her white gossamer dress. Her raven-like hair looks to go on forever. Her face looks to be sculptured as by the finest of craftsmen, as if they wanted to make the most delicate doll ever. Her angelic appearance almost shames me from admitting that her form is superbly curvaceous.

She lifts her noir eyebrows and parts her scarlet lips, "Detective. I'm in need of your services."

Never has one of my monikers sounded so desirable as now. I cocked one of my dark eye brows at her, and inquired, "How may I help you?"

"My ex-lover has returned from the grave, and is hunting me---" her sentence fell short as she fainted.

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 Post subject: Re: The Dead of Nite
Unread postPosted: Sat Sep 25, 2010 2:31 am 
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Lifting her delicate body from my 'badly in need of mopping' floor, I laid her upon my couch and gently tapped her checks to revive her. As she slowly regained consciousness, I said:

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 Post subject: Re: The Dead of Nite
Unread postPosted: Sat Sep 25, 2010 11:24 pm 
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"So, tell me ... does this undead ex-lover have a name, pray tell?"

She fluttered her eyelashes like an old movie starlet. Whether from the contrast of bright light on pale walls or an act of seduction mattered little to me at the moment. There was something about her that was captivating. Down right mesmerizing.

"Jack," she replied in a deep breathless voice more befitting a bedroom than an office. "Jack Harrington."

I pressed the blue tap on the water dispenser sensing she would need a drink. The water bottled gurgled an air bubble as it dispensed the clear liquid into the styrofoam cup. I knelt next to my Naugahyde couch and offered her the cup of cool water. "You mean the Jack Harrington, real estate mogul who died last month from undisclosed causes?"

"Mmm hmm," she acknowledged as she sat up and drank deep from the cup.

I tried to conceal my growing curiosity but I sensed my overwhelming interest was written all over my face judging from the lingering stare she gave me. "Color me intrigued, miss ..."

"Eleanore. Eleanore Rivers." Again she used the bedroom voice.

As she told me her story, my eyes were drawn to her pink tongue that darted between her pearly white teeth and full crimson lips. My ears however, processed the following. She had been having a clandestine affair with Harrington for nearly 3 years. He promised to divorce his wife and marry her although I noted a lack of self belief as she said it. Continuing, she claimed that during his last business trip to Montreal, they secretly rendezvoused. With a deadly mixture of champagne and Viagra, he died in mid coitus, but not before proclaiming his eternal love. Now he has returned from the grave to uphold his oath.

"So," I started not really sure how to phrase the question. "Is Jack an Undead Zombie or ghostly spectral apparition?"

She fluttered her sparkling hazel green eyes at me and replied ...


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 Post subject: Re: The Dead of Nite
Unread postPosted: Sun Sep 26, 2010 3:21 am 
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thru plump red lips, "Oh what do I know of such matters, Mr. Standard?" She reached into her matching white Prada bag. "I do have a glove of his. I accidentally grabbed it off his bony hand when he was trying to lunge for me. I assume it has some of his 'undead' skin on it. Please take it." She offered up a thin black leather glove.

In the darkened corner of the office resided my test equipment. Good for quick database checking, finger print recognition, DNA and blood type analysis, and other more computer driven technologies; half of which I don't understand. Truth is, I don't have to. I just have to read the manual, enter my search criteria, and know how to run the software. My own little CSI team in digital code.

I casually raised the dimmer and watched her facial expression as my crime lab illuminatingly exposed. She was respectably impressed.

"Well now, let's see what we have."

Upon initial examination, the glove appeared to be Italian in workmanship. It showed a lot of wear, but still held the integrity of the haberdasher's talent, as they were obviously custom made. I gently turned the glove inside-out and placed it upon the stainless steel examination tray. Although there was no label on the inside, at high magnification, I could detect the makers mark, a small black bird in flight was burned into the inner leather.

"I guess you're not to worried about cross contamination," she stated with a hidden sarcasm that came across more as a statement than a question.

She was right, I wasn't. My laboratory equipment can detect the difference between most creatures, undead or otherwise, if there is DNA available for said creatures. I transfered the magnified image to the monitor so she could see what I was looking at.

"As I suspected. You'll notice there is some dried necrotic epidermis remained." I used the computer pen to circle the area in question.

Again her expression showed she was respectably impressed.

I swabbed the flacks off the glove. I lyse out the cells and study in under the light microscope, but to no avail. So I place a detecting chemical compound on the cells. After a few moments, they start to change color, now the cells are glowing red. I have a diagnosis.

"Ms. Rivers, I'm not sure how useful this is info is to you, yet, my equipment detects that your Jack is a transdimensional ghoul. For me, this information is very useful, akin to knowing what strain of bacteria one has been infected with. It makes it so much easier to find the correct agent to battle the infection."

As I say this, I see the look of ennui in Ms. Rivers brilliant hazel green eyes, so I pep up my speech.

"Essentially, I now know how to destroy Jack. Have no fear, my dear."

I love it when I can rhyme.

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 Post subject: Re: The Dead of Nite
Unread postPosted: Mon Sep 27, 2010 7:32 pm 
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Before I escorted her from my office, we settled up some final details - including my fee and daily expenses. She seemed a bit hesitant but whether from manners or up bringing, she didn't argue to much at my going rate. I got the distinct impression she was used to men marking their fees down or performing their duties pro bono due to her beauty, but I made it clear that what I do, I do well. If she felt she was being taken advantage of ...

As she left my office, I found my eyes studying her. Her curves, her grace and bearing. Obviously she was well educated in both intellectual and physical studies. As the elevator door closed on her, I turned back to my office -- it seemed even more drab and dreary than it was before her arrival. The slight fragrance of her perfume lingered in the otherwise stale air. I grabbed the styrofoam cup from my desk and was about to throw it in the wire-mesh trashcan when I found myself distracted by the lipstick print. It was still bright, shiny, and formed a perfect print of her perfect lips. I am not sure why but I opened my top drawer of my desk and gently placed the cup inside. A souvenir I told myself but deep down I knew it was something more. Before I closed the drawer, I grabbed my bottle of scotch.

I pulled a tug straight from the bottle and examined my retainer check. Ten Grand payable to Max Standard Investigation Agency. A nice little retainer if I do say so myself. My eyes scrutinized her hand writing and the diagonal dashes she placed through the zeros; European education I concluded. Come the morning, I'll have to see if it bounces or draws. Stuffing the check in my vest pocket, I turned off the lights and locked the door. The morning should prove to be very interesting.

The tiny bell rang as the elevator doors opened. I was immediately struck the odor of her perfume that still wafted in the car. I inhaled deeply as I pressed the button and headed for the 1st floor.

. . .


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 Post subject: DoN: Chapter II
Unread postPosted: Thu Oct 07, 2010 8:50 pm 
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Time And Realative Dimension In Space
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Location: In the cold chill that runs down your spine.
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The sound of wet fabric hitting stone tiles echoed through the ground floor of the building. The sound originated just down the alcove from the main entry and elevator landing. A frail and rather elderly African-American man in green coveralls was the source. The small rectangular white badge sewn over his right breast identified him as "Custodial Engineer." The smaller oval badge over his left breast identified him by his Christian name.

Clarence, the janitor, leaned against the mop handle to exert enough momentum to get the mop to slide across the inlaid tiles. A slight grunt slipped past his lips although no one was there to hear it. He knew full well that in this modern age sponge mops and pre moisten clothes were all the rage, but he would have none of that. There was just something about a good old fashioned rag mop that was hard to improve upon. It was what he was raised with and had served him well for over 50 years. He saw no need to change his routine simply because it was the new and improved tool of his trade.

He placed the mop back into its galvanized tub with little splashing. He straightened himself and arched his weary back to alleviate the tension on his spine. Over the years, his back had almost became hunched from his perpetual leaning but this didn't bother him. This was the trade he chose and he was too old to find a new career. Truth be told, he considered himself lucky to even still be working. Most men his age had long since retired, but he could never afford that. He lived paycheck to paycheck as he always had. Certainly he had tried to save and store away for a rainy day, but Clarence never seemed to find any sunny days. Between the kids, the wives, the increasing bills year after year, it was a struggle just to keep the electricity on. He counted himself lucky to still be getting paid $16.00 an hour for 5 hours, 6 nights a week. It wasn't full time so it didn't entitle him to any insurance or benefits - but still, at 73, he was working and providing for himself. No social security or government handout for him. He had made it this far this long and wasn't about to start asking for handouts now.

The elevator bell rang and he slowly peered around the corner to see who was leaving this late. The strong aroma of perfume filled the building entry. It was exotic and enticing - the smell of a young woman. An older woman couldn't or shouldn't wear such an appealing scent. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose to insure a clear and undiminished view. He waited until the doors closed and the cab ascended upward, yet no one ever exited. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to his mop and noted the perfume aroma not only remained, it was getting stronger. He looked around the alcove and shambled back to the entry.

"Hello," he announced. "Is there anyone her?"

"Clarence," whispered a voice filled with pure female enticement.

"Who dat called my name?'

The voice again repeated his named punctuated with a teasing giggle.

"Don't be playin' with old Clarence now." He sniffed the air and began to follow the scent of the perfume. "I's ain't go no time to play dees games. I'm too old and youse too-" Clarence's voice stopped short as his eyes beheld a glowing green mist that began to envelope him.

As the elevator car opened, Max left the building without seeing Clarence, the green mist, or what was to follow.


---


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 Post subject: Re: The Dead of Nite
Unread postPosted: Wed Mar 09, 2011 10:32 pm 
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Location: In the cold chill that runs down your spine.
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The basement was cold, damp, and unmistakably musty. The odor and sediment of untold ages filled one's senses. An unnerving chill coupled with the eerie presence of subterranean elements made one's hairs on the back of their neck ever alert. What few florescent lights that were illuminated, flickered and hummed with the threat to burn out at any moment. Still, adding to the unsettling, the sound of a drip from and unseen water pipe echoed from somewhere within. Its origin, undetermined, yet the unmistakable audible presence of water striking saturated cement produced a wet, monotonous rhythm.

Eleanore's hands were encrusted with an odd combination of that could simply be described as grime. Dirt, oil, crumbling cement, and God knows what else covered her palms and filled in her finely manicured fingernails. Having mistakenly exited in the basement, she tried to return to the elevator but it had closed before she realized her mistake. The call button for its return required an oddly round key which she did not possess. After several attempts of bashing it with her palms and yelling at it failed to produce any substantial results, she kicked the already marred sliding doors - breaking the heel of her white stiletto pump in the process. Stumbling through the ill-lit corridors, she searched for what seemed like hours for an exit. Having finally found a steel grated set of stairs, she followed them upward into more darkness.

She paused and cursed as she rifled through her once white Prada purse until she found a book of matches. Flipping one match away from the others, she closed the cover and proceeded to bend the match down and under until she could strike the flint strip. The match flared to life and revealed the cover of the matchbook -- Le Saint-Sulpice Hotel, Montreal -- the location of her last romantic rendezvous she had with Jack Harrington. Her crystal eyes lifted skyward, "Don't think the irony escapes me!" Her shout reverberated up and around her in an almost mocking fashion. She bit her bottom lip and slowly ascended the stairs.

It took 4 additional matches before Eleanor reached the top of the landing. Feeling victorious, she marched across the marble landing with a click-thud-click-thud from her broken heels, only to be halted by a set of large metal doors. Squarely secured across the brass crash-bars was a large chain and equally large padlocked. Through the small window, she could see the street and sidewalk past the Sumac trees that lined, and subsequently obscured, the side basement entry. She furiously pounded on the door and chain hoping that it would magically give way or someone would hear the ruckus, but alas, it only increased the size of her already bruised palms. Wiping the fallen locks away from her eyes with the back of her grime covered hands, she defiantly flipped the the middle finger towards the chain and padlock.


---


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