"Dr. Brain!" "Dr. Brain!" Cleotmos the ex-patriate Lichtensteinian was trying to get my attention in the dark oak-wood lobby with a small series of parachute flares.
I'd been trying to forget that I ever went to medical school. As a young resident in the San Diego Hospital for The Bleeding, I accidently killed so many patients I still get a thank you card every Christmas from the Buenos Dios Funeral Home. Ever since I'd often dosed my drinks with morphine, not to kill the pain so much as to improve the flavor of Canadian schnapps, which calmed my nerves enough to perform the total skeletectomies I occassional still did for a little extra cash on patients whose bones were always in the way.
"Don't get your panties in bunch," I groused, " and if you do, you can get them unstuck with moustache wax."
"But Dr. Brain, it's that woman." Just then she walked in.
I haven't seen so many dangerous curves since I drank a can hydraulic fluid and jacked a Porsche for a shortcut to Zurich. She was so hot I began to wonder if cold fusion might be real after all. Her skirt was shorter than the list of Pauly Shore's Oscar Nominations, and her legs were so shapely most of the other legs in the room turned and left in shame. Her breasts were like Jesus's personal throw pillows. She had a face that was sweeter than a Krispy Kreme creme-filled candy creme, and moist ruby lips that were illegal in parts of rural North Carolina. Her streaked blondish hair danced and bounced in multi-hairy colors like an over-caffeinated touring company of Cats.
She poured along in my direction, and gave me the kind of look that knocks 737s out of their landing approaches.
"We spoke on the phone," she cooed like a flock of New York pigeons on a good batch of MDA. "I'm Dardenella."
"An unusal name, for a woman that didn't used to be a man."
She looked at me like I'd just handed her a bouquet of poodle turds. Then those lips moved in such a way that I forgot my middle name ("Kevin"), and that silky voice not uncoincidently followed.
"It's Jack. Jack's been strangled. And shot. And poisoned. And shot and strangled again. And his hands were bulldozed. His feet were stabbed as well and also poisoned and shot and bulldozed. His ball-sack was detonated. They did terrible things with a satellite dish. Then they ran over him with a mobile steam calliope - I didn't even know they still made those. Then--"
She was about to cry. It was getting mushy, so I grabbed another handful of popcorn.
"Then they killed him. "
"That must have been rough, Tootsie Roll." I grabbed the first affectionism I could, but like a real Tootsie Roll, it seemed to have no specific purpose.
"I never thought I cared for Jack. I was just with him for the Val-Pack Coupons. And the diamond-encrusted gold missile launcher."
She was cruel, even militarily ambitious, but not stupid. This tomato had "Dangerous -Like Plutonium Teddy Dangerous" actually written on her business card. Sure I was tough - I once had to beat Seattle Seahawk Mack Strong unconscious with his own tongue, but was I tough enough to handle Dardenella?
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