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Thus, as the grim reaper, I understood dead people. Their sense of timing pretty much sucked. Not a problem. But this being woken up in the middle of the night by a living, breathing being who had her nails sharpened regularly at World of Knives was just wrong.
She stormed back into the room, hands on hips, her cropped black hair sticking every direction but down, and then she glared at me, the same glare my stepmother used to give me when I gave her the Nazi salute. That woman was so touchy about her resemblance to Hitler.
Even the toughest cop alive grew weak in the knees when standing on the business end of a snub-nosed .38. Apparently, Cookie wasn’t graced with the sense God gave a squirrel. “Warren Jacobs,” she said, slapping him upside the head.
And you suck at lying.” “I do not.” I felt oddly appalled by her statement. “I’m an excellent liar. Ask my dentist. He swears I floss regularly.”
“What the hell did you do to him?” “Me?” I placed a hand over my chest to demonstrate how much her words hurt. “Why do you always assume it’s my fault?” “Because it always is.” “I’ll have you know that man tried to maim me in high school. With an SUV.” She turned to me then, her expression incredulous. “Have you ever considered moving to another country?” “Oddly, yes.”
With a sigh, I realized I was getting way too much exercise. I’d just have to counteract it later with cake.
IF IT HAS TIRES OR TESTICLES, IT’S GONNA GIVE YOU TROUBLE. —BUMPER STICKER
After a five-minute trailer of The Young and the Accident Prone—one
“Jiggling the knob? That was subtle.” “Oh, yeah, grace. Could you have knocked anything else over?”
“I just want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into now.” It was my turn to be offended. “What?” I asked. “Why I never—” “No time for your theatrics,” he said, shaking a finger.
Cookie and I glanced at each other then spilled our guts like frogs in biology lab.
WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU GET SCARED HALF TO DEATH, TWICE? —T-SHIRT
“You couldn’t exorcise a cat, much less a bad-to-the-bone Chicano with gunpowder in his blood. Besides, you hate exercise.”
When the going gets tough, the tough refuse to talk about it and insist on running away to stew in their own crabby insecurities.
Who knew Demon Child would have such a normal name? I expected something exotic like Serena or Destiny or the Evil One That Comes in the Night to Make Us Chilly.
I STOPPED FIGHTING MY INNER DEMONS. WE’RE ON THE SAME SIDE NOW. —T-SHIRT
But we’d never really seen eye to eye. Mostly ’cause he was much taller than I was.
Maybe I’d call her later and ask her if she had any idea what was going on. Or maybe I’d have my bikini area waxed by a German female wrestler, which would be more fun than talking to my sister on the phone.
I plopped down at my computer to get a little research in before hitting it with Bugs Bunny. I’d had my comforter-slash-security blanket since I was nine. We’d been through a lot together, including Wade Forester. I was in high school. He was in the school of hard knocks, which taught its students much more about procreation than high school did. Bugs was never the same.
Damn. I hated torture. It was so torturous.
UPON THE ADVICE OF MY ATTORNEY, MY SHIRT BEARS NO MESSAGE AT THIS TIME. —T-SHIRT
“It’s a good thing. I’m not paying you to tour the country like a rock star.” “Do you pay me? I feel more like a slave.” “Please, you’re way cheaper than a slave. You provide your own shelter, pay your own bills.”
I WAS AN ATHEIST UNTIL I REALIZED I WAS GOD. —BUMPER STICKER
“Okay, wait,” he said just before I hung up, “let me look into the missing-girl case. Don’t do anything rash.” “Me?” I was only a little offended. “You stir up more hornets’ nests than a twelve-year-old boy with a baseball bat. You’re like Lois Lane on crack.” “Well, I never.
YEAH, BUT WHAT IF LIFE HANDS ME PICKLES? —BUMPER STICKER
What do you call a PI who doesn’t give up? Hmmm. Several options came to mind. Aggressive. Dependable. Stalwart. Somehow I doubted any of those would be the answer they were looking for. I opened the last fold of the note. Dead. Dang. I should have stuck with monosyllabic guesses. Criminals weren’t keen on big words.
“Somebody’s here to see you,” she said, as though annoyed. “Male or female?” “Male. It’s—” “Does he look like a Jehovah’s Witness?” She blinked in surprise. “Um, no. Do we suddenly have a problem with Jehovah’s Witnesses?” “Oh, no. Not at all. I closed the door on a couple this morning. Thought they might send their homies after me.” She shook her head. “It’s your uncle Bob.” “Even worse. Tell him I’m out.” “And who do you suppose he’s going to think I’ve been talking to all this time?” “Besides,” Uncle Bob said, pushing past Cookie, “I heard your voice.” He leveled a chastising glare on me.
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“See this? This i-e? When two vowels go walking, the first one does the talking.”
SOME GIRLS WEAR PRADA. SOME GIRLS WEAR GLOCK 17 SHORT RECOIL SPRING-LOADED SEMIAUTOMATIC PISTOLS WITH A LOADED CHAMBER INDICATOR AND A NONSLIP GRIP. —T-SHIRT
I totally needed bodyguards of my own. The implementation of a maximum-security program would not only deter future kidnappings, but it would also boost my self-esteem, and an esteemed self is a happy self.
IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, FAILURE MAY BE YOUR THING. —T-SHIRT
