Jake Slant, PI moonlighted as an aspiring crime writer. Evil figured him for another wannabe as the man yammered on. Evil doubted he’d ask for a partial.
“The point,” Evil said.
“So this dame has gams up to here.” Jake pointed to his chest. “Hair redder than the devil’s smile, but it coulda been a wig, ya know. And those eyes, they were the death of me. Green like jade… jaded, she was, jilted by her sugar daddy. Asked me to look into this thug.”
Evil stroked a furry chop, shook his head clear. He had manuscripts to incinerate, hearts to trample on, and a bottle of single malt to nurse. “So, what’s at stake?”
“Well, this skirt, she had me at hello, and so for several years she had me snoopin’ around NYC for this real evil fella, said he wore funny little glasses- no stems. Said if I ever ran into him, to take this,” Jake whipped out a scarlet stiletto, “and jam it clear up where the sun ain’t shining.”
Evil clenched his butt cheeks together and removed his pince-nez. His sweaty hands stashed them away. Six-inch stilettos, only one snarky broad fit that bill. She could crack a nut between her knees… Evil drew a hand over his crotch and started to shake.
“You see, acted all sweet as pie, but I could tell the lady was a real killer, a shark, you could say—”
“Yeah. Sure. Look, buddy,” he slid up from his chair and paced to the window, “I’ve heard this all before, so just leave.”
The PI shrugged but exited the office. Evil pushed 1 on his speed dial.
“Big Apple Flowers.”
“It’s me again.” EE whipped out his credit card. “Send the usual. Yep, have it say: Sorry, Snarky-poo-poo. Forever, Your worthless minion.”