I curled over in my stateroom bed, trying to get some shuteye, trying to think of anything but the roll of the ship and the scrambled eggs inside me threatening a U-turn. It finally hit me why Dr. von Tinkerbaum insisted I sail back to the states instead of fly. My nerves couldn’t get to me if my guts had first dibs.
When I heard a rap at the door, I figured it was the steward with a fifth of whiskey, my only resort for a good knockout out since the doc said he didn’t trust me with goofballs. “Come in.”
The door swung open to a nifty-looking pair of gams. My eyes traveled up, past the cigarette skirt and the wide-brimmed hat she held in her hand, liking what I saw on the way, until I hit the dame’s face—or, rather, it hit me. The broad was a two-bagger. She had big bucked teeth, nearly no chin, and a crooked nose. Her brow flesh sagged over the left eye and the right side of her mouth looked like it was in a perpetual smile. Even her dark hair was frizzy.
She musta noticed me staring at her mug, cause she said, "What're you starin' at, Shamus?" I was about to apologize when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over my dresser. She said, "What the fuck? How did the gutted carcass of a blobfish get over my head?"
I helped her yank the thing off. Underneath she looked like Rita Hayworth. "Christ," she said, "no wonder my auditions have all gone south lately."
Anyway, that's how I met my wife, and we've never been happier, right Rita?
Opening: Vivian Davenport.....Continuation: Evil Editor