satire

Writer’s Prompt: Conflict of Interest: The Funniest Noir Betrayal You’ll Read Today

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Larry Jones just got paid $500 to stalk himself.

Writer’s Prompt

The neon sign outside my office buzzed like a caffeinated hornet, casting a sickly pink glow over my scotch

—which was mostly lukewarm tap water. Being a private eye in this town means you’re either starving or lying. Today, I was doing both.

Arthur Pringle sat across from me, sweating through a silk suit that cost more than my car. “I think my wife is cheating, Jones,” he wheezed. “Find out who the guy is. I want names. I want photos.”

I swallowed hard. I knew the guy. I saw him every morning in the mirror, usually trying to figure out how to get lipstick out of a collar.

“Domestic cases are messy, Artie,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a gravelly noir baritone. “You sure you want to open this closet? Might be skeletons.”

“I want the truth,” he slammed a stack of hundreds on the desk.

That night, I ‘tailed’ his wife, Sheila, to our usual spot—The Velvet Moat. She looked like a million bucks and acted like she didn’t have a dime of it. I sat in the shadows, wearing a fedora low enough to blind myself.

“Larry, you’re wearing two different shoes,” Sheila whispered, sliding into the booth.

“It’s a disguise,” I hissed. “Your husband hired me to find your lover. Which is me. I’m literally paying for this steak with his ‘adultery down payment.'”

She laughed, a sound like silver coins hitting pavement. “So, what are you going to tell him?”

I looked at the camera in my lap. I could take a blurry photo of a fire hydrant and tell him it’s a guy named ‘Fingers’ McGee. Or I could tell him the truth and hope his aim was as bad as his taste in ties. Suddenly, the door kicked open. Arthur stood there, flanked by a guy who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.

I didn’t just sweat; I leaked. The flashbulb on my camera went off by accident, illuminating the rage on Arthur’s face and Sheila’s impeccable, slightly bored eyeliner.

“Jones?” Arthur bellowed, his voice echoing over the smooth jazz. “What are you doing with my wife? And why are you wearing a bowling shoe and a wingtip?”

I stood up, my knees knocking a rhythm that could’ve backed the drummer on stage. I cleared my throat, summoning every ounce of cinematic grit I didn’t actually possess.

“Artie! Glad you’re here,” I barked, pointing the camera at him like a weapon. “I’ve been… undercover. Deep undercover. So deep I almost forgot who I was. I tracked the suspect here, but he’s a master of disguise. He looked exactly like me from the back. A real ‘doppelganger’ situation.”

Arthur blinked, his fists still clenched. “You’re sitting in a booth. Sharing a Chateaubriand. With my wife.”

“Standard P.I. procedure, Artie,” I said, sweating through my cheap polyester tie. “I had to intercept the target. I’m actually—believe it or not—protecting Sheila from the real scoundrel. He’s… he’s right behind you!”

As Arthur turned his head, I grabbed Sheila’s hand. I had two choices: I could make a break for the kitchen and live the rest of my life as a short-order cook in New Jersey, or I could double down on the lie and try to convince Arthur that he actually owed me a bonus for “emotional distress.”

Arthur turned back, realizing there was no one behind him. His face turned a shade of purple that matched the neon sign outside. He took a step forward, and the brick-eating henchman cracked his knuckles.

Does Larry make a dash for the alleyway, or does he manage to convince Arthur that the “real lover” is actually the henchman? How would you write Larry’s final, desperate plea to save his skin?

Flash Fiction Monday:  Kill Him? Hold the Salsa

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She gives him five minutes to agree. The napkin says “call Abel.” The only problem: making murder look like an accident is harder than it sounds.

She’s right, kill him.

“She’s right—kill him.” Words I should have let roll into the storm drain. I didn’t.

I was at Jose’s Tacoria with my buddy Pedro. Jose leaned over, arm heavy on my shoulders. “You can’t go to the police, Juan. First thing they’ll ask is if you’re a citizen. When you say no, they’ll want the green card we don’t have.”

I sighed. “I’ve been dodging ICE for three months. I got more enemies in Tijuana than I got here.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You go to the cops, they’ll ship you back. Rocky gets Miranda on a silver platter.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Pedro’s eyes hardened. “You can’t reason with Rocky. His brain don’t work that way. Every time he screws up, his daddy Tito—Las Maspachas’ boss—bails him out. You got to put him down like the dirty dog he is. Tito will get over it.”

I laughed nervously. Rocky Sanchez, eighteen, baby-faced, obsessed with my girlfriend Miranda—who’s twenty-eight and knows how to throw shade like a champ. At first we laughed at Rocky’s crush. Until he started showing up at her work, loud, crude, and getting her blamed by her boss.

Pedro scribbled on a salsa-stained napkin, slid it across.

“What’s this?”

“Abel Torres. Guns on demand. Mention my name for fifty percent off.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a bullet. Make it look like Chico Malos took Rocky out. Let the gangs kill each other. The neighborhood’ll be safer.”

He sounded crazy. The worst part? He was making sense.

⸻

It started the night before. Miranda slammed the bathroom door and refused to come out.

“Mira, you okay?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Did I say something in my sleep?”

“I’m gonna kill that pendejo.”

“Who?”

“Rocky. Walking dead. Don’t talk me out of it.”

I leaned against the door. “He’s an idiot, but harmless.”

“I’m buying a gun and giving him a third eye between the other two. You in or out?”

“Will you come out and talk?”

“You got cinco minutos.”

When she finally emerged, her eyes flashed like warning lights, lips tight as the jaws of life.

“What did he do, Mira?”

“He came to the store, bragging to his friends what he’d do with me in bed. Loud. My boss blamed me and threatened to fire me. Next time, I’m out.”

“You want me to rough him up? Maybe a little assault charge?”

“I want him dead. Are you scared?”

“I’m smart. This is the death penalty state, Mira. You don’t get parole from lethal injection.”

“Make it look like a suicide. Tito too.”

I rubbed my face. “Mira, that’s double murder. Let me think.”

“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If Rocky’s breathing after that, your clothes are out the window.”

⸻

That’s what pushed me to Pedro. He wasn’t help; he was fuel on the fire. I left the tacoria and wandered to the river. Thought about throwing myself in—except I can’t swim. Crashed at my mom’s instead.

Morning, she shook me awake. “Mira called four times.”

My gut clenched. I pictured her in jail, maybe worse.

“She’s home,” Mom said.

I powered on my phone. Ten missed calls. Five messages. I didn’t want to hear them. Just hit speed dial.

Mira picked up on the first ring.

“How’d you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Get Los Chico Malos to take out Rocky and Tito.”

Her voice purred like she already knew the answer.

Writing Prompt: Grit vs. Guilt: A Serial Killer, a Fedora, and Way Too Many Feelings

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Dive into this fiction writing prompt where a grizzled noir detective competes with a politically correct newcomer in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Will grit or gentleness win in the hunt for a serial killer? In this showdown, it’s trench coat vs. trigger warnings. The city’s most dangerous killer is on the loose—and two wildly different detectives are racing to catch them.

💭 Writing Prompt:

A serial killer is taunting the city with cryptic clues and a rising body count. Two detectives are assigned to the case—one is a hard-boiled, chain-smoking relic of the past who trusts her gut and hates small talk. The other is a mindfulness-practicing, diversity-trained rising star who believes in community healing. They’re both brilliant. They’re both flawed. And only one will get to the killer first—unless the killer gets them.

🤔 Deep-Dive Questions for Writers:

  1. What happens when justice and social values clash—especially under pressure?
  2. Can two polar opposites learn to respect each other’s methods, or is this a commentary on generational failure?
  3. Which detective reflects your own instincts more—and why might that make you uncomfortable?

The Golden Gaslight Awards: Honoring Ego, Insecurity, and Really Loud Cars

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Forget the Oscars. Forget the Emmys. These awards celebrate the unsung heroes of self-importance—the ones who need a parade for owning a yacht-sized trophy wife or casually dropping their PhD into your coffee.

You can tell how comfortable and self assured a person is with themselves by observing the stuff they have around them. If they need props, trophies, and other symbols of wealth, prestiege, or power you can almost see the little boy or the little girl inside them saying, “Please notice me, I’m important.”

Perhaps we should have a a major award ceremony for people who have the best symbols for their success in personality. I’ll call it The Golden Gaslight Awards. Here the categories . Each winner will get a trophy large enough to make him/her feel even more important.

!. Best trophy wife or girlfriend (Presented to male at least 20 years older than his wife or girlfriend)

2. Best toyboy.(Same requirements as Best Trophy Wife or Girlfriend except the award is presented to a female at least 25 years older than her toyboy)

3. Most popular influencer. (Presented to a person who has over a million followers but makes no money from their Internet fame and still lives with and is supported by parents.

4, Most prestigious academic degrees (Presented to the person who begins every conversation by saying, “I have a Phd).

5. Most Obvious Midlife Crisis Vehicle (Presented to the driver of the loudest, least practical car that screams, “I’m totally fine, why do you ask?”)

6. Excellence in Name-Dropping (Awarded to the person who can work a celebrity, Ivy League, or CEO mention into any conversation—including funerals.)

7. Lifetime Achievement in Humblebragging (“It’s exhausting being this amazing… but someone has to do it.”)

8. Best Curated Bookshelf for Zoom Calls (Given to the person whose unread copy of Ulysses has seen more screen time than they have.)

9. Outstanding Performance in Pretending They Don’t Care About Awards (The irony trophy, of course. Made of recycled ego and polished with denial.)


In the end, remember: true confidence doesn’t need a trophy—’But hey, if you must show off, at least polish your ego before you put it on display.”

26 ~ Gillis Informs Pickle Politically Correct Police are Not Allowed in The Golden Wok

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26

Gillis pointed  to the baldheaded black guy behind the buffet line. He said, “He’s the killer.”

“Who, Do Re? Impossible. He likes you. He doesn’t hold any grudges about you sending him up,” said Pickle.

“That’s not Do Re,” said Gillis.

“That’s not Do Re? You sure?” Pickle tried squinting hoping he’d have a better view. He stopped squinting and leaned toward Gillis. He spoke softly, “It’s not politically correct, but I have a hard time telling blacks apart, they all look alike to me.”

“Not to worry, Dill. They don’t allow politically correct police inside the Golden Wok. Do Re told me he has the same problem with white people. As for me, I don’t have a problem telling people apart. I was born with the gift of an inner eye. See the guy in the corner running the craps game? That’s Do Re,” said Gillis pointing to a baldheaded black man reaching for the dice.

“Do Re? What’s he doing over there?” asked Pickle.

“That’s not Do Re. I was testing you. He looks like Do Re, but he’s not Do Re,” said Gillis.

“I can’t tell them apart,” said Pickle.

“It’s a common mistake. There’s only two people in the world who can tell Do Re, Leon, and Buttercup apart. Their mother and me. They are identical triplets. The guy behind the buffet is Buttercup. Buttercup is our killer. The guy running the craps game is Leon. Do Re is our waiter,” said Gillis.

“Follow me,” said Gillis picking up both boxes of pizza and carrying them over to the large aquarium. Five large carp swam contentedly around a large plastic coral reef. Gillis opened the pizza boxes and dumped the pizza into the aquarium. Gillis and Pickle watched the pizza sink to the bottom as it were loaded with lead. The five carp attacked the pizza in a feeding frenzy, creating a cloud of swirling water sending pizza pieces and crumbs ricocheting off the aquarium walls.  

Pickle taped Gillis on the shoulder and said, “The carp look like they’re playing jai alai. What’d you do that for Gills? The pizza smelled great. I’m starving.”

“Take a look now, Dill. One bite of the pizza and you’d end up like the carp in the aquarium. They put arsenic in the sauce. Sure, it will enhance the flavor, but the after effects are terrible. Take a look,” Gillis pointed to eight huge orange and white Asian carp floating sideways on the surface of the aquarium.

“Do Re tried to kill us, Gills. What’d we ever do to him? I was going to ask him if he had a sister I could date,” said Pickle.

“Do Re, Leon, and Buttercup are all guilty. It wasn’t Do Re who waited on us. I pretended he was Do Re and went along with the ruse,” said Gillis.

“I’m totally confused. You just said Do Re was our waiter, Buttercup’s behind the buffet, and Leon’s running the craps game.”

“That’s what I said. I said it loud enough so Leon could hear me,” said Gillis.

“Who’s behind the buffet?”

“Leon.”

“I thought Leon was running the craps game.”

“That’s Do Re.”

“But, Do Re waited on us?

“That was Leon, the first time. But Do Re brought the pizzas to our table.

“Who killed the monkeys?” begged Pickle. “Do you mind if I get some barbecue off the buffet? The smell is driving me crazy.”

“Be my guest. I’ll warn you, you’ll be eating monkey entrails.”

“Let me put this another way to you, Gills. Are you saying I will be eating Tells’ guts?” 

“The good news is that they’re grilled and covered with barbecue sauce.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“There isn’t any. Anything smothered in barbecue sauce tastes great. Ignore the barbecue. It’s go time.”

“It is?”

 “Do Re, Buttercup, and Leon all went into the kitchen,” said Gillis.

“I like teamwork, Gills. They’re all helping Leon on the buffet,” said Pickle.

“Leon’s not working the buffet. I only said that because the senior with the beehive hairdo behind us turned up her hearing aid so she could hear every word I’m saying,” said Gillis.

“Slow down, Gills. Who was behind the buffet? Was it Leon, Do Re, or Buttercup?” asked a confused Pickle.

“None of the above,” said Gillis.

“None of the above? I don’t get it,” said Pickle wiping the beads of sweat off his brow.

“The final piece to the puzzle fell into place, Dill. Play along with me for a moment and you’ll understand.”

“I’m game,” said Pickle.

 

TOMORROW: THE CONCLUSION TO BUMBLING DETECTIVES – DON’T MISS IT.

24 ~ Gillis & Pickle Do Group Therapy With Senior Citizens

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24

Gillis and Pickle cuffed the seniors to each other in a circle surrounding the SUV. 

Gillis said, “Heads up. You’re going to miss the senior special at the Golden Wok. I’ll let you go, if the pimp steps forward.”

“George, for once take one for the team,” said Margie an octogenarian sputtered without her set of lower teeth in her mouth.

“I’m not a pimp. I can’t even get it up,” whined George.

“Haven’t you heard of Viagra?” complained Ellen. “I’ve had to carry on affair with Jimmy the janitor because you’re too cheap to make the copay.”

“Let it all out. I can tell this group is stuffing the anger,” said Pickle.

“Damn right!” said a bent over bald headed male. “Ethel’s more concerned about eating chocolates than she is about doing my laundry. I’m wearing the same underpants for three weeks. Hell, her tits sag down to her belly button.”

Ethel said, “I’m not going to sleep nude with you anymore.”

The bald headed guy responded, “”Good. I won’t have nightmares.”

Gillis waved Pickle off. He said, “Keep it going. You’re making progress. Consider this group therapy. My partner and I can’t waste any more time with you. We’re hungry. We’re heading into the buffet. We’ll release you when we’re finished if you’ve all worked out your anger. I’ll make sure the manager will honor your discount.”

A matronly, late seventies woman with too much makeup and enough lipstick to paint a house said, “I go to bed early. If you come by at six, you’ll get lucky.”

Gillis pulled Pickle away from seniors, he whispered, “I never figured senior women to be so sexually aggressive.”

“If you don’t take her offer, do you mind if sub for you?” asked Pickle.

Before Gillis could answer, an old man hollered, “I can’t post bail, my retirement check doesn’t come in until next week.”

Pickle turned back and answered, “Do I look like your rabbi?”

Fist bump.

Gillis and Pickle headed into the Golden Wok. Gillis spotted several tables with reserved signs on them. He grabbed two menus off the counter and motioned to Pickle to head into the seating area. 

“The seniors won’t be needing reserved seating, Dill. Let’s take this table,” said Gillis.

Pickle picked up the reserved sign and put it in his pocket. “Never know when this can come in handy, Gills.”

Gillis nodded and motioned Pickle to take a seat. Gillis held a novel sized menu in front of him. He was on page two of the twenty-page menu. 

Pickle glanced over at the Golden Wok’s super buffet. He said, “I think everything on the menu is on the buffet, Gills. To bad the seniors can’t be here. By the time they finish fighting with each other, they’ll be too tired to eat.”

“Take a look, Dill. The place is overrun with seniors crowded. We’re lucky to have a seat. Must be a senior’s convention in town. I’m thinking Cap might give us a commendation. This is way I’ll write it up. I’ll say I cited the driver for driving to endanger and wrongful parking in a parking place designated for police emergencies. I’ll describe how we had to cuff the bunch for assault and battery with dangerous weapons namely, canes, walkers, and urine sacks. Shameful they way they fought over their teeth. The good part will be when I tell Cap, we released them after they promised to practice safe sex.”

Pickle glanced around at the seniors and the staff. He said, “Do you think anyone will know we’re cops?”

“Not a chance. Keep your eyes open for anyone named Sonata Vowel and for anyone with only one cuff link. Don’t say anything, here comes the waiter,” cautioned Gillis.

A six foot three inch bald black male dressed in black pants, black shirt, and white tie stopped at the table. “I know you’re cops. You working undercover?”

Gillis glanced up from the menu, “I’ve seen you in the lineup, Do Re. When did you get out? Remember me, I busted you and saved you from a life of crime.”

“Gillis, I didn’t recognize you. Nice piece you’re wearing. I can get you a piece made out of human hair and not horse hair if you want. All I ask is a little quid pro quo. You know what I mean?”

Gillis nodded. 

“I get you the piece. You overlook all the illegals working here and pretend that my brothers Leon and Buttercup are Chinese.”

“Not so fast, Do Re. Here’s my counter. I want two of your most romantic meals put into to go boxes. I want four fortune cookies. Two cookies read It is your good fortune to sleep with Gillis tonight. The other two read, It is your good fortune to sleep with Wendy tonight in the bed she shared with Pat. If you can do this, we got ourselves a deal.”

“I’ll have to send out for the fortune cookies. You want a romantic meal, I’ll have to send out for that too. My brothers and I never eat here. The food’s terrible. The odds are 7 to 1 in favor of getting salmonella poisoning. We’ll have a deal if you ignore the dice game going on over in the corner, the pimp at the bar, and drug dealer in the last booth.”

Gillis checked out the scene, “Not a problem, Do Re. You deserve a citation for moving crime inside and off the streets.”

“Appreciate the compliment, Gillis. I am familiar with the foxy medical examiner you are trying to bed. I’m here to help you score,” said Do Re extending his hand to fist bump Gillis cementing the deal. Do Re added, “You ready to order?”

Gillis said, “Two buffets, charge it to the police department. Add a one-hundred percent tip for yourself. Everybody does it,” said Gillis.

Do Re said, “I heard of the one-hundred percent tip when it’s on the expense account. Okay. I come back with your beers and your check. Here’s a tip, we don’t serve Chinese food. We serve barbecue, black eyed peas, grits, potatoes and gravy, okra, fried chicken, and any other food that raises bad cholesterol.”

“I thought this was a Chinese restaurant,” said Pickle.

“The name’s only a front for the illegal offenses we’re running inside here. You don’t want to eat our food. The kitchen help doesn’t wash their hands after they go to the bathroom, we got roaches so big you can put a saddle on them, and you don’t want to ask me about the meat.”

“What do you recommend?” asked Pickle feeling queasy.

“Do what I do and send out for pizza. I’ll order a couple of pizza’s, it’s on the house.”

“Mind if we walk around. My partner lost a cuff link last week and we’re trying to find it,” said Gillis.

“He lost it here?” asked Do Re.

“No, he lost it at the donut shop on 21st Street. We thought the wind might have blown it this way,” said Gillis.

“Good luck,” said Do Re turning around mumbling to himself.

23 ~ Gillis Can Commit for a Weekend

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23

“What is it, Gills? You’re chewing on your bottom lip and twitching your nose. I always can tell when something is troubling you. Was it the cheesecake? It’s riding heavy on my stomach. I shoulda stopped at five pieces,” said Pickle.

Gillis turned slightly toward Pickle, “I was masking my feelings, Dill. I’m going to spill my guts. I’m concerned Wendy is coming on too strong. I think she wants me to make a commitment. I’m not ready for a commitment. Sure, I can commit to a one-night stand every two or three nights. I think that’s more than fair. She wants more than that. She’s looking for a guy who’ll make the coffee in the morning.”

“I know what you’re saying, Gills. I thought you should have hit the breaks when Wendy wanted to sleep with you at the dump. You say yes, it’s almost the same as saying let’s move in and get pizza with toppings we both like.”

“It’s tying me in knots, Dill. I can’t think about the case,” said Gillis.

“You got to dump her, Gills. Tell her if she wants to find commitment to look for it at Disneyland.”

“How so, Dill?” asked Gillis.

“She can find it in fantasy land.”

Fist bump.

“Man, I feel better, Dill. Thanks. Two questions, Dill. Did Bro say The Falling Leaf, The Fig Leaf, or The Golden Won Ton? Second question, what is a vegan? I’m current on all the hip stuff. Is it like Uber or Lyft? You got any ideas?” asked Gillis.

“First, Gills, you asked me four questions. That’s no problem because my mind is a highly complex, multi-functioning, state of the art, dendrite wiring, electrical circuit of irrational thought.”

Gillis made an attempt to follow Pickle’s comment. He zoned out at state of the art. Gillis said, “Get to the answers, Dill.”

Pickle answered, “I’m given you background to let you know what I say is accurate.”

I’ve got to think before I speak to him. I’m walking in a minefield each time I open my mouth, thought Gillis.

“Here’s my answers to your queries, Gills. I think the Fig Leaf is an adult sex store. I’m all in favor of starting there. As for Uber and Lyft, they’re the newest social media craze that’s out there. If we want to solve the case, we need to go to the Golden Wok. I’m certain that was the place Bro mentioned. I also have a preference for Chinese buffets. As to vegans, Ve E Gan is the person who started the exclusive society of vegans. Here’s the skinny on vegans. They’re uppity. Sampson is a perfect fit, problem is, Bro, is only a pretend uppity. As for the fourth question, I have lots of ideas. Want to hear some of them?” said Pickle. 

“Hold off for now on the ideas. I think better on a full stomach. I hope the Golden Wok adds extra MSG and high sodium soy sauce to my meal,” said Gillis.

“How so?” asked Pickle.

“MSG and high sodium have two primary purposes in any cuisine. First, they’re better than oysters for men. Second, their aroma stays on your clothes like super glue and is a highly researched and proven aphrodisiac that drives women crazy. Not that I need an edge with Wendy, but I’m taking no chances,” said Gillis.

“You changed your mind about Wendy?” asked Pickle.

“I can’t get her out of my mind. If I have to make a commitment for the weekend, I’ll do it. My team has a bye and isn’t playing this weekend,” said Gillis.

“You’re the male guru, Gills. I’m becoming a better man because of you,” said Pickle.

 Ten minutes latter Gillis and Pickle pulled into a small, left behind in the 80’s, strip mall on the city’s East side. Gillis surveyed the parking lot and nodded his head toward the Golden Wok. He tapped Pickle on the shoulder, “You got to hand it to the owner of the Golden Wok, Dill, he knew how to pick the best strip mall for his cuisine. Look at the crowd. This place is a gold mine. There’s a Dollar Tree, Goodwill, a blood bank, chiropractor, and a psychic healer. I’m going to grab the last handicap parking space before anyone gets it.”

“You better hurry Gills, look over there,” said Pickle. He pointed to an SUV  packed with seniors heading toward the handicap parking place. The SUV had a large handicap tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

“Not to worry. Pickle. I’ll nick the cart corral so it’ll tip in front of them. They’ll have to take the long way around. Get the rag ready to hang over the sign,” said Gillis.

Gillis’s pickup and the SUV filled with seniors were on a collision course for the same handicap parking spot. Gillis underestimated the driving agility of his competitor. A white haired guy with a NASCAR hat knocked over a trash barrel sending refuse spewing, then he nicked the cart corral blocking Gillis and Pickle from pulling ahead. Gillis swerved to avoid a collision with a mom pushing a stroller with twins. His quick action avoided a tragedy, but brought his pickup into contact with a live chicken delivery truck destined for the Golden Wok. Moments later two hundred chickens bust loose from captivity. A pickup truck loaded with illegal Mexican farm workers skidded to a stop. The illegal workers jumped out and chased the chickens. Leon, Do Re, and Buttercup came out of the restaurant. Leon waved a butcher knife and screamed obscenities at the illegal workers. Every other obscenity began with the word mother. One of the illegal Mexican farm workers brandished a machete and returned the obscenities to Leon in Spanish. Gillis worked his way around the chaotic scene and whacked the SUV on the right rear taillight causing it to spin 180 degrees and face away from the handicap parking space.

Gillis and Pickle, their Smith and Wesson’s drawn, piled out of the pickup. Gillis hustled to the driver’s side door of the SUV and set himself in a shooter’s stance with his gun aimed at the 80 year old driver. Pickle in the same stance on the passenger side of the SUV aimed his gun at seventy-seven year old cue tip on the passenger side. 

Gillis screamed, “Come out with your hands behind your heads, driver’s registration between your lips. Anybody with false teeth leave them in the car.”

A moment later, clink, clink. From the inside of the car, “Watch it Helen, I don’t have a second pair.” 

“Where’d you get those Jack, they almost look real.” 

“You had a fake gold tooth put in your uppers? Does Medicare pay for it?”

The seven seniors lined up facing the SUV, their hands on the roof, spread eagle. “Pat em down, Dill. They might be carrying,” ordered Gillis.

Gillis announced, “I’m calling backup. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say will be ignored. If you make a false move, my partner will blast you with pepper spray. Is anyone recording this to put on the Internet?”

“What are we charged with, Officer,” said an 85 year old woman.

Gillis blurted out the first thought in his mind, “We’ve been watching this sex ring for months. We’ve finally got you with the goods.”

An old woman snapped at the man next to her, “Harold, I told you to leave the condoms at the retirement home. At my age I don’t need safe sex. I need sex.

THE BUMBLING DETECTIVES RETURN ON MONDAY ~ WHAT WRECKAGE WILL THEY CAUSE NEXT WEEK?

22 ~ Gillis Assumes Wendy Wants to Go Camping With Him

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22

“The green leaf? We talking trees? The leaves are starting to turn, Bro. It’s going to be tough once they start falling off the trees. Is this twenty-two question? I love that game. Is it vegetable or mineral or a trapezoid? Notice how I combined three questions into one, that’s how you play to win,” said Pickle obviously proud of his intellect.

Fleming’s eyes turned blank. His jaw dropped a tad. Gillis came to his rescue, “Dill, it’s obvious Bro hasn’t learned this intellectual pursuit. Let me put it another way to him. Bro, what do you mean the answer is the green leaf?”

“The Green Leaf is a vegan restaurant. It is the answer to where I saw the cufflink. Sonata Vowel, the owner’s son has a set of cufflinks identical to the one in the picture. They’re solid gold and if you look carefully, you’ll see a tiny v scrolled on the bottom right. All vegan males are required to wear them once they’re admitted into the vegan club. First you have to be nominated. Then you have to be vetted. The vetting process is very strict. The vegans hire an outside firm to do a background check on you. If they find out you do not have vegan purity, you’re out. If you get past the vetting, you are interviewed. I’ve heard rumors of nominees leaving in tears after the interview. Sampson has gone through it twice and failed. He was devastated and went into a deep depression. He had to go through dialectical behavior therapy each time. I still don’t think he’s fully healed. I’m sure he failed because of my background. Fortunately for me, the committee never divulges the report. Sampson’s offered to have a DNA test to prove his purity. If he ever finds out I really a carnivore he’ll toss me out and blacklist me. He’s trying to get himself nominated a third time.”

“That’s nice,” said Gillis not listening to a word Fleming said. “It’s my turn to talk. When was the last time you saw Sonata?” asked Gillis.

“Last night. I remember it because his father, Treble Vowel, is the cook. He sent Sampson and me a special plate of Bolero, named after Ravel’s famous work.”

“Hold on,” stammered Pickle. “Who’s this Bolero and Ravel? You sure it’s not Bolero and Ravioli, the mobsters from Chicago?”

Fleming turned quickly to Gillis for an interpretation. Gillis looked up from his iPhone. He said, “What?”

“I need help, detective Gillis. Detective Pickle thinks Bolero is a mobster and Ravel is really Ravioli and their mobsters from Chicago.”

Gillis checked his iPhone. He was waiting for a response from Wendy about her side of the bed preference. Gillis preferred the side closest to the bathroom. He told her she could choose. 

Gillis looked up at Fleming, “I’ve heard of them. What does the Chicago mob want with monkey innards. We answer that question, we solve the case.”

Fleming felt emotionally drained. He said, “Sonata wore the exact same cufflink.”

Pickle perked up. If he were a dog, one might think the owner said, ‘doggy treat.’ Pickle said, “Hold on, hold on, Bro.” He sets his cup down, “You said cufflink, not cufflinks.”

Fleming smiled, “Nice catch, Detective Pickle. Sonata is a nice guy. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. He’s got enough on his plate. Did you like my play on words? The Green Leaf restaurant. Enough on his plate?”

Gillis and Pickle stared blankly at Fleming.

Fleming continued, “Thing is, Sonata kept his right hand in his pants pocket. Never pulled it out while he was here.”

“That seems unusual to me. That strike you as strange, Bro,” said Gillis checking out photos of Wendy he took when she wasn’t looking.

“I have a theory about it, Gills. Maybe his boys were itchy,” said Pickle.

Gillis’ iPhone chimed. He looked at it and gave Pickle a wink. He opened the iPhone, tapped the messages app. He beamed, “Wendy agreed to sleep with me, Dill. This is the best day ever. I’ll have to buy a dozen ribbed for her pleasure rough rider condoms. We’ll use all of them.”

“I thought you didn’t like condoms,” said Pickle.

“I’m practicing being a sensitive male. Tomorrow, I’ll convince her to let me go a natural,” said Gillis.

“What did she say? You can read it front of Bro. He’s one with us now that he’s giving us free stuff under the table,” said Pickle.

Fleming nodded. 

Gillis read Wendy’s text, “Sleep in your bed? Never!!!! I prefer the dump.”

Gillis commented, “Wendy wants to go camping. She likes to do it out doors. Bro, you know if Sampson has any camping equipment you can give me and add it to the robbery?”

Fleming’s heart rate accelerated. Why did I agree to give him the priceless china? Why did I agree to give them the expensive Jamaican coffee? Why am I listening to them? The questions raced around and around in his mind like a gerbil on a treadmill.

Pickle interrupted the pattern. He said, “Here’s what you do, Gills. Text Wendy and tell her all the camp sites at the dump have been previously reserved by the homeless. Let her know her bed is okay, even if the sheets still smell of Pat.”

“Brilliant, Dill. I’m sending it word for word. I owe you one,” said Gillis. 

Pickle turned his attention back to Fleming, “Did you ask him if his boys were itchy? Was he scratching them with his right hand?” 

Gillis stepped in before Fleming could answer, “That’s a sensitive issue with guys if you know what I mean, Dill. We each have our favorite way of scratching. Ball players like to do it on TV. Ballet dancers got to numb the area while they perform because their pants are so tight. Me? I prefer to turn my back to the crowd, suck in my gut and go right after the itch. It’s a full arm thrust.”

“That takes guts, Gills Back to you, Bro. Anything else about Sonata seem unusual.”

Fleming’s head felt like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn. He said, “Sonata asked if the police had any leads on the killers. I told him you guys were running in circles. No offense meant, it was before I knew we were all low blood sugar guys.”

Pickle stood up. He slammed his fist on the table hard enough to send the three rare, gold embossed China coffee cups and their plates to the floor. Fleming screamed, “I’m finished. It’s over. I won’t be able to show my face in town. Sampson is ruthless.”

Gillis patted Sampson on the back, “It’s okay big guy. Give me the rest of the set, it’ll make the robbery look better. When we leave, toss the rest in the garbage. While you’re packing my cups and saucers, Jamaican coffee and cheesecake, toss in the painting of the Reclining Nude by Modigliani.”

“It’s priceless. I can’t do that,” whimpered Fleming.

“That’s just it, Bro. I’m taking something off your hands that isn’t worth anything. I’ll grab in on the way out. No need to trouble yourself. It will go great in my man cave. Wendy will love it. We’re on our way to the veggie place. Snap it up with the goods. I expect to frolic in Wendy’s bed tonight.”

“If you need a good recommendation, use Gills and me for references. Our word goes a long way in this town,” said Pickle walking into the living room to view the painting he missed seeing on the way in.

21 ~ Gillis & Pickle Help a Carnivore Come Out of the Closet

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21

Fleming was working on his third piece of cheesecake. He wiped the crumbs off his lips with a linen napkin, and said, “Sorry we got off to a bad start. I’m Mr. Sampson’s administrative assistant, butler, chauffeur, cook, and confidant. Between us low blood sugar people, I can’t stand the man, but the pay is great, and he gives me health insurance. My only job is to kiss his ass. It’s a tough job, but the pay is great. I personally think the man is a turd. Know what I mean?”

“Know what you mean, Bro. I can’t stand the man either,” said Gillis playing good cop as if he were seeking an Oscar for Best Actor.

“Question, Bro,” said Pickle. “Can I call you Bro instead of Flemo? Bro removes you from the suspect list. Flemo keeps you on the list. I want to make sure I get it right.”

“Fleming isn’t even my real name. Mr. Sampson made me change my name to fit his image. My real name is Lance Foggy. Please call me Bro. I’ll help you all I can.” 

“Makes sense, Bro. I can see why Foggy wasn’t working. If it were me and I had to pick a name for you, I’d have chosen Froggy. See, that way I combine a classy name with your name. Easy to remember. Easy to spell,” said Pickle.

Gillis said, “Spot on, Dill. You know how to pull complicated issues together.”

Fleming, Foggy, Froggy, or Bro reached for another pieced of cheesecake. He spoke with a mouth half full, “Binging on sugar really elevates my my blood sugar level and gives me the sugar high I’ve been craving. Thanks for the tip, detective Gillis.”

Gillis said, “One more tip, always carry a candy bar with you. It will help in emergencies. If you notice a slight weight gain, pay no attention to it, it’s only your body readjusting.” 

Gillis reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a glossy photo of the cufflink found inside the newly deceased. He slid it across the table to Fleming. “Ever seen one of these? We found it in another carved up monkey.”

Fleming reached for the photo, “What was the monkey’s name?”

“Phil, rhymes with pill, dill, chill, trill, mill, fill, kill . . .”

Gillis interrupted Pickle, fearful that his soliloquy might go on for hours. “Bro, take close look at the photo. I got a hunch you’ve seen the cuff link before. My hunches are usually spot on. It’s why I’m certain a certain woman by the name of Wendy will be spending the night with me.” 

Fleming stared at the photo. He pushed it out to arm’s length. He pulled it closer to his face. He turned it toward the windows before turning back to Gillis, “I recognize it. Why?”

Pickle leaned toward Fleming while picking up the last piece of cheesecake. He said,  “Man, you make this? It’s awesome. It’s the best cheesecake I’ve tasted.”

“Between us, Sampson thinks I cook. I send out for everything, including the cheesecake. It’s from the Cheesecake Factory.”

“You don’t cook?” asked Gillis.

“For one thing, if Sampson thought I ate anything with sugar in it, he’d fire me. He’s a health freak. He eats tofu. He eats kale. He nibbles on chia seeds. No wonder he still has a high voice. What makes it worse, he loves vegan food. Every night he wants vegan. I told him my mother and father were vegans and I was breastfed only with vegan milk.”

“Are you vegan?” asked Gillis.

“Hell, no. I need meat. My father was a butcher and my mother was a barbecue cook at Rolly’s. The reason I look so bad is because it’s hell living a lie,” said Fleming.

“It’s time you’ve come out of the carnivore closet. We’ll support you. I can put you in touch with a carnivore social support group. They meet at Barry’s Barbecue every Thursday evening,” said Gillis.

Pickle wiped the crumbs of the cheesecake off his plate with the tip of his forefinger, then started wiping them off Fleming’s plate. Pickle knew Gillis’ plate is off limits. It’s a seniority thing in the police department. 

Fleming stood, picked up the three plates and put them in the dishwasher. He walked to the refrigerator and opened the Freezer. Gillis and Pickle stared at a freezer stuffed with frozen vegan dinners. 

“While you’re at it, Bro, tell us about the cufflink. You said you saw it before,” said Gillis. “We’d like coffee. You use Maxwell House?”

“Who’s Maxwell House? Is it a new coffee shop? I’ve never heard of him. Sampson only orders the finest, smallest, richest coffee beans in the world. They’re grown on a single estate in Jamaica. Over a hundred dollars an ounce.”

“In that case, give Dill and me a pound each when we leave. I prefer my fine ground. Pickle prefers a coarse ground,” said Gillis.

“Considered it done. I like to short change his turdness whenever I can. How do I know about the cufflink you ask?”

“That’s what we’re asking, we don’t know how you know about the cufflink. We think it’s the clue to the murders,” said Pickle. “ He added, “I could go for another piece of cheesecake and Jamaican coffee.”

“Where do you pack that away, Dill,” asked Gillis trying to keep the conversation rolling.

“I got high cannibalism. It runs in the family,” said Pickle using a credit card to floss his teeth.

“You mean metabolism,” said Gillis immediately regretting what he said.

“Two easily confused words, metabolism and cannibalism. Metabolism refers to music. You ever hear of heavy metal or Metallica? Heavy metal evolved into heavy metabolism and Metallica took it the rest of the way. Cannibalism is how fast you burn up your cannibals. You know some foods are high cannibals and others are low cannibals.”

Fleming was about to speak. Gillis cautioned him to stop. He said, “Dill is a master of linguistics. It’s better to accept whatever he says as accurate. I’ve seen some question his mastery and it never turns out pretty. Eventually, they’ll admit they’re wrong.”

Fleming poured two cups of the expensive and rare Jamaican coffee, brought them to Gillis and Pickle in rare fancy gold embossed China cups. He placed a quarter of a cheesecake in front of Pickle. “I’ll give you each a cheesecake along with the coffee when you leave.”

“Nice cups. I could use two cups tonight to set the scene with a new lover,” said Gillis.

“They’re very rare,” said Fleming.

“Before we leave you can file a stolen property report. Dill and I will quickly investigate and file it away under unsolved crimes. File your insurance claim and we’ll back you,” said Gillis.

“It’s seems highly irregular,” said Fleming.

“Happens all the time, Bro. Cops are paid pitiful wages and this is how we supplement. It’s a win-win situation,” said Gillis.

Fleming said, “I’ve never done anything like this. It’s, it’s kind of exciting.”

“You’re getting a taste of the dark side, Bro. It can be addictive,” said Pickle finishing up the cheesecake.

“Now, about the cufflink,” said Gillis. “Man this coffee is smooth, dark, and rich. Love it. Make it two pounds each when we leave.”

“The Green Leaf. That’s the answer,” said Fleming.

20 ~ Low Blood Sugar Can be Hell

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20

Gillis and Pickle pulled up to the gatehouse at the entrance to Folsom Sampson’s mansion. The guard glanced up from his laptop and flipped the finger to Gillis and went back to watching reruns of White Trailer Trash. Gillis nudged Pickle. He pointed to a surveillance camera. Pickle pulled out his personal Smith and Wesson, lowered his window and fired a bulls eye at the camera, shattering it.

“Nice shooting Dill,” said Gillis. He shifted to drive. The pickup peeled rubber and smashed through the wooden gate.

“What happened back there, Dill?” asked Gillis pointing his thumb back toward the smashed wooden gate.

“Where, Gills?” asked Pickle

“I thought I heard a shot, then the sound of wood snapping, and an alarm horn blasting,” said Gillis

“You must’ve been daydreaming. I didn’t hear any shot or wood snapping. You might have tinnitus from all your practice on the firing range, Gills,” suggested Pickle.

“Make sure you put it that way in your report. Two to one makes our word better than that of the bottom feeder in the gatehouse. Here’s my plan when we deal with Sampson. We divide and conquer. It could be Fleming is setting up Sampson. It could be Sampson is setting up Fleming. It could be they’re both conspiring to elect a liberal to Congress by committing the murders, and blaming the NRA for supporting the Second Amendment.”

“Those sons of bitches, Gills. I never thought of that. Most people won’t agree with me but the country would be a lot safer if they taught kindergarten kids how to use automatic weapons.”

“You make a good point, Dill. The kindergarten teacher might have a hard time getting the kids back in from recess,” said Gillis. 

Fist bump.

Gillis continued after the fist bump, “I studied history in community college, Dill. The Second Amendment guarantees you can have any weapons you want. That goes for switchblades, can openers, and grenades. Liberals keep trying to take away our freedoms. I heard a Congressman say he didn’t want us to have tanks. Can you imagine?”

“They want to stop our right to own a tank? What about nerve gas?”

“After the burrito we just ate, they better not take away my rights to gas. I’m locked and loaded.”

Fist bump.

Gillis pulled up to the mansion, hit the breaks and skidded across the newly replaced lawn and knocked over a three-foot Italian marble statue of a nude eunuch. He backed away from the shattered marble, making sure the pickup wheels remained in his newly created ruts. “I want the help have plenty of room to pick up the pieces to the broken statue. If I knew who destroyed that statue ….” Gillis let his words trail.”

“What would you do, Gills?” asked Dill.

“I’d give him a medal.”

Fist Bump.

“Another thing I admire about you, Gills, is your thoughtfulness. Can I be the good cop today?”

“Who was the good cop last time. I think you were. I’m pretty sure you were. Here’s why I’m saying it. You were supposed to be the bad cop, but you didn’t pistol whip Sampson and then Taser him. You only threatened him. I didn’t want to say anything, but at first I was taken aback because threatening is definitely the role of the good cop,” said Gillis

Pickle pondered Gillis’ words. “You’re right. You were the cop that swung him around like a an Olympic discus toss. When will I learn, Gills?”

“Take years of practice, Dill. When I was in your shoes, I made the same mistakes. Keep your eyes on the master and learn my lessons.”

Gillis and Pickle walked up to the the main door. Pickle started jamming on the doorbell. Gillis said, “You coulda been a jazz player, Dill. You got a knack for improvisation.” 

“Thanks, Gills. I’d take lessons if I wasn’t so busy making the city safe. We’re on a mission, Gills. It’s hard to think of the pleasures life can bring us,” said Dill.

Before Gillis could answer, the door opened, Fleming appeared.  “I assume the police department has insurance to cover the cost of an irreplaceable marble statue of Gnozzi the Magic Eunuch? And, I’ll add the cost of a surveillance camera and wooden gate as well.” He looked at the pickup sitting on the lawn, “I might as well add the cost of repair of a formerly perfect lawn.”

Pickle looked at Gillis who’s looking at Fleming. He tapped Gillis on the shoulder. Gillis turned his head toward Pickle. “I need the practice Gills. I really do.”

Gillis turned to Pickle. He placed a hand on each shoulder. “God speed Dill. God speed.”

Ten seconds later, Fleming was on the ground staring up into Pickle’s radiant face Pickle had his steel toed assembly line shoe pressed against his Adam’s apple. “You got a problem with Gills and me? You wearing cufflinks? Are you related to Till? What was the relationship of Till and Sampson? I’m the good cop today. Gills is the bad cop. Things are going to get tougher if I turn you over to him. His blood sugar is low. The burrito didn’t help. You don’t want to be near him when his blood sugar is low.”

“Fleming turned his head toward Gillis,  he mumbled, “You suffer from low blood sugar too?”

Gillis nodded. Fleming said, “Finally, someone who understands.”

Pickle looked at Gillis. Gillis shrugged his shoulders. Gillis caught a five minute clip about low blood sugar on the morning news. He assumed, people were not putting enough sugar into their morning coffee. 

He said, “Listen up, Fleming. The best way to cure low blood sugar is to have high blood sugar. It’s why I like to stop by a donut shop around ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. Don’t tell me I already know what you’re thinking. You wonder how I came about acquiring this knowledge. Last summer I spend three months fasting and living only on green tea. When my fast was over, my Zen master had me gorge myself on donuts. I felt like superman.” 

Pickle took Gillis aside, “I thought you spent your summer vacation with the hot secretary in petty crimes in Key West.”

“I did. Everything I told Fleming is crap to win him over to our side,” said Gillis.

“Brilliant. You have a gift for thinking strategically that has no peer, Gills,” said an admiring Pickle.

Fist bump.

Pickle said, “Fleming, I’m going to let you up, but you have to keep your low blood sugar in check.”

An appreciative Fleming nodded. Two minutes later Gillis, Pickle and Fleming sat at a table in Sampson’s kitchen. A piece of chocolate cherry cheesecake and cup of coffee in front of each one.

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