Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Hard Boiled Egg: The Malt Falcon II

We were screeching down the tarmac... waitaminute. I think it's asphalt. Tarmac is for runways, yes? Asphalt is for roads, I think.

So we were screeching down the road at over 100. The old Betsy was screaming at the seams. Betsy. Betsy Ford? Cockney rhyming scheme? Ya know? Cause I'm trying to be British in a penny-dreadful, dimehorror noir send up? Geddit?


So we were screeching down the road at over 100 in the old Ford. She was driving like a maniac who just escaped an asylum. Though thinking about it, maniacs in asylums are usually sedated. But anyway, yes, she was driving like a crazy person. Her dress was still down to her midriff, and I was still dead.

Once in a while, she'd grab my hand, which gripped the old cannon with my cold dead fingers and threw a shot or two behind her.


She arched her head back and laughed. Her yellow hair golden in the moonlight. Her skin as pale as well, as pale as... umm... a zombie's? Milk under the moon? What does this signify? Well, her skin was pale. That's what I meant.

Her laughter the shrieking of a banshee in the night... if the banshee had the voice of tinkling little bells and sang art songs on weekends to supplement her meagre teaching income.

"We did it!" she hissed at the wind.

"We killed them all!"

And why are we shooting, if we killed them all? I wanted to ask her, but I was dead.

We reached my office at a little before 2am. She put me back on my chair. Gave me a peck on my cheek. Not Gregory Peck, just a peck. One of those kisses meant as a consolation prize to a blowjob.

She left in a hurry, still topless, and still forgot about the envelope full of photos she left in my trenchcoat. It's a nice trenchcoat, cause we're in Trenchtown. I look so cool in a tan trenchcoat over my suit. I am so fucking cool.

It was 3am when I was resurrected. These days, I stay alive for shorter intervals and dead for most of the day and night.

I took out the envelope. Had a look at the pictures. And shook my head.

Oh, blue eyes.

They were pictures of a young girl. Blowing candles. Playing with a dog. Looks like a collie. I prefer border collies myself. Smart animals. Not like horses. Horses are dumb as shit.

I looked at the pictures again and again. There was no mistaking her. This was the girl who grew up to be Blue Eyes.

Oh, sexy, beautiful Blue Eyes. You could have told me. You could have trusted me, dead or alive. You could have made it clear. That you were wearing contacts all this time...

Off-tangent dead private dick Amir Hafizi will return in future hard-boiled installments with more booze, broads and bullets!