Race Day - Pulp Fiction Edition
It was dark and stormy that Saturday morning. I was on a stake-out at the Silverton Hospital. I’d been working a case for a broad who wanted photographic evidence that some fella was stealing from her. I’m not only a gumshoe, I’m also a bit of a shutterbug. I’d been sitting around, waiting for the palooka to make a wrong move so that I could get this job over with and head back to my office for a slug of eel juice. That’s when I saw…Her. She was about five foot six with dark hair and curves that could make a highway jealous. No longer caring about some sticky-fingered chump, I turned my camera in her direction.
Dressed like she was in her orange sleeves, yoga pants, and running shoes, she looked like one fast dame.
At about 8:45 am, the crowd drew in like bums to a soup kitchen.
That’s when some wise-guy decided to throw lead and the doll took air along with the rest of the mob.
I didn’t catch sight of that dish for another 41 minutes and 22 seconds.
And when I did see her again, she just walked on by like duck soup.
She looked tired, limping a bit on her getaway sticks, but she was still hittin’ on all eight.
I thought about saying hello, but I’d bet a C-note that a classy chick like that wouldn’t have any words for a regular Joe like me. So I decided to scram. Besides, I was a professional peeper and I still had a job to do.
They call me Rusty Shovel, private eye.
Humor-Blogs.com is nuttin’ but a buncha bindle punks gunnin’ for dutch!
