Fold My Laundry Please

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!

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