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The Metaphor Murders
It was later than an Amsterdam abortion in my little office, and I was about to go home to the little apartment that felt as empty as a cop's fridge since the day she left. Suddenly there was a knocking, loud like a comedian's tie, at the door of my office.
"All right! I'm coming." I limped towards the door, feeling more irritable than a Mexican footstool.
He had eyes like a piece of junk mail and hair that went all the way up to 11. He burst in like a ripped trashbag and fell to the floor with a moose's armpit of a thump. His breathing sounded like a vandalised Warhol.
He groaned, and my heart hiccuped in my chest, for I'd seen that he was bleeding like a dawn chorus and the thing in his hand was what Tasty John had been looking for when he broke into the apartment and left it looking like a Hollywood divorce.
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, etc. |
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