Bite This!

It was a hot, brutally hot, July afternoon. Through my third floor office window, the monotonous Chicago skyline was silhouetted against a yellow haze. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a furtive movement. I moved cautiously, avoiding any sudden motion as my hand crept towards the weapon on the edge of my desk. Finally, I grasped the wire-handled flyswatter as my eyes concentrated upon my intended victim. My hand swept forward, upward and then downward in a barely discernable blur and the deed was done. Five. Five kills. It had been a spectacularly productive afternoon.

A commotion in the hallway outside of my office caused me to look up towards my glass door. “Richard Dick, Private Investigations” was printed on the glass. I was reading it backwards from inside the room. I couldn’t make out what it read.

The doorknob rattled, the door swung open, and SHE stood there, framed in the doorway. A delectable fringe benefit associated with the careers of all private dicks is when beautiful, exotic women unexpectedly walk through the door. This was not to be one of those cases. In fact, “framed” doesn’t accurately illustrate HER presence in my doorway. “Wedged” would be more precise.

Her perfume preceded her entrance into my office, a distinctive fragrance, best described as “Eau de Manure Spreader.” She oozed into the room, like “The Blob” on its mission to absorb another victim.

Her voice was like the sultry screech of a burned-out bearing, as she began, “Mr. Dick, I hate to simply barge into your office without knocking.…”

“That’s quite all right. Take a seat, and please, call me Dick.”