Dirk Bolus, Private Eye

It was a cold day. A cold, dusty day in this dirty little butthole of a city. I was nursing my third scotch and water when the door opened. I looked up and there she was. A dame, pretty as I had ever seen. A face like a movie star. She was elegantly puffing on a skinny cigarette. She had on a scarf. She was 300 pounds slim. I said nothing. She said nothing. Our eyes met. She farted.

I had Cindy escort her out. I don't take flatulence. Never have, never will. Cindy is my secretary. I fired her last year, but she never quite got the hint. I don't pay her. She just sits in the corner sometimes. Sometimes she doesn't even come to work. Cindy is a mouse.

As soon as fat-farty left, there was a rap on my frosted-glass door that says BOLUS Private Investigating. I saw a silhouette. The door swung open and it was a gal, a dame, a lady. She was dazzling, beautiful, pretty, a hotty, yeah, you could say she was attractive.

"Little early to be drinking, isn't it?"

Crazy bitch. "What can I do you for?" I asked. That's when it all began.

She gave me the same old sob story I've been hearing for years. She went on and told me about how her boyfriend had taken to wearing lingerie and dressing up like Queen Victoria. He was always sallying around like a dizzy frog with tube socks on, like a virgin who holds water in her mouth. Oh, sure he'd punch himself in the genitals and the face and slice his hands and dunk them in rubbing alcohol from time to time, but other than that he was your normal cross-dressing boyfriend with a fetish for lasagna.

So this dame tells me how her guy has been frequenting this bar and how he puked on a stool there. Then he made love to his own vomit. He was squirming around and bucking wild in a pool of his own sick. On a stool. Cool. So I asked her what I could do for her. She said, "Just kiss me you fool." So I did. Then she got up and left.

I farted. So I stood on my chair and pretended I was playing first string violin in a concerto until I made in my pants and soaked my chair. I began licking it up. That was when I noticed the key. That broad, that filly, that babe, that fox, that vixen, that prime piece of animal lust and estrogen and expensive perfume that we like to call a woman, must have deposited a key in my mouth when we smooched.

This girl was all-woman. So was her boyfriend.

So I tailed the dame until she came to her apartment. I tried the key but it didn't work. Then her boyfriend stormed into the building cursing and swearing and ripping parts off his corset, all because his beloved chunder had been stolen. When he saw me fiddling with his lock, he beat the ever-loving shit out of me.

I realized that the key was numbered and that on the key it said: THIS KEY GOES TO A LOCKER IN THE BUS TERMINAL ON 45TH AND MARKET, YOU KNOW RIGHT ACROSS FROM THE WHOREHOUSE FOR MALE PERVERTS WHO LIKE TO KISS OTHER MEN AND FONDLE THEIR GENITALS.

I knew right where it was.

So I went to the locker and opened it. The vomit was in there. The dame was trying to torture her man by keeping him away from his precious tummy slop. So I made love to the sick. Then I went across the street for a half an hour.

I went back to the apartment, with the hurl, and what do I see? The dame had just smoked her beau. She iced him, zapped him, took him out, put a slug in him, busted a cap in his ass, yeah, you could say she fucked his shit up. The pistol was on the floor, still hot. Me and the dame had sex; I introduced vomit into the affair. She rather liked it. When it was all over, I went back to my office and drank myself into oblivion and smacked my ass some. It was a day like any other day in the life of Dirk Bolus, Private Eye.