Sam Similie Private Dick: Double-D Danger

"No hoof, no horse," I quipped as the doors slid open and I stepped in, leaving him wimpering in the lobby like a mass of moaning meat.

When the doors opened on the second floor, I ran right into her--my client, Curweana Beal. She was wearing one of those body suits that only deep sea divers used to wear but lately had become so fashionable; the only deep sea here was in the ocean of cleavage that nearly knocked my coonskin tail into my mouth with my gawking.

"Sam?" she said giggling, "is that really you?"

"Yeah,babe, it's me all right," I said, adjusting my gymbag and throwing my tail back over my ear.

"Well, what should we do?" She cooed in that breathy voice she had. I could tell she was impressed by my disguise. You can't get that Master Diguise Kit in this country anymore, and disguise quality has really suffered because of it. It was sad, really.

"I'll take it from here," I said, grabbing the gym bag stuffed with cash and sauntering down the hall with her to room 38 D. I threw open the door and ran right into my old buddy the chauffer who had threatened me earlier in the day. He didn't look as big now that he didn't have the woodpeckers to back him up.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" he said giving me a disgusted look and wrapping a towel around his naked body. I gave the room a quick 20/20: there was a bench press in the middle of the room and a few other big pieces of exercise equipment, but over in the corner there was a big solid tank that looked almost like a two-man submarine, and there was smoke coming from its periscope.

"Why don't you leave while you're still healthy," he said, taking a step towards me.

"So, something wrong with working out here?" I asked, lying down on the bench press. "So how much is on here?" I said testing the weight a little and getting a grip on the bar.

The chauffer raised his eyebrows. "About 240," he said, crossing his arms and looking down at me on the bench. They were very big arms.

"So, what's in that big cannery row condo in the corner?" I said, getting ready to lift off.

"Say what?" he said.

"The big metal tank with the little smokestack."

"Now that ain't none of your fucking business," he said, uncrossing his arms and glaring down at me.

"I think I can get ten of these," I said, lifting the weight down off its stand.and then onto my neck.

When I came to the chauffer had Curweana's gymbag and was counting out the neat bundle of hundreds. I had a dent in my throat and my eyes felt like they were trying to suck themselves out of their sockets. I think I was breathing, but it was hard to tell 'cause there was a chorus of frogs croaking somewhere in the room. The barbell was at the chauffer's feet and after he had counted out the money he picked it up like it was a paper mashe prop and started towards me with it.

"Drockkit!" I croaked, pulling my roscoe out from under my coonskin cap and firing off a round that hit the end of the barbell, rickocheted around the place like a pinball for awhile before it hit me in my right foot.

"Dronk Cryit!" I warned, limping to my feet and covering him with my rod.

"Curweana," I yelled, reaching into my bag and tossing her a set of handcuffs, while I limped over closer to him. He was speaking to me as I limped over, his speech had changed considerably after he had gotten a taste of my marksmenship.

"Please, sir, you must understand. I do this not for myself but for the good of our company."

"Oak eah?" I spat, handcuffing him to the barbell. I grabbed the money, stuffed it back in the gymbag, waved Curweana to my side and we walked/limped to the corner where the tank was.

"Well, what say we take a gander in here," I said rubbing my throat and throwing open the lid of what was some kinda custom designed twin sensory deprivation tank. The lid clanked open and I looked in and nearly lost my lunch.

It was Beal--he was floating in the saline,white and shriveled as an albino prune. He had a pair of those painted ping pong ball shades strapped across his peepers, and a rasta-sized reefer masted from his mug like a flame fired member on a twin whanged whale. There was a spoon sized slag of sperm lazily sailing around in the saline surface of the double D tank like a cake of cream of weenie soap, and The Bolero was blasting away to a Poke Street polka that judging from the raising of one member and the shrinking of the other signaled the start of another soap swelling. I reached in, grabbed both his ping-ponged shades and gave them a healthy snap.

"Alphonse, is that you?" he chirped. "The Bolero seems to have come round again." This time I pulled the ping pongs right off his head and threw them over my shoulder. He squinted up at me.

"Who are you, a woodsman?" he said squinting and blinking. Then he caught sight of Curweana. She was sobbing quietly near the end of the tank where the slag of sperm was floating like some kinda waylaid water lilly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Weena," the old raisin said, stepping out of the tank like a prune tuna.

"You're sorry!" It was the chauffer, Alphonse. "Do you realize how far our profit margins have fallen since you've made this, this walking bosom your wife?"

"What are you saying, Alphonse?" The old man was talking to the chauffer, but looking at Curweana's hooters the way bridge builders look at difficult stretchs of the Amazon. My foot was starting to throb.

"What I am saying is that the entire market segmentation became potentially unviable in an unstable product that generated atmosphere into a downward fiscal trend. Profit sharing and new product development all went right out the window!" He was talking to me now. Beal and his wife were just kind of staring at each other like tiny aliens had landed on their necks and stuck little needles in em."I just couldn't stand by and watch him throw away everything we'd worked for just for one set of specialty designer double D lines.

"And that's just what you were doing, you know! " He sceamed at Beal. Alphonse was turning into a woman right before my eyes; he was shouting the way San Francisco hairdressers do. Beal took his eyes off his wife's Amazonian bridgework and looked over at the cuffed chauffer like a kid at Christmas.

"Oh, Alphonse," he said, his eyes all misty, "I didn't know you cared!"

"Of course I care!" Alphonse sobbed. "Do you think I want the man I love to loose everything he's worked for all his life just because he had the misfortune to marry a woman with a geneology that reads like a dairy product portfolio?"

Beal stepped over to Alphonse, hugged him, and then kissed him right on the lips. The whole thing was making me sick. I grabbed Curweana by the elbow and shuffled her towards the door.

"Have fun, Tinkerbells," I said. "The cops oughta be by in awhile to finish up here. I know they'll be charmed."

I grabbed the gymbag with the cash, and Curweana and me shuffled out the door and down the hall to the elevator. My foot was throbbing like a siamese headache, but my libido was pounding out a piano solo to hooter heaven. We stopped and keyed the elevator and she turned and looked at me in a way that changed the tune and had my libido doing a bad version of chopsticks. She took the gymbag and handed me one of the bundles of hundreds and then kissed me on the cheek.

"You've been very sweet," she said, "but you know, that old man in there was the only man in my whole life who has every really been nice to me, and the brassieres he designed for me were the most comfortable things I've ever worn. I think he does love me in his own way, and besides," she said turning and winking back over her shoulder at me,"he's rich!" She almost tripped on a spot of blood from my bleeding dog, but it might of been the last note in my libido solo, which was now more like an old Yoko Ono solo.

I sighed as the elevator doors hissed open and my steriod-inflated friend stepped out with a cast on his foot. He smiled at me.

"Going down!"

"Ha Ha! No hoof, no horse!" I said pointing down at my damaged dog.

"No pain, no gain!" He said grabbing me by the throat and pulling me into the elevator.Then it got very dark. The ambulance driver, it turns out, was an old friend of mine, so I just slipped him a few bucks and had him drop me at my office. The floor was still a little spongy, but it felt good under my wounded wheel, although it didn't seem to have much of an effect on the cracked ribs courtesy of my muscle headed friend. I got to my desk, managed to find my emergency bottle under the ceiling tile, sat down, chewed off the cap and started into that slow ride down the spine of reality that

ended at a throbbing foot and painful breathing, but just before that slow twist into blackness, it was warm, and soft with nipples, and then it got very dark again.This is Sam Similie, signing off.

THE END