Dear friends of Stock Fiction,
I promised you chocolate and showed up with meatloaf.
Best laid plans, amirite?
This one’s been cooking for a while.
Bon appetit, lovers.
The night was stubborn and thick. Like the remains of a jar of natural peanut butter someone thoughtlessly skimmed the oil out of for the last three weeks.
I mindlessly stirred my caramel-mocha-cocoa-fro-yo latte with my left ring finger and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the gold band I still couldn’t bring myself to part with.
Women. Can’t live with them. Can’t investigate their suspicious deaths because your boss says you’re too close to the case.
She teetered in my doorway like a bosom-heavy lawn ornament, bracing herself against the frame to keep from toppling over. She was tall, with legs that attached to her body the way they were supposed to, but somehow, she made it seem effortless. Hair like ribbon candy, lips like seared ahi tuna, and a figure like an upright bass, this broad was checking my boxes like a hypochondriac taking a health survey.
She dripped into the chair beside my desk with the seductive grace of a mildly inebriated giraffe. One look into her blue-raspberry Slurpee eyes and I knew in my gut something wasn’t right.
I had just finished my Monday night meatloaf leftovers and had a burning case of indigestion. But this buxom biped had a different case for me to solve. And that case wasn't smothered in gravy. It was smothered in blood.
“Oh, Detective,” she cries.
“Please, call me Terrance.”
“Oh, Terrance,” she cries.
“I changed my mind, call me Detective.”
She purses her lips and I shrug helplessly under her icy blue gaze.
“Oh, Detective, you must help me. My husband’s been murdered.”
“Do you know who did it?”
She eyes me with the disappointment of a mother whose only son failed out of community college and couldn’t keep a job long enough to move out of her apartment until he was thirty-two.
“If I knew who did it, why would I need a detective?”
“Right.” I clear my throat and take a long swig of my milkshake. I mean, coffee. “Well, you came to the right place, Miss…”
“Missus.”
“Right … Missus …?”
“Call me Lola,” she says.
I tell her that’s kind of a cliché name, and she tells me to just go with it.
“I don’t have much money,” she says, turning her eyes down shyly. “But I’m sure I can make it worth your while.” She drags her hand over her bean bun cleavage and licks her sashimi lips.
“Nice,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
“I mean … it seems crass to discuss money at a time like this, Miss—”
“Missus.”
“Missus—"
“Lola.”
“Lola! But I’m sure we can work something out as two consenting adults who recently lost our spouses in mysterious ways.”
She smiles and I grimace.
“What? Do I have something on my face?”
“Just a little lipstick … on your teeth … right there.”
I reach across the desk to point out the tainted incisor and she stands up and slaps me across the face. My little detective leaps to attention behind my fly.
“Awesome.” I reach for her again and she pulls away.
“I’m sorry, Terry—” she gasps.
“Terrance.”
“Terran—”
“Detective.”
“Detective. It’s too soon. I can’t allow myself to fall for another man. Not until my husband’s murder has been solved.”
“Oh right. The murder. Of course. Let’s solve that murder so we can … both move on.”
She nods and I watch hungrily as she pulls a thin card out of her bra. “Here’s my address. Come by tonight and I’ll tell you everything you need to know about my husband’s murder.”
“And then we can…”
“Goodbye, Terrance.”
“Detect—”
“DETECTIVE! I got it. Jesus.”
She huffs out of my office, and I sit down to finish my coffee and give her a head start back to the house. Her house. Where I’ve never been before and won’t be able to find without the business card she just handed me.
It says, “Lola,” in Curlz font, and there’s a picture of her stretched out on a bed in a lacy nightgown. It makes my stomach hurt (probably the meatloaf) because she kind of looks like a prostitute and I hope no one else ever finds this business card. And I really hope she didn’t make more than one.
I tuck the card in my wallet, toss the chunky remains of my mocha-cocoa-froyo into the trash, and grab my fedora from the top of the water cooler.
“Time to go to work, Detective,” I say out loud and then regret it. I clear my throat and wink at myself in a mirror that doesn’t exist. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
I grab my trench coat and stride into the night.
I circle the block five times, turning the details of Lola’s case over in my mind.
“My husband’s been murdered.”
Not much to go on. But there’s a reason why out of all the detective offices, in all the neighborhoods, in all the world, Lola walked into mine.
I work late on Tuesdays. And she knows that about me.
I ring the doorbell and wait for her to answer. After three rings, I try the doorknob.
Open.
I walk in like I own the place and drop my hat on the table in the front hall.
“Is that you, Detective?” she calls out from behind a closed door somewhere.
I loosen my tie and make my way toward the sound of her voice, my neck prickling in anticipation of seeing her again. I wonder if she’s managed to fix her lipstick. I also wonder what she’s wearing, the image of her stretched out in her business card best still hanging in my mind.
“I’m in the bedroom,” she calls. “Waiting for you.”
My stride doubles, and my heart drums out of time with my steps. A reddish glow spills out from under the bedroom door like a sexy tractor beam.
I knock softly.
“Come in.”
I swing the door open and my jaw hits the floor like a piece of gratuitously buttered toast. I breathe through my mouth which allows me to better process the overpowering mélange of scented candles, incense, Glade plug-in, and perfume hanging in the air.
“Smells good in here,” I cough through a debonair smile.
“Thank you,” she wheezes back seductively.
My eyes run up and down the length of her as my mouth waters dubiously. She’s dressed head to toe in a sheer white robe trimmed in fur. Even in the dimly lit, studio 54 vibe she’s created by throwing scarves over the two lamps stationed on either side of her rose-petal covered bed, I can still make out every curve. Every bend. Every nipple. Even the third one she doesn’t tell people about.
Not that she told me about it. I’m just a really good detective. It’s my job to notice these things.
My stomach rumbles and a wet jet of caramel mixed with onion hits the back of my throat. I swallow hard.
“So…” she says, adjusting the sash around her waist. “About my husband’s murder.”
“Oh shit, right.” I shift my hips backward to relieve the pressure at the front of my pants, which have become increasingly restrictive since I walked in.
Another roll of my stomach tells me it’s time to get on with the intercourse.
Investigation.
I pull an invisible notepad from my trench coat pocket and, using my finger as a pencil, I approach her. She sits on the bed and pats the space beside her. I sit down and feel the button on my pants give out.
“Tell me, Lola…” she rests her hand on my thigh and my pulse jumps. “um … where do you … I mean where were you … when your husband…” she takes my hand and places it over her breast. “Woah.”
“Oh, Terry,” she cries.
“Terrance.”
“Terr—"
“Detectance.”
She sighs impatiently.
I put my other hand on her other breast. So, it won’t get lonely.
She laughs and a bubble of gas rises into my chest. I close my lips tightly just as she leans in to kiss me. She pulls back.
“Why won’t you kiss me, Detective?”
I shake my head and shrug.
“Don’t you want to?”
I nod fervently, hoping the movement will send the gas back to where it came from. But it won’t budge.
“If you’re worried about my husband, just remember, he’s dead.”
Her hand slides over my fly zone and my brain drops into my shorts faster than I can come up with an analogy for how turned on I am right now.
I pull her against me and kiss her like I did on our wedding night. Well, my wedding night. With my wife, who’s dead and …
My eyes widen as a meatloaf flavored belch escapes my throat and floats into her unsuspecting mouth.
“Oh, God, Terry,” she gags. “What the hell did you eat?”
“Detective. Meatloaf. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just … maybe don’t kiss me on the mouth again.”
“Okay. Where should I kiss you?”
She boldly opens her robe and invites my face into her perfumed bosom. I accept.
I pull at the remains of her costume and my watch band gets hung up on the fabric. I try to yank it free, and it flies off my wrist and onto the floor. We both bend down to retrieve it and crack our heads together.
“Son of a bitch!” she grunts, pressing a hand over her temple.
“Sorry, babe. I’m sorry. Should I just …”
“Just take your pants off,” she orders.
I stand up, mildly concussed, and wriggle out of my clothes in a completely dignified way. She sheds her robe and I collect her in my arms and start kissing her neck … her shoulders … her chest ….
“Oh, Terry,” she moans.
“Detective,” I mumble against her flesh.
“Detective,” she whispers. We fall back onto the bed and laugh when it threatens to buckle. Thankfully, our laughter is enough to cover the sound of me farting. But not even the aroma-sphere of apple cinnamon candles and vanilla spearmint incense can disguise the smell.
Her face twists up and she covers her nose and mouth with her hand.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It was the meatloaf.” As God is my witness. Never again.
“No,” she says. “It smells like …” she turns her head and screams.
The scarf over the lamp on the bed table is engulfed in flames. “Oh, shit!” I jump up and run stark naked, in a completely dignified way, to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher. I return and heroically vanquish the inferno, leaving our bed, and our evening, coated in a thick layer of chemical dust and humiliation.
I drop the emptied extinguisher on the floor and offer her my hand. She takes it in hers and shivers. I pick up my trench coat from the floor and put it around her shoulders.
“Thank you, Detective.”
“You’re welcome, Miss … um. Lola.” I put my arm around her.
She rests her head on my shoulder. It makes me feel like less of a failure.
“How did your husband die, anyway?” I ask.
She sighs longingly. “I set him on fire in our bed.”
I press my lips together to stifle my laugh.
“What about your wife. How did she die?” she asks.
“I killed her with my meatloaf farts,” I reply.
She snorts and then cackles adorably. “Nice.”
“So…” I brush my lips over her temple. “You want to try again next week?”
“Sure,” she says. She squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. “I think I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll clean up.”
“Thank you.”
She slides her arms into the sleeves of my oversized coat and walks out of the room like the love of my life who also happens to be my best friend in the world. My skin flushes warm as I watch her bare ankles disappear through the doorway.
My eyes fall to the bed where Lola’s white, fur-lined robe lies, untarnished by the fire extinguisher. I put it on. It feels pretty nice. And it smells like her breasts did.
My little detective clocks back in.
“Coming, Lola?” a husky voice asks.
I turn around and find her standing in the doorway. In my trench coat and fedora. A plate of cold meatloaf in her hands and a smile on her face that could set a man’s heart (and bed) on fire.
I tie the robe’s sash around my waist, which does nothing to hide my excitement.
“Coming, Detective,” I say.
What say you? 👀
What’s new?
I’m posting two days earlier than my usual post day (Thursday), and one day earlier than my newly appointed post day (Wednesday).
My decision to make the switch to Wednesdays has to do with my new job. I work on Thursdays now, which means if I post Thursday morning, I have to wait all dang day to sit down and visit with you guys.
My decision to post a day earlier than Wednesday this week has to do with my bruised ego. I got my first of what I’m sure will be many rejections from literary agents yesterday, and while I don’t REALLY care, of course I do. I mean, the guy responded in less than 24 hours, so he must have REALLY not been interested in my book (or me). And on top of that, some stupid, jerky, troll left a stupid, jerky, comment on my sweetheart of a novel.
In happier news, my next podcast interview with micro fiction master
is queued up for this Sunday! If you missed my debut dialogue with , now’s your chance to catch up.If you choose to listen on Spotify or elsewhere, please be so kind as to give me a nice rating. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ It helps me score with the algorithm. 🙄
I plan to keep getting better at this podcasting racket, friends. It plays to so many of my strengths while simultaneously being a hell of a good time. I’m also learning A LOT as I go, so my decision to fill my season one roster with incredibly kind, talented, charismatic, and supportive people was a wise one. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Speaking of kind, talented, charismatic people who support me, I had a great time talking “funny” over at
last week.That’s all for this quirky Tuesday edition of Stock Fiction, friends.
Of all the newsletters, on all the platforms, on all the internets, in all the worlds, you walked into mine.
Thank you, sweetheart.
Now, I will could never love meatloaf more! “Slurp,” that’s all I can say about this tasty piece… thank you!👍
I love noir, and over-the-top noir satire, so I gobbled this up. *Burp* More, please.