Monday, July 17, 2006

Dead men don't write books

The nurse walked in. She had a mouth like a mail-slot, slathered over with cheap red lipstick.

Blonde and busty, she might have been a good-looking dame once, but the years and the whiskey had taken their toll.

She glanced at the patient. And she knew. You see enough stiffs, you learn to spot 'em after a while. She checked his pulse. Her hunch was right -- the poor sap was deader than her second marriage.

Her ample breasts heaving with each step, she walked to the door and leaned out, shouting to the slack-jawed orderly loitering in the corridor: "You can toe-tag this one, Louie. New meat for the county morgue."

Mickey Spillane is dead.

The sob sisters in the press are crawling all over this story now like maggots on a week-old corpse. But you heard it here first -- right, pal

I sent a note to this cute little number I know, to tell her that the Big Guy had bought the farm. She's a nice dame -- broke a million hearts when she married some palooka -- but she's still kind of wet behind the ears. She sent me back a note:
I may only be young enough to remember the parodies, not the real thing.
Yeah? Well, I was born at night, but it wasn't last night, honey. So I sent her this message:

She was a young dame. Pretty poison, Hammer said to himself as he poured another shot of whiskey.
Young, maybe, but no dummie. She knew the moves. He watched her pull a cigarette from her purse, and slide it seductively between her luscious lips.
"Got a match?" she said.
Hammer turned up the shot glass, the whiskey setting his throat ablaze as he reached for his Zippo.
"No, not a match," he told her, gazing coolly into her hazel eyes. "But I can light your fire, sister."
They're all over him now like a cheap suit: Oddball Observations, Howling Hobbit, Rap Sheet, ToobWorld, Thomas Roche ...

Yeah, every two-bit blogger with a laptop and a hunger for the bigtime is gonna cash in on this one. But are they gonna link the guy who blogged it first?

Nah, those Johnny-Come-Lately bloggers -- they're a dime a dozen around this town, the ungrateful bastards.