The Short Hello: Marlowe Goes Home For the Holidays
by Bruce Boston
after Raymond Chandler
I split open his skull as if it were a canned ham. I broke his collarbone and stepped on his face. When he stopped wriggling, I tossed him into the corner. Let the maid take care of it in the morning, I thought.
I lit a Camel and it was good. I coughed and took another drag, French inhaling. I thought about the insides of my nostrils. After three years of French inhaling they were black as the Carlsbad, horny as any potato casserole. I thought about mustard and mother's milk, slowly contemplated artichokes and olive branches. I dropped the half-smoked butt underfoot and ground it into the carpet. When I looked up she was standing by the sideboard.
No leggy young blond, let me tell you. The legs were there, but the hair was white and she must have been sixty if she were a day. Her hands had the color of cheap tuna. A veil suspended from the front of her pillbox hat was supposed to be hiding her wrinkles. It was also doing a good job on chin, mouth, nose and eyes. A dozen or so white flecks scattered upon the netting resembled nothing more than a spray of pigeon droppings. My hand sidled into my pocket, gripping the pearl-handled gat.
"What's up, toots?" I asked her.
A sally of wind shifted through the open window. Her veil billowed, lifted. The wrinkles were there all right. From their center, two beady eyes fixed me.
"Go wash your hands," she said, "Dinner's ready. And don't call me toots."
I pulled the trigger. I couldn't stop firing until I'd turned the entire place to Swiss cheese.
Bruce Boston is the author of 45 books and chapbooks. His most recent are the best-of fiction collection Masque of Dreams (Wildside, 2009) and the sf/speculative poetry collection, North Left of Earth (Sam's Dot, 2009). For more information, visit his website.
by Bruce Boston
after Raymond Chandler
I split open his skull as if it were a canned ham. I broke his collarbone and stepped on his face. When he stopped wriggling, I tossed him into the corner. Let the maid take care of it in the morning, I thought.
I lit a Camel and it was good. I coughed and took another drag, French inhaling. I thought about the insides of my nostrils. After three years of French inhaling they were black as the Carlsbad, horny as any potato casserole. I thought about mustard and mother's milk, slowly contemplated artichokes and olive branches. I dropped the half-smoked butt underfoot and ground it into the carpet. When I looked up she was standing by the sideboard.
No leggy young blond, let me tell you. The legs were there, but the hair was white and she must have been sixty if she were a day. Her hands had the color of cheap tuna. A veil suspended from the front of her pillbox hat was supposed to be hiding her wrinkles. It was also doing a good job on chin, mouth, nose and eyes. A dozen or so white flecks scattered upon the netting resembled nothing more than a spray of pigeon droppings. My hand sidled into my pocket, gripping the pearl-handled gat.
"What's up, toots?" I asked her.
A sally of wind shifted through the open window. Her veil billowed, lifted. The wrinkles were there all right. From their center, two beady eyes fixed me.
"Go wash your hands," she said, "Dinner's ready. And don't call me toots."
I pulled the trigger. I couldn't stop firing until I'd turned the entire place to Swiss cheese.
Bruce Boston is the author of 45 books and chapbooks. His most recent are the best-of fiction collection Masque of Dreams (Wildside, 2009) and the sf/speculative poetry collection, North Left of Earth (Sam's Dot, 2009). For more information, visit his website.
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