The John Didn’t Care For a Dame

Remick Delhunty stood in front of the full-length dress mirror, teeth clenched. He slowly unclenched and clenched his jaw, all the while staring at his reflection. His hair was slick and neat. He wore a dusty black suit, with patched elbows. There was a grey sheen to the whole ensemble that spoke of the past. In one hand, he held a small Dictaphone; the other was busy massaging his jaw.

With one of his nine remaining fingers, he pressed record and took a deep breath.

‘Day Twelve of Howard Case. Suit looking ratty. Note to self: self also looking ratty. Perhaps time to trade in for newer model? Will pray for vehicular accident of some kind. The Lord provides.’

The Barrel of a Goddamned Gun

William ‘Leb’ Lebowski bent down on one knee, a baboon proposing for marriage. Felt the seam in his back starting to ache but ignored it. Watched his gloved fingers slide easily over the oily liquid splashed across the grill floor. Sniffed them. Wrinkled his nose. Then waved them over the analyser set into his belt. A second later it beeped and the readout danced across the inner surface of his specs: 10% prob. oil slick nanos, 90% prob. Chromium residue. He grinned without humour, his face a bitter mask. Fucking Chromium.

Science won but look what’s left behind, Leb contumed as, with creaking knees, he lumbered to his feet.

He extended a hand; flicked a finger. An instant later, his pistol blurred up from its holster and smacked dead into the palm of his hand with a loud chunk.

Me, nightmare monsters, and the barrel of a goddamned gun.