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Murder, Broads, and Bones (part 4 the finish)

February 21, 2013

murdered woman


     We went back to my place and after about 15 minutes of grilling the dead girl, we  didn’t learn anything.  I wasn’t taken anymore chances.  I had to be sure.  Either she was real stubborn, or really dead, or a really good actress or a really good dead actress, or a really good dead actress who was stubborn.   Questions, questions, and more questions.   Unfortunately the answers came quickly.  I was calling the cops to tell them to pick up the body, and a diet ice tea when I glanced at my appointment book and realized that Layla had mixed up the appointments.  This dead girl was Lenora Corndog.  The heiress to the Corndog fortune.  Then it all fit together perfectly like OJ’s leather glove.

I knew who the murderer was.  The clue was right there in front of me in the form of a gun barrel pointed at my head.   It wasn’t Doc, I knew that right away because the person holding the gun was a woman.  It wasn’t Layla because she was wearing a blue dress, well dark blue, many might actually say its black, but according the sales slip it was blue.   And it wasn’t Harriet because it’s not the ending yet.


     This dame was another looker, like they all are in detective stories; only she had such a wide nose, that even though her big blue eyes were crossed, it made them look normal.  With red finger nails long enough to rake leaves, she pushed a pile of black hair away from her face and it fell to the floor.  How and why she got that clump of black hair to stick to her face was just another mystery that would go unsolved.  I’m not usually attracted to red heads, nor any size Doxhound, but this carrot top had something extra– something that would make me want her even when I was a woman and I was no lesbian.  Okay, maybe for brief period in the eighties and nineties and most of 2002 but that was a time of experimentation.

She had great long legs that I didn’t have to look down to see, but had to look up to see where they ended.   I love legs more that I like air and I like air so much that I don’t exhale.  She didn’t like my eyes on her gams and brought the gun closer to my head, but before she had a chance to pull the trigger Layla imitated a swat team, which distracted her just enough for me to grab the pistol.  It wasn’t much of a struggle, my superior strength and Layla’s impression of a bowl of salsa being poured into a Tupperware, cracked us both up, and the gun fell to the floor amid belly laugh.


      The tables had been turned.  I was now in control.  Even though I let Layla slap her around awhile and I threatened to do her make up, she wouldn’t tell me how that clump of hair got stuck to her face.  So I asked her why she pointed the gun at me.  That’s when I found out that the dead woman was still not who we thought she was.  Just to make sure Layla and I checked the appointment book.  It was the old triple whammy.  Layla had written three appointments in reverse order.  Layla had told me she had dyslexia, but I thought it was just an excuse for wearing her clothes backwards and inside out.  The living red head standing in front of me was Leona Corndog, the heir to the corndog fortune and the dead broad was her step sister Tracy Sarsaparilla a female Gene Rayburn impersonator, and heir to the Sarsaparilla last name, whose real dream was to have a husband, a family, and a whore house with a white picket fence around it (and if possible a F.E.M.A. trailer for overnight guests).

Was it just coincidence that the dead broad rotting at our feet used the same dentist as everyone in the room, or it was because Doc was the only dentist that also accepted auto insurance?   And why didn’t Doc recognize her?  I needed a few more answers, especially since this time I intended to use multiple choice.  


The real Leona assured me that she really didn’t want to shoot me.  She just wanted to pull the trigger a few times and see what kind of pattern my brains would leave on the wall.   She was a performance artist and thought my brain splatter might qualify her for a government grant.   Before she’d take my pop quiz she wanted me to answer her questions – like who killed her sister and if I could do it all over again would I still wear short sleeved shirts in the winter.  I was about to tell her it depended on what sex I was at the time when I found another gun pointed at me.  This time it was Harriet.   And she had an itchy trigger finger, which required occasional scratching and calamine lotion.  I could see my reflection in her shiny eyes, eyes that had murder in them, my murder.  I don’t have much of memory, especially for things that have happened already, but even a schmo like me can’t forget what happened next.  With the barrel of her gun just a few inches from my nose, which was running at the time and required Harriet to wipe it on the barrel, I got the nerve to ask her what this was all about.  And why she killed that girl?   With a snarl that made putting on lipstick difficult Harriet replied. “What girl?”

And I bounced back with an answer that would make all my transsexual detective peers proud, “The dead one lying on the floor.”



      Harriet tossed her lipstick at the dead broad and shot back, “Oh, that girl.”  I was temped to fetch the lipstick since it was a shade I used back in my female days, but what she said next surprised me.  She was actually smiling when she remarked, “I was trying to kill you.”

Excuse me for being long winded, but I replied, “Me?”

That’s when Harriet, while tweezing an eye brow as if she she were an old lady picking at free hordeours, explained that she was aiming at the girl because she thought she was me.   She didn’t know I had gotten another sex change.   According to Harriet, the dame and I could have been twins if not for our looks, height, and coloring.  But most importantly the dead dame was wearing a dress like the one Harriet had seen in my closet while playing Twister with Doc, which she won easily since her parts were removable.  She didn’t think anyone else had the same bad taste in clothes, especially after taking one look at the ugly handbag.


      Sometimes I don’t know where my inspiration comes from but the next question just popped out of my mouth like a brat’s burp.  “Why did you want to kill me.?”  The answer I got was not one I wanted aired in public.

Harriet smiled like a clown watching a kid getting spanked. “I found out about the tumble in the debris you and Doc had last week.”  She then pulled out a tooth and tossed it at Doc.

Doc was right I should never have bragged about it on my answering machine —  someday someone was bound to call me.  Before Harriet could empty her gun into my current body I explained that it was the night before my third sex change, I was scared, and we had some wine, smoked a few joints, downed a couple of Quaaludes, popped some ecstasy, snorted some cocaine, ate a couple bowls of grape nuts, sang the Notre Dame fight song, and joined the Lucy Arnez fan club.  She nodded like she understood what a romantic moment it was, but said it was too late.

I had to keep her talking.  So I asked her why the dead girl had one of Doc’s dentist pens in her pocket book.   She had no idea and pointed the gun at Doc.   I thought she was going to shoot when Layla interrupted.   Harriet loosened her trigger finger, a little too much because it almost fell off, and listened to Layla while she placed Post-it notes to mark where she was going to shoot me.   Layla explained that Tracy had asked her to borrow a pen and since we had been given a few thousand when Doc got the can from the Dental Association, she gave her one.  Layla apologized for not telling us sooner, but didn’t want me to know that she pocketed the fifty cents she charged for the pen.

When Harriet let up on the trigger I breathed a sigh of relief until she pointed it at me.   I quickly asked, “Why the second shot?”

Harriet suddenly changed her mind and began rearranging the notes as she spoke. “I realized I killed the wrong person when I saw you run to the body.  I shot a second time but I’d already started to reapply my make up, which caused me to miss.  I won’t miss this time,” she squealed as she poked my fake Adam’s apple with the gun barrel.

“Why would you want to kill me for a few badly exchanged fluids?  I thought you and Doc were history.  You just threw him out of building?”

Harriet explained that at the time she was just a little cranky from wearing high heals that didn’t account for a cast on her foot.  She had broken her foot that morning trying to squeeze it into a shoe by using a vice.   She really was in love with Doc and that week they even had phone sex at my place, which explained why both my cordless phones were sticky.  That’s when she saw the ugly hand bag.  Then she turned to Doc and said, “Tell him, Doc…tell him what you wrote to me, how you were in love with him, her or whatever it is.” She stopped plucking her eye brow and pointed at me.  Harriet then explained to us that she found the note a half hour ago.  Luckily before she went to get her driver’s license picture she looked in the mirror and saw it duct-taped to her forehead.  That’s why she came back.  She wanted to kill me face to face. There’d be no mistakes this time.  Now when she spoke she didn’t move her lips, which impressed Layla who asked for her autograph.

“Go ahead, Doc, read it to them.  Okay if you won’t.  I will.” She started to do, but suddenly decided singing it would be more effective.   Unfortunately she liked opera and we couldn’t understand a word she was saying.  Before our ear drums could burst she stopped her aria and spoke.  This time the message was very clear. 


      “You see… That’s why I have to kill you right now!” She leveled her gun at me which meant lowering it since I was now on my knees about to beg for my life and if that didn’t work do my Al Jolsen impression, when we heard banging on the door.

“Layla you’re good real good, but I’m no sucker, I‘m not falling for that trick.”  Harriet said as she checked for wind and adjusted her aim

“It’s the police. You can keep the dead body, but someone’s gotta pay for the ice tea.”  A man’s voice proclaimed.  At least I think it was a guy.  You can never tell these days.

Harriet still thought it was Layla even though by now Layla had fallen asleep.   “Not only sound effects but impressons.  You’re a talented kid, but I’m no dummy.”

We heard the door burst open, and footsteps, and “Drop it!”

Now Harriet was not only angry, she was jealous of Layla. “You’re even better that I thought.  But can you do… “

The next and last thing Harriet heard was a shot.  The bullet entered her back, the impact causing her left breast to tear lose from the Velcro and fall to the ground… The rest of Harriet followed.   It was all over—well–almost.

Layla had awaken when Harriet’s breast fell on her breasts, which made Layla feel like she finally had a rack, and showed us.  That broke the tension and soon the room was filled with hugs–Layla and Doc surrounding me,  and Ms. Corndog squeezing her sister’s corpse so tight we could hear the dead girl’s stiff bones breaking.  Layla, Doc and I and the cops started laughing hysterically.  Broken bones, there’s nothing funnier.  Even Ms. Corndog was smiling.  The police put Tracy – the dead dame- and Ms. Corndog, who refused to let go of the corpse, in the body bag, zipped it up and took them away, but not before they made me pay for the ice tea, including tip.


      Since I now had a guy and gal in love with me, I was deciding what sex I’d end up being when Layla and Doc starting kissing.  They were going at it pretty hard.  When I tried to join in they slugged me, called me a pig and left my office, still embraced.  Doc proclaimed that he didn’t need me anymore, that Layla could do and had a much better body.  I had to agree, wished them well, and asked Layla to send me nude pictures, her exact measurements and X-rays.   My future was coming clear. By some kind of freaky fate, the case had been solved, the murderer was dead, and I had brought two lonely people together.  But as usual I was alone again.   Maybe I had made a mistake.  Maybe instead of being one sex or the other. I should be both.  A hermaphrodite.  Yeah, why not?   Just one last sex change.  This way, worse case scenario, if my next relationship doesn’t work out I could always leave whoever it is for myself. 


From → Oddball Stories

  1. Greg Miller permalink

    Wow Pat and his cat were right, you are an excellent writer. I had to go back and read the other 3 after starting this one, didn’t want to miss out. Like how you kept the emotion while still dropping laughs throughout and LOL we shouldn’t knock the hermaphrodites they get their thrill whenever need be.

    • What does Pat know? I’m lucky I can spell. But thank you for the compliment.

    • Thanks. Pat has some really nice friends. Most of mine should be in jail or in an insane asylum.

  2. Scott Broom permalink

    Love your style of humor, way better than that of todays in your face, same old same old thing. Very much enjoyed the read, can’t wait for more.

    • Thank you very much. I really appreciate your comments. My goal was to do something more off beat. I have a few more I’ll post soon. First I have another story that just happened a few months ago with Larry David.

    • Thank you that means a lot to me. I like writing the off beat stuff the most. But it’s takes longer and is harder to write than the other stuff.

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