In a mood not generally improved by the loss of another Ramone, I hereby offer this return fire, hopefully blunting the effect of any future visit to fictionpress.com in which you may engage. This site is chiefly populated by literary efforts of high schoolers either under the gun of a deadline or a healthy crank habit.
---
The frost-windowed door of Bud McScreed's Detective Agency was slightly ajar, allowing the hall to smell of pizza and gin. Zelda Plantagenet, the building concierge/manager, peeked into the doorway for a look just as McScreed fumbled for the doorknob, about to check for the paper.
Both screamed as the door swung aside.
"You could keep the door shut for your own unlikely safety", Plantagenet mumbled.
"And you could wear your Dior original next time", McScreed painfully retorted, closing the door and trying to put her housecoat out of his mind. He resolved to return to the experiment in hangover remedies currently underway, involving egg whites, tomato juice, pepper and a mystery ingredient to be named later.
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"You slept in your office again."
"Brilliant deduction, Watson; your powers of observation astound me", he moaned to Jenny Black, his lawyer. "Anything on the Feeney octuple-murder case?
"Make it nine, whatever the word for that is. Meet me at the intake morgue in the Police annex. This one was on the membership roster of one of your swinger clubs."
(to be continued)
