It was a dark and stormy night… Isn’t it always? Hmph…
I stood under a lone lamppost; like that stupid Hollywood cliché that is so overused, people don’t know which movie it’s from. I do. Jame Salmstrong’s “The Chief”, released in 1966. Same year John Bishop was caught killing his seventh victim.
But that’s not the point of the story (or is it?).
Under the light post, beside me, was a dame. A dead dame. She was a mess. More blood than humanly possible drenched her. Her white dress, once beautiful, was recently colored over by her blood.
The chick was a cliché herself. Her hair blonde, her eyes blue. A little mole between her slim model’s nose and her red thin lips.
She was a modern Marilyn Monroe.
I didn’t do none of this. I’m not the killer. I didn’t care about her or about who committed the crime. I cared about what she had.
I wander down Lavender street, the one between Holter and Main. I light a cigarette. People look at me wrong, like it’s illegal. Not in this state, it ain’t.
You see, after the great war, tabacoids were made illegal in all but 3 states: Washington, Montana, and Michigan. Leave it to you to guess which one I’m in.
Well, you see, the blonde; she had something that’s mine. Something I need, had, and got taken.
Now she’s dead. And I have no clue where it is.
I contacted a buddy of mine. Turns out little Ms. NoName had a boyfriend. A rich boyfriend.
Guess I’ll pay old Mr. Guzman a visit.
Asked around. Street talk is that Mr. Guzman’s father was a Nazi. Apparently daddy Guzman got his gold from dead jews…
Isn’t Guzman a Mexican surname?
Went to Guzman’s mansion. Huge. I’ve seen smaller government buildings. Looks like the queen of England’s summer house! Butler opened up, began to shoo me away. Guzman screamed to let me in, since he was “expecting me”.
So the villain awaits for the guy’s arrival. ANOTHER DAMN CLICHÈ! Not less creepy because of such.
Talked over strong brandy (*cough* CLICHÈ! *cough*) while he pet his disgusting bald cat (YAY! MORE CLICHÈS!) and he said he had it, and he wasn’t gonna give it back. Don’t know what to do…
So I met up with this gal, Sally. Sally is what you may call a “woman of many friends”; you see… Well Sally has a friend that has a friend that can get blueprints for Mr. Moneybag’s mansion (how convenient! CLICHÈ?) Thats gonna come in handy!
So I have a plan, you see… I’m entering trough some underground caverns that connect with the mansion (Who builds a house on top of caverns?!).
I’m entering the caverns… Cobwebs greet me at the entrance. Then a group of bats come rushing towards my face (cliché).
I’m lost… lost! I have no idea where I am!
I passed by some ancient runes carved into the stone. Could’ve there been Indians here before ?
I feels dizzy… Hard… think.
I had a puppy! I was on a bright green meadow when the British came!
Why can’t I watch cartoons dad? Pineapple, mango, PHRUITS!
I no lik kav…. I mis sun… I no breths.
No c q sta passndo! Dnd stoy? Mlditos ptos gringos! No buelbo a komer elado!
“My, My, My; what do have here? Mr. Guttenmberg! Sad and lonely Mr. Guttenmberg! If I recall correctly, your son was murdered by his girlfriend; and your wife killed herself soon after! Tsk, Tsk, Tsk. That had no effect on you. We now know who brought the crazy gene into the family!”
The man laughed.
“But, OH! You loose your lucky charm and come rushing to save it! Well… I need your ‘charm’ for a spell. It’s a powerful, old, mystic item; not that you knew better.”
Another laugh… I… I recognize that voice.
“And I also need a human life. Hmm? Where would I found THAT?” continued the voice evil stingers activated in it.
As he came close to me with a simple kitchen knife, all I could think was, ‘S**t, so much for a Cliché ending where the hero wins…’