So there I was, doing my best impression of a house plant, just sitting in the corner of my office. The only thing moving was the shifting rainbow colored triangles ricocheting off the borders of my desktop. The room was silent. It looked like a tromploi still life painting. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t even breathing. Yeah…now that I think about it, I was dead as hell—newly murdered if I recall correctly.
So this detective walks in, right, and he’s the classic type. A real Dick Tracy, wearing a long coat over a three piece suit, holding his hat against his chest like a Chicago gentlemen. He was drench in the scent of bourbon and Marlboros. Anyways, so he looks down at me looking up at him, all fish eyed and shit, and takes a long draw from a stubby cigarette. His ashes were just dropping all over my 18th century hand woven Romanian tapestry I was using as an area rug. And you just know that shit wasn’t ever gonna come out because it was mixing in with the pool of blood I had already spilt on it. So I’m mad as hell, right? But I’m too damn dead to do anything about it, so I sit there and just groove on his recklessness.
So as “Sherlock Jones” steps around my crime scene, contaminating the hell out of it, I fart. Now look, I’m dead as hell. Gases were building up inside of me all rapidly and shit. This dick was taking his sweet ass time gathering clues and whatnot. A fart was bound to squeeze out of me at some point. Sue me.
So he looks down at me again, like my fart was some childish ass call for attention and starts laughing….laughing hard. I’m thinking I’m sitting at Showtime at the Apollo the way he’s going on. He was falling over and slapping my desk and just chuckling the fuck up. It was just a fart! Smell it and get back on the case, my dude.
So all of a sudden, his boisterous laugh falls silent. Instead, it was replaced with this annoyingly continuous gasping. This guy inhaled his own cigarette and was actually choking to death. So he’s stumbling around, coughing ashes out of his mouth, bellowing smoke out of his nose, just dying all over my office. At this point, he’s looking like a drowsy dragon trying to fight off a sleeping pill while simultaneously performing close quarter combat attacks on all of my office equipment, just slowly crumbling under the weight of his own mortality. Meanwhile I’m still sitting on the floor, dead as shit, waiting for him to calm his tits.
So as he’s finally wrapping up his showcase of Choking Master Kung Fu, he falls towards me and in one final blow delivers his secret technique, the Deadman Chin Drop, and lands right into my chest, directly on my sternum. I cough a few times to catch my breath and clear out some of that pre-zombie mucus. As it turns out, his chin performed a single strike CPR maneuver that resuscitated my gangly corpse and brought my soul back from the realm of expiration. So at that point, I’m sitting on the floor, getting a “Kentucky Welcome” from the dead cop, trying to figure out if I pressed “send” on the last email I typed up to HR.
It was all quite the ordeal. But then my receptionist walked in…and that’s when things started to get crazy.
To Be Continued…
Disclaimer : This is an original work of excitingly funny fiction created by Jae Davis. Any similarities between this story and persons, places, or things in the “real” world, are purely coincidental. Copyright Jamale Davis, 2019. All Fucking Rights Reserved