200 word story. Quick peek into a detective's life.
|Delila was a dancer with cancer with a taste in men sicker than her cells. Rick Ricky fit the bill, gold over silver, fists over palms. Their fights were so cliché I won't mention them. Only interesting part was Ricky's addiction to gum. Gave up cigarettes, couldn't give up gum. Funny - until bruises make it on stage. All's well in hell til the devil walks in, I say.
Rick Ricky posted bail seven minutes ago. Fifteen to get to Madame Bovaries. I called Delila three minutes ago. Solve for x. She's got a .45 loaded, cash packed, and a shot of whiskey screaming down her throat.
Men don't appreciate their lady getting preggo during a twelve month stint, and women don't like jailed men avoiding hospital bills.
My old man spat one good liquor-scented piece of advice, “Life's a game of reading between the lines as well as the sheets.” At fourteen, you take words to heart, no matter the words.
It's always the same story. Poor Lover Murdered. I can't say I loved Delila, but it was my kid in that belly and fifty thousand of those confiscated greens was our ticket out. Guess I read wrong, old man.