Drinking Wine with Mr. Gusto

By Harlan Harper

If you want to maintain your sanity, don't become a detective during the zombie apocalypse.

It was supposed to be another normal day during the apocalypse. But that changed when Mr. Gusto discovered a crime scene that reminded him how both those alive and undead can be equally disturbed.

For Mr. Gusto, a detective in the Zombie Crime Unit, his new case will take him out of the smoke-filled haze of his favorite bar and into a world where the only one he can trust is himself.

A detective, a coroner, and a forensic photographer's lives intertwine in this zombie crime thriller where their humanity and morality is put to the test. Will they rise above the decay below, or will they seep into the soft mud and become one with the dead?

If you like The Last of Us and The Walking Dead Series, you will enjoy the twisted world of Drinking Wine with Mr. Gusto.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlan Harper
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224033393

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Drinking Wine with Mr. Gusto

A Zombie Detective Thriller

Harlan Harper

Harlan Harper

Copyright © 2023 Harlan Harper All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Dedication

1.Pontus I

2.Mnemozyne I

3.Pontus II

4.Mnemozyne II

5.Pontus III

6.Oizys I

7.Mnemozyne III

8.Pontus IV

9.Oizys II

10.Mnemozyne IV

11.Pontus V

12.Oizys III

13.Mnemozyne V

14.Pontus VI

15.Oizys IV

16.Mnemozyne VI

17.Pontus VII

18.Mnemozyne VII

19.Oizys V

20.Mnemozyne VIII

21.Pontus VIII

22.Mnemozyne IX

23.Oizys VI

24.Mnemozyne X

25.Pontus IX

26.Mnemozyne XI

27.Pontus X

28.Mnemozyne XII

29.Oizys VII

30.Mnemozyne XIII

31.Oizys VIII

32.Mnemozyne XIV

33.Oizys IX

34.Mnemozyne XV

35.Oizys X

36.Mnemozyne XVI

37.Oizys XI

38.Mnemozyne XVII

39.Oizys XII

40.Mnemozyne XVIII

41.Oizys XIII

42.Mnemozyne XIX

43.Oizys XIV

44.Mnemozyne XX

45.Oizys XV

46.Mnemozyne XXI

47.Oizys XVI

48.Mnemozyne XXII

49.Oizys XVII

50.Mnemozyne XXIII

51.Epilogue

52.Adonis I

About Author

To the inventor of wine, thank you.

Pontus I

Edgar unzipped the clear plastic bag, unveiling a grey body that was cold to the touch. The face looked like it came from a meat grinder. The skin around his eye sockets was folded up like cottage cheese. His lips twisted into a smile split into eight different segments of pink, blue, and grey. If Edgar were to go to a restaurant and order chopped up octopus sushi, he imagined that the meat would look like John Doe’s smile.

Frequently, Edgar reflected on the specific crime scene where he initially encountered John Doe. It stuck in his mind, the way the smell of decomposition stuck in his nostrils. Edgar was the highest rated coroner in Allegheny County going on fifty years. And in those fifty years, it took a lot to haunt his dreams. This death did exactly that.

They found John Doe on the side of the highway, about twenty miles from the morgue. A man called the police after he found him. Nobody knows how he got there or what happened to him. All that anyone knew for certain was that you couldn’t look at his face without a sickness swelling in your guts.

They say I work too slow. Edgar said, his voice creaking like an old ship.

Sylvia—Edgar’s Diener—said, you work with a purpose. You treat them with respect and dignity. This needs to be done with care.

Yes. Of course. But the world’s always changing. Not sure if I’ll be able to keep up much longer.

Should I bring over the tools?

Please.

Edgar adjusted his face shield. The warmth of his breath made him sweat behind his surgical mask. He rubbed his index finger and his thumb together on both of his hands. As he rubbed them, he held them up next to his ears. He liked the buzzing sound that a new pair of nitrile gloves make when they’re held right up to the opening of his ear.

Soon, Sylvia returned. The wheel of the metal tool table wobbled and spun back and forth. Squeaking with each step.

As she organized the tools based on appropriateness to this autopsy, Edgar continued to examine the man’s face. He pictured someone putting it on a plate, grinding up a bit of salt on top of it, and serving it at a fancy restaurant. The octopus was wonderful, chef. It flowered out from his skull so perfectly. The more he watched it, the more it pulled him in. He cleared his throat and tried to strike the thoughts from his mind.

The face stared at him. Was it a small bomb? An animal, perhaps?

The rest of his body was clean. No signs of struggle or damages. Nothing outward that the naked eye could notice.

But he would soon examine it all closer.

Would you make all the cuts today? Sylvia asked.

Edgar held his shaking hand up where they could both see it.

He shook his head. Been acting up worse lately.

What’s your doctor saying?

Says I should retire.

You tell him to kick rocks?

Edgar cackled and adjusted his mask. I told him I’ll work here until the day I keel over onto one of these gurneys myself. Might as well make your job easier for you.

How considerate. Just hang on a few more years, yeah? School’s been really kicking my ass.

I’ll do my best, he coughed into his elbow, even though the mask and the visor already shielded any of the droplets from hurting anyone. I’ll start examining his body if you could get prepped to cut his skull open.

You sure?

I trust you. You’ve a steady hand and learned from the best.

Don’t be mad if I mess something up.

We should focus on not messing up. We’ll deal with our emotions if the time comes to pass.

At John Doe’s wrists were purplish indentations that went the length of them. All wrapped around like bloodened bracelets. Signs of them being tied by something. At the scene, he had his arms bent behind his back. The left elbow was broken. The other had a black bruise on his tricep.

Edgar noted the wounds. He used a small rubber tool to push the skin up and down near the swelling purple wrist.

Interesting. He whispered to himself.

Then he checked near the man’s stomach. It was swelling—as they do after death. There were some small divots near the third rib.

Did you remember to press the recording button this time? He said.

I never make the same mistake twice, sir.

Good, Edgar ran the rubber underneath the divots on his rib, and then he clapped his hands together loudly. This helped when he would go to review the recording at a later date. The audio wavelengths would jump from the sudden sound and quickly allow him to find the portions where he spoke important information. third rib. Left side. Likely broken. Contusions around the wrist are consistent with tying. Likely a thin rope or cord. Cranium cut ordered. Complete internal examination ordered, then he clicked the scale off and back on to double check the weight. 242 pounds prior to autopsy. Then he clapped his hands again to signify the end of the important information.

We wasted a lot of time on that last autopsy without having the recording. Are you absolutely certain you remembered?

I’m certain. And I apologize...again.

When I was a diener, my pathologist always said if you aren’t making mistakes, you aren’t trying hard enough. We all make mistakes. No need to be concerned anymore.

Edgar grabbed a cutting tool from the metal table.

Will you be making the torso cuts? Sylvia asked.

Yeah. That can be done with shaky hands. It’s the brain tissues that I worry about.

Fine by me. Would you like to start first?

Brain always comes out last. I only asked you to get prepped, not to start cutting.

Funny, Edgar thought. She should know better.

I know, she said. I just meant that I could cut the cranium first. Get it all prepped.

It's best for us to just focus on the torso.

And so he had Sylvia put the body block underneath John Doe’s back. This made his chest protrude upward. The sternum and ribs all poked up through the fatty parts of his torso.

Edgar rubbed his gloved fingertips together one last time before picking up a scalpel and making long cuts in the shape of a Y down the length of John Doe’s upper body. This was typically his favorite part of the job and even with his hands shaking, he could still make mostly neat cuts. A corpse’s skin has a tendency to cut like a chicken breast underneath the sharpness of a scalpel. And though the county didn’t provide with him an immense budget, they always provided sharp tools. Of that, he insisted. He’d worked with dull tools before. In a morgue without a bone vacuum. With gardening sheers instead of rib sheers. And the thought of it made him more nauseous than a rotting body ever could.

Sylvia dunked the scalpel in a bowl of disinfectant and said, Good work on the cut, sir.

She then handed him the rib sheers and his forearms burned as he cut into the chest cavity. Every couple of minutes, he took a break. He could taste the salt of his sweat underneath his mask. His tongue ran along the edge of his lips and pushed the mask away enough to allow him to breathe easier.

He took his time separating the bones and tissues from the lungs, the heart, the stomach, and everything else. He would give the tool to Sylvia and she would dunk it in the disinfectant.

And that’s how it was.

He would cut.

She would clean.

He would cut some more.

She would weigh a lung. A kidney.

It was a division of labor that had served coroners well for centuries. If not for his shaking hands, it would have stayed that way through the entire autopsy, but eventually, all the organs within the chest and stomach were out. They neatly placed them in vats of formalin and set them aside for further examination at a later date.

The two of them chose for this to be a good time to take a break, and so they did. They left John Doe to sit there—ribs cut away. His body was empty. A shell.

If a human had a soul, they must hate this part of the afterlife. An autopsy is a lot of things. But one thing it is not...is pretty. The aching taste of body fluids would diminish a holy ceremony of ending. The pickle-vinegar scent of formaldehyde.

While Sylvia inhaled smoke from a vape pen, Edgar watched the cars drive by in the highway's darkness. Fresh air was the best cure for that morgue-ish scent. After 50 years on the job, he still needed a break in the middle of every autopsy. It was due to being a perfectionist that the county complained about his time. He knew that. But it was also partly because of the breaks.

Thirty minutes minimum in between the cutting and the cleaning.

He was told his autopsies should take no longer than four hours.

Instead, he took several days.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t do them properly. And with utmost respect for the dead.

I see that man of yours still hasn’t gotten you a ring. Edgar said as he waved away the smoke. Or was it the vapor?

We’ve only been together for a year, Ed.

It wasn’t more than a week before I asked my Stella to marry me. Picked her some wildflowers. Took her out to the beach and watched the tides. She loved me and I loved her.

It was that simple?

It was that simple.

Different times, I suppose.

But people are always the same. Inside and out. Nothing really changes all that much, Edgar squinted and grimaced, hiding this aching pain in his hands from being too obvious. You love him, right?

I do. But I really have to put all my efforts into finishing my studies. You’ve been there. It’s no walk in the park.

Got married when I was nineteen. Didn’t do my first autopsy until I was twenty-five.

And now, Edgar thought. Well, now I’m a relic. Nearing a century on this planet. Won’t be long til I’m another grey body laid out on a gurney. Wrapped up in plastic, waiting to be picked apart.

Different times. Sylvia insisted.

Same people, Edgar said. but you keep smoking that shit and I’ll be the one performing your autopsy. When it should certainly be the other way around.

Live a little. She offered him the vape pen.

We live a little too much every day we go to work. A little more than anyone ever should. Too much living when there’s awfully too much dying. That’s our problem.

That’s your problem.

When the half hour was up, they both returned to the morgue. They snapped on fresh nitrile gloves. Pulled their white clothed masks tight enough that Edgar’s ears ached. When they returned to John Doe, there was this new view. A fresh perspective. Edgar called it The Whitening. It is how he could see the situation differently after leaving. This was the essential reason breaks should be required and why Unions should exist to demand them. It’s all for The Whitening. Otherwise, Edgar may have never noticed the small black mark behind John Doe’s right earlobe. A mole. Too tiny to see the curving details of without a microscope.

This could help us, he said. add the mark to his files when we’re done. You didn’t turn off the recording while we were outside, did you?

Sylvia furrowed her brow and shook her head. He told himself he’d stop asking about it, then. Seemed the topic was exhausted.

Then he clapped his hands twice. Small mole behind left earlobe. Don’t forget to double check files. And then he clapped once more.

You don’t trust I’ll do it? She asked.

It’s not about trust. It’s about being thorough—will you prepare the saw then?

She nodded and then grabbed the autopsy saw. Fluorescent lights shined brightly and the reflections from the metal of the blade blinded Edgar for a moment.

Remember. Let the blade do the cutting. Go until you feel it slip in and then no deeper.

Sylvia laughed. Why do you have to make it sound so dirty?

Don’t make this old man blush.

Her eyes smiled above her mask and then she pressed on the saw and cut through the cranial. Her cuts were straight and proper. She didn’t damage the tissue and made taking out the brain and dunking it in another jar of formalin a simple task.

Edgar clapped his hands twice.

Organ removal is complete. Testing will resume in one week’s time.

Then he clapped again.

His ears still had the buzzing sound of the saw circling around within them and the dull silence just brought with it a hollow ringing.

He removed his gloves, washed his hands, and told Sylvia that he had become too exhausted to continue.

You did good work today, Sylvia.

You too, sir.

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Steps weren’t something he was too fond of anymore. So he recently had a stair lift installed that went down into his basement. The man who installed it didn’t appreciate him watching the entire time, but he wasn’t a fan of shoddy work and if he was going to trust this powered chair to bring him up and down the steps, then it needed to be efficient. It needed to be top class.

And it was.

Though it moved too slowly for his liking.

As he whirred down the steps, he stared at the myriad of framed pictures on his wall. They weren’t in any order, but they all brought with them memories of past lives that he would only ever get to visit again in his dreams. One picture in particular he wouldn’t dare to look at and when he passed it, he always stared at the steps. It was his granddaughter.

Eventually—after what felt like an hour—he made it to the bottom and pulled himself up off the chair. His kneecaps tightened and he could feel the ligaments behind them stretching. He thought about what they must look like at his old age. Stringy red things barely hanging on. They somehow continued doing their job and his right knee only buckled a little while he carried himself past the first locked door in the cellar.

Through the door was a small room with a leather couch, four enclosing walls, and an old television set—the type that killed kids when they toppled over. Those autopsies were always the saddest ones. Poor kids. Poorer parents.

Yawning, he walked past this room and typed in a code on a wall panel.

The panel beeped green and then the lock in the wall clicked.

Then a hidden door against the wall opened up and Edgar stepped through it.

He flicked on the lights—they were as bright as the ones at the morgue.

Chains rattled, and feet shuffled.

A woman with stringy hair and decaying skin pulled against the shackles that tied her to the cement floor. She groaned and yanked, but barely moved.

Edgar said, Relax sweetheart. It’s just me.

Mnemozyne I

Ialways thought the zombie apocalypse would be more...apocalyptic. An apocalypse is supposed to be a place where God can’t afford to take off his white gloves. Where the Vodka tastes like wine and all the cigarettes are stale. This apocalypse was not that. This apocalypse was...pretty fucking lame.

It was now the three-year anniversary since the first zombie rose from their grave and everybody who was anybody was going to party until their legs wobbled, drink until the acid in their stomachs burned their assholes, and fuck like they were in a back alley amateur porno about glory holes.

For me though. I figured one out of three ain’t half bad.

Hadn’t had sex in a month, at least.

Didn’t get invited to any parties since my drinking problem got out of hand.

But there was always a half empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey to keep me company underneath the floorboards.

I hid them there to make me feel like James Bond or something and I did this even though I had cabinets and things of the like. I’m not a fucking degenerate...but under the floorboards? Oh yeah. That sounds like a good place to store your whiskey.

The wooden board creaked and bent until it broke free and snapped upward. I laid it to the side and reached into that dark pit of goodness. Glass bottles have this icy touch—like gun metal. If any inanimate objects on this planet could get a man hard, it would have to be guns and glass.

But when I pulled the bottle of Jameson up from the floorboards, there was no sound of sloshing liquid. Nothing to satiate my drooling face. When did I drink this bottle? No recollection. Nothing at all. You never put an empty bottle back. That’s sacrilege. Mr. Gusto let me down again. And now I needed to head out into that grimy city. Fuck yourself Mr. Gusto. Til it bleeds and tightens and aches. Use the bottle if you have to. Make it hurt.

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The bar was a little rundown shack of an establishment called The Tilted Table. When I walked through the doors, the stench of piss, beer, and pussy smacked me in the face, crawling into my nostrils and clinging to my curling hairs. It smelled like home and by the time I made it up to the counter, the bartender—a fat man named Montgomery, who everyone called Monty—already had my drink ready.

Mr. Gusto. Monty said as he nodded, sliding the shot glass near my side of the bar.

Just Andre today.

Oh, his eyes narrowed. Haven’t seen you in here in a while.

It had been two weeks.

They don’t pay us enough to be spending every paycheck at the bar. Whaddya say you buy me the first one? I’m doing God’s work for you filth after all.

I’d buy drinks for Mr. Gusto, but for Andre? There’s already a hundred other Andre’s here tonight.

Prick. Any of those Andre’s catching your eye in particular tonight? I said before letting that sweet taste of whiskey trickle down my throat and make friends with my liver. I imagined it swirled in my gut, French kissing every organ. Kicking down every door. And saying Daddy’s Home Baby.

Cheers to three years. Monty said as he topped off my glass, ignoring my comment. His fat rolls hung over the edge of the bar. That bottom button grasped for dear life. He used to be in great shape, which gave him an in with the out crowd, if you will. A frolic with the old gay folk. They called it the Zombie 15. Everyone put on some weight from all the stress and time spent hiding indoors.

I ran my hand along my stomach folds before swallowing down the next drink.

Then I said, keep em coming all night.

Do you intend to pay your tab today, or should I add this to the total?

You should send it down to the precinct. Have them fucking pay for it. They’re the reason I’m even here half the time.

Ah, quit yer bitchin’. We’re all stressed.

Nah. I’m just fucking bored...there aren’t that many people getting killed by zombies these days. Only fools and a lot of plumbers.

Monty just laughed and went to help his other customers. But it wasn’t a laughing matter. My annual salary as a detective was 50,000 dollars. This stayed stagnant for the past three years. No raises. No bonuses. Word spread at the precinct that we had to have breakthrough cases or else someone would dismantle our division focused on zombies sometime soon.

The worst part of it all.

I was in a rut. A big nasty stinking fucking rut.

The type that would get you sent back down to the minors if you were on the Pirates.

It had been at least a year since my last successfully solved case. I couldn’t figure out why or how, but I’d been losing my touch.

In this fourth year, I would get back on that saddle. Get my gusto back. That was the promise I made to myself as I tasted another mouthful of that good old whiskey.

Later that evening, my head spun as someone played this horse shit music that the kids called Country Grime. The belly of booze had me shaking my hips on the dance floor, but my head kept telling me to sit the fuck down and call it a night. But I twirled along with the room and bumped shoulders with people who smelled of rosy perfumes and must. Every time someone spilled a drop of their drink, I had this urge to slap them in their face, but like most bad urges, I resisted.

Soon after sweating out a drink or two, I sat at the back of the bar. Monty was busy chatting up some girl with long black hair and fake eyelashes. Glitter, I would call her, because she prettied up the place, but I could tell she’d leave a fucking mess wherever she went.

I waited patiently, hoping to top off the tank and get back out there. While waiting, I checked my watch. 11:58 P.M.

Fuck. It was a ten-minute drive home—if I didn’t die on the side of the road in a box of crunched metal—and I wasn’t ready to leave soon. Going to work with a hangover was always a disaster. This was especially true on Monday mornings. I had no issues coming into work hungover on a Thursday or a Friday. In fact, I preferred it. But on Monday? Not enough pots of coffee could save the week.

And then Monty and Glitter both walked over to me. Her, strutting. Him, the same.

She had this fake animal fur atrocity wrapped around her neck like Cruella Deville. I could tell it wasn’t comfortable from the beads of sweat forming around her neck, above the stringy hairs.

But she smiled anyway. Perfect teeth. Nice lips.

Dammit. Alcohol and women never mix well. Focus.

Hello, Mr. Gusto. She said. Her voice was warm—like a tower of melting chocolate.

Monty spoke out of turn and said, Oh, it’s not Mr. Gusto. Apparently today he’s just Andre.

There’s always a little Gusto somewhere in there, I said. And what do I call you? I asked to the girl who I was already calling Glitter in my mind.

My name’s ******

Fuck. I said out loud when I was only trying to think it. I didn’t pay enough attention, missed her real name, and decided that she would forever just be Glitter. It would be rude to ask again. As I examined her sweating face, I noticed that there was, in fact...no glitter on her at all. I could have sworn...

Fuck? she asked.

Monty raised an eyebrow. Just...fuck?

What? It’s a good word. My favorite one, actually.

If you’re uncultured. Glitter said.

Oh please. Monty, pour me another, would ya?

Sure, and this one’s on the house...matter of fact. I’ll make you a deal right here, right now.

I’m listening. I said, as he filled the glass up with a shot of Jameson.

Agree to help Mrs. Graves with what she’s about to ask you and I’ll forget your entire tab.

Mrs.? I wondered. There was no ring on her finger. No wear on the spot of her finger where a ring might have been, but she removed it. No staining. Nothing. Perhaps a longtime widow? Perhaps not? Perhaps Monty just doesn’t know the difference between a miss and a missus.

How much do I owe you?

Monty clicked through his little electronic notepad near the bar, then looked up at me overtop of his thin rimmed glasses and said, Two thousand and eighty dollars.

Bullshit.

Could that be possible? I suppose there were the nights when I brought clients here. Then the nights with my brother. The evenings with my partner—that little bastard. And then nights like this one. Suppose it’s not impossible.

I’ll erase the tab right here, right now.

I wished he’d stop using that redundant phrase. But far be it from me to miss an opportunity to negotiate.

And I drink free here for...two months.

You’ll bleed us dry, Monty scratched his left eyebrow. He bobbed his head back and forth and then clicked his tongue. One month...and only you. Not those degenerate friends of yours.

Deal.

We shook hands and then the weight of a spur of the moment drunk decision pushed through my skull and pick apart at my brain.

Glitter Graves and the beginning of her mysterious request.

I was due to crack a case finally. A broken watch, right?

She ordered me my personal bottle of Jameson and walked me to a corner booth away from the dancing. The music. The celebrating. She took me from the fun and led me to the business. I sat with my back to the wall. Underneath a picture of John Wayne riding on a horse. When Monty looked at that picture, did he picture John naked? Did he wonder what it’d be like to rub their bellies together?

In that corner—above the sticky leather booth—was this disgusting buzzing fly. It kept whacking itself off the light. Making a loud ticking sound every few seconds. I imagined that its brain must be mush by now.

So, I said. What is it you need?

Where’s your notebook? I’ve heard you always have a notebook.

Like he said...I’m just Andre tonight. I’ll do my best to remember the details until tomorrow when I write them down.

I can just text them to you.

My phone doesn’t have texting.

Email?

Nope.

That’s weird.

Maybe...get to explaining if you please. I can’t stay up much later.

Tick.

Tick.

The fly continued rattling its brain against the light. A little black shadow clicked along the table, always stopping just shy of a light brownish stain in the shape of a ring.

Glitter adjusted the fur around her neck. She struggled to get comfortable. And I couldn’t blame her. These seats. They’re fucking atrocious.

I heard you’re the guy to go to when there’s, she leaned close. Got quiet. Death that involves zombies.

I work for the ZCU. All of our cases deal with zombies. You heard right.

What she probably didn’t hear was that I’m also the guy with a stack of case files on his desk nearly scratching the ceiling at the precinct. That I kept fucking up all of my suspect interviews and...well. I digress. Bygone’s and such.

She looked behind herself. Lowered her voice to a whisper. And said, I need you to give me your word that you’ll take none of what I tell you to the police. I want you...and you alone. To work on this. Not the police. Not the ZCU. Nobody.

Sure. You have my word.

For whatever that is worth.

Alright. This will all make more sense when you see it...are you sure you don’t want to open your bottle?

I’ll twist it off when I get home. You wouldn’t want your newly hired detective to die first day on the job, would you? Car accidents are not pretty. No, ma’am.

Suit yourself...I’ll write the address down on this napkin here.

And so she did. I watched her write the first couple of letters. 2...4...her handwriting was large and round. She swept across the napkin and somehow wrote the entire address with thin mascara. No rips in the napkin. This girl would have killed it back in the 80s.

Put that somewhere safe now. You’ll see why you didn’t want anyone else getting that address when you get there. Then she set the napkin on the table between us, next to the whiskey bottle.

Enough with the suspense, lady. What am I getting myself into? Something this vague and I’ll back out. Bottle of Jameson will be the cost of wasting my time.

You’re going to find a body. Dead. Sort of.

Fucking sort of? What is that supposed to mean?

And you didn’t call the police?

Can’t.

I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words came out, she said.

Don’t ask me why. I won’t be able to tell you. I just can’t. You’ll have to be okay with that.

So you’re asking me to be an accessory to a crime?

I’m asking you to help me find out who killed my son.

And then she broke into tears. Shoulders rising and lowering as her body trembled. The entire table of the booth shook against my ribs. For a moment, I worried she’d knock the bottle of Jameson clean to the floor. Now that would be a sight for sad eyes.

There, there, Glitter. I said to console her as I placed my hand overtop of hers.

She pulled it away faster than a dick goes hard when it first meets a warm mouth.

Sorry. Grief makes me uncomfortable.

Who the fuck is Glitter? She asked as she wiped her tears into the mascara covered napkin. oh shit. Here you go.

The address was barely legible. Mostly smeared now.

Through my blurred sight, I read aloud. 2451 Banister Drive.

Keep your voice down...Andre.

I shoved the napkin inside my left jean pocket, next to my lighter. This was always my essential pocket. It’s where I kept my lighter. My smokes. My money clip. A squishy hamster key-chain...where I used to keep my condoms before I learned the valuable art of pull out and pray. If there was ever an item that I didn’t want to forget, it went into the left pocket. Every waking hour I’d be rifling through there looking for a lighter and a cigarette to feed that blasted beast called addiction. Luckily for Glitter. Every hour I’d also be reminded of her request.

I can swing by this address tomorrow, but it won’t be until after work...the sun will be down by the time I get around to it.

You can’t stop before you go to work?

I’ll be lucky if I even make it to work on time at this rate. Best I can do is the evening. You said the body’s been there for how long?

I didn’t say how long.

Well, you should.

You’re good at your job. You’ll figure it out.

Damn right I’m good at my job.

I checked my watch.

12:37 A.M.

Awkwardly, I hugged her goodbye. For some reason—at the time—it seemed appropriate. But she just sort of leaned into me with her arms at her side like a mannequin.

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Most of the drive home I tried to merge two images of the highway to one and couldn’t get the smell of her perfume off my skin no matter how many cigarettes I smoked out into the chilled darkness. It was funny. It smelled like bananas. But there’s no way someone would make a banana perfume. That’d just be stupid.

Then again, the world can be pretty stupid.

And then I heard this ticking noise behind me.

There it was—like a lost puppy.

The fly.

Smacking its brains against the rear window.

Yes. Quite stupid.

I rolled down the window in the back and told it to piss off. Just because something’s not smart doesn’t mean it should suffer. Perhaps it was only trying to kill itself for being in my presence.

As I watched it buzz away through the rearview mirror, there was a thudding sound against the front of my truck. The front left tire lifted, then fell before the back one did as well. It was as if I went over a three-foot speed bump. My glove box clicked open from the force of the tires crashing back down onto the ground.

My head nearly smacked off