I’d spent the last half hour crawling around on my office floor with a gun in my hand. My back was sore, my knees were scraped and the fucking mouse who ruined my corn flakes still wasn’t shot. I could picture him in the walls casually munching on my cereal. Fucking rodent! I fired four shots into the wall. That’s when I heard screams from the thrift store next door. “Whoops,” I said to myself. I quietly knocked over some furniture and scattered some papers to make it look like there’d been a struggle, that should explain the shooting.
I went next door to see if anybody was shot. One of the bullets had grazed the arm of a thirty-something redhead with a great rack. Maybe not the typical way to meet a woman, but hey, who gives a shit? I went to apologize for shooting her and see if I could get her number.
Her name was Tricia. I liked her immediately and I was pretty positive that if I could get her to shut the fuck up about her bullet wound for a minute I could close the deal. I offered to drive her to the hospital in my new Lincoln Town car. She accepted. I was in.
It was a bit of an awkward ride for a few minutes before I broke the ice. "Are you from out of town?"
"I just got a job here last week..."
"Stripper?" I asked.
"Yeah. I can't believe this happened. This sort of thing always happens to me." She whined.
"Yeah. Same here. I was just sitting in my office reading a book about Machiavelli when some lowlife animals bust in and start shooting. I chased them out pretty quickly though. Happens all the time. Nice shorts by the way. What are those, cotton?"
“Polyester.”
I reached over and rubbed the fabric of her shorts between my thumb and forefinger. She didn’t protest, so I rubbed her thigh a little bit. Still no protest. “You know,” I said, “that scratch doesn't really need a hospital, just a band-aid.” She looked at her arm, which had stopped bleeding, and then smiled at me.
Two minutes later, I was getting a blowjob in an alley behind the Riviera. She did some nice things with her tongue, but she kept making this really distracting slurping noise. I pressed down on the back of her head, and the slurping noise turned into a much more pleasant gagging noise.
Afterwards, I was cleaning myself up with an old necktie and Red said, “You know, it’s funny, me meeting a P.I. I wasn’t kidding when I said this sort of thing always happens to me...”
‘Here we go,’ I thought, ‘A stripper never just sucks your dick in an alley for the fun of it, they always want something.’ I figured the least I could do was hear her out before I kicked her to the curb, literally.
She talked for at least five solid minutes explaining that she thought an ex boyfriend followed her to Vegas and had been discretely terrorising her by ruining her jobs and spreading rumors around her neighbors. She seemed a little paranoid, but that’s how a P.I. makes his money. Also she said she didn’t have money, just blowjobs and such. What’s a man in my position to do?
I went around her neighbors first to ask if anyone had been asking about her or talking about her. I talked to three people who all confirmed a man fitting her ex’s description had been telling them she was a convicted felon and to lock their doors and windows. Then I went to the club where she had recently been fired. I was there getting lap dances for four hours before I saw him at the buffet. I struck up a conversation with him about the nasty, old chicken wings. He brought up Tricia.
His name was Bill. Bill told me a long tale about how she ruined his life because he wouldn’t continue to support her crystal meth habit. She was a heavy drinker who would get abusive, then call the cops to say he’d beaten her. I really felt for the guy. But who was telling the truth? I went home to do some private investigating on them both.
After less than an hour of research, I came to the conclusion that Tricia was a horrible human being and deserved to be treated like the trash she is. I figured I’d better get in a few more blow jobs while I still could and called her up.
Tricia showed up at my office with two other strippers, Betty and Veronica. I never actually bothered to learn their names, but one was blonde and the other was a blackhead, I mean she had black hair. Turns out they were having problems with their boyfriends too, and Tricia had recommended my services. Before I even asked any questions, I pulled down the murphy bed and we had a menage a… four, I guess.
Then it was down to business. Betty and Veronica had made a sex tape with their boyfriends, Archie and Jughead, and now the boys were blackmailing them, threatening to put it on the internet. “But you’re strippers,” I said, “Who cares?” That’s when I found out that Betty and Veronica weren’t actually strippers, but real people with jobs and futures. I also found out that there was a shocking connection between Tricia’s ex and the other two guys: Each one was a doctor and had lost his license for malpractice. The girls didn't offer this bit of info. I discovered it during my routine private investigating right in front of them. I kept it to myself. Something was off. I didn't know what these chicks were up to, but I instantly regretted inviting them to my office.
I told them I had an early appointment in the morning and kicked them out. I really needed to clear my head. After watching them leave together in a taxi, I drove down to the strip for some bourbon and blackjack. I was doing great at the tables. Up about $1200. Then I lost half of it on a single spin of roulette. Fucking red!
My next step was still unclear. The smartest move would be to interview all the men individually and hear their side of the story. Or try to find internet records on how they lost their licenses. That all seemed tedious and lame to me, so I decided to focus on the chicks instead and probably bang them some more.
Since there was three of them and only one of me and I never even tried to learn those other girls' names, I was going to need some help tailing them. It also occurred to me at that time that I could have charged the other girls money if I hadn't assumed they were strippers. Damn it.
I called Tommy the Tooth for help. “I need your help Tommy, I need to find two women, one with blonde hair one with black hair. Their boyfriends are both doctors who lost their licenses to malpractice, and they both know a redheaded stripper named Tricia.”
“Tricia Reynolds? who just got fired from Crazy Tits?”
“Jesus, Tommy, how did you know?”
“I know a guy who heard a rumor. Seems that she’s been running a medical malpractice scam with two local girls and a team of hypochondriacs.”
“What’s the scam?”
“Not sure yet. But at least six doctors have lost their licenses and one hypochondriac is dead.”
Tommy gave me addresses for the two other women. He probably gave me their names also, but I must have forgotten to write them down. I decided to pay a visit to Betty, because she had the tightest pussy and made the cutest little squeals during the banging, but I’d still need help keeping tabs on the other two.
I went to bed early because I knew I would have to be at Betty's place before she left for work. I was up at 7 am. I drove out of the way to hit a drive-thru. By the time I rounded the corner near her house she was pulling out of her driveway. I was pretty pissed off because I was hoping to catch her right out of the shower. I followed her to a small office building about forty minutes away from the strip. There were nine cars parked around it. I didn't recognize any of them. Then another car pulled up. It was Tricia.
I waited around for two hours before they all dispersed. Veronica was there and a bunch of other chicks; all fat and ugly. The three girls I knew were the only good looking ones. Ugh. I decided I was going to have to follow one of the gross ones to finally figure out what the fuck was going on.
I picked the one who looked the most slutty and followed her to a McDonald's. From there she went to the emergency room. There was already one of the other women from the office there, and two more pulled in over the next hour. It was time for some action.
I drove around back and found a door into the laundry room. I put on some semi-dirty scrubs with the cap and face mask. I peeked through every door and window until I saw one of them. She was alone in a room wearing a gown.
I went in to examine her before diagnosing her as terminally ugly. She started telling me about her lady symptoms as I closed the blinds. I was momentarily mesmerized by the way her second and third chins seemed to swell like a bullfrog as she spoke. I snapped out of it and put my colt in her mouth.
“Shut your yap and start talking!” I hissed. She started trembling and pissed herself. Then she convulsed a lot and passed out. I figured, because she was fat, that she must be having a heart attack, so I retrieved the defibrillator from the corner of the room. I messed with the dials and knobs at random until the machine face showed a pleasing display of lights. I pressed one of the paddles into each of her floppy titties, then I said, “Clear!” and zapped her
After two or three zaps, she was dead, smoke billowed from her charred tits where I’d zapped her. This case was going to be harder than I thought. I quietly left the room and went to find one of the other uglys.
Attempt number two. The second woman was already being examined by another doctor, so I leaned casually on the wall outside her room and listened. The doctor was speaking, “I’ve told you before, Cynthia, you don’t have Aids or Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and I’m not giving you any more medication.”
“Yes doctor,” she replied, “but I’m not here for that. You’ve been so nice to me, that I wanted to introduce me to my friend Tricia. I have a picture.”
The doctor took the picture. “Yes,” he said, “She’s very pretty.”
“Her number is on the back.”
Just then, I saw the last two women walking towards the pharmacy, each with a prescription. I followed them and perused the ice cream freezer in the pharmacy while they had the scripts filled. One was for a three month supply of oxycontin. The other was for a three month supply of vicodin. Both from the prescription pad of Dr Charles Ackert.
I bought a fudgesicle and and wandered around until I found Dr Charles Ackert's office. It was obvious that he had just moved into this office. No furniture or lame art or magazines in the waiting room. And a quick glance through the receptionist window showed the back office in disarray. I waited for a few minutes and saw him leaving. On his way out, the receptionist wished him luck on his date.
I followed him to a restaurant and sat at the bar. I had a great view of his table through the mirror. I had the bartender set me up four shots of bourbon so as not to look suspicious. I had pounded the shots and was sipping a coke when Betty walked in.
'Shit!' I thought to myself. 'She's had my dick in her mouth, she might recognize me.' Then I laughed pretty hard for a few seconds. Then I made eye contact with Betty through the mirror. She got nervous when she saw me, she wasn’t sure what to do. I raised my glass and nodded at her reflection, signaling her that she should go about her date.
She sat down at the good doctor’s table and smiled prettily at him. I watched. They ordered drinks, and so did I. After about a half hour, I stood up and got her attention. I nodded my head toward the restrooms and headed that way.
A moment later, Betty followed me into the men’s room and I locked the door. “What are you doing here?” she asked innocently.
“Shut your cock-hole!” I replied. “I’ve figured it all out. You and the other two cocksuckers are using your feminine wiles to get these poor saps to prescribe hard drugs to known hypochondriacs. The hypos take their fill and you sell the surplus on the street. If anyone gets wise, you just say that the doctors were fooled by the hypochondriacs and you were just their innocent girlfriends. A few doctors lose their licenses, and a few hypos die, but hey you got your profit, right?”
She stared at me for a moment, dumbfounded by my awesome detective skills. Then she stared at me a moment longer, and I began to wonder if I’d gotten it wrong somewhere. She stared at me a third moment and I was sure I must be completely wrong. I was thinking about saving face by saying that I was only joking.
Finally, she spoke, “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell the police?”
Confronting her in the bathroom was as far as I’d planned. I needed to think for a second. While I was thinking, Betty gave me a pouty look that melted my heart, sending all the blood therein to my penis.
“Fuck!” I said. “I want ten percent! And regular pussy from all three of you. And anal.”
Betty agreed, and we negotiated a sex schedule (which began there in the men’s room). Then Betty went back to her date and I went back to my office, hoping to kill that damn mouse before he ate anymore of my favorite cereal.
