Creative Juices

I followed the racist little Ginger back to his house. If he was paying me to find Hoppers the rabbit, I might as well take a look at the scene of the crime. Who knows, maybe there will be a clue. Or Hoppers will be hanging out in the bushes. Or the kid will try to make a move on me, in which case I’ll blow his head off with the happy little glock I keep in my purse. No one ever expects Lucille.

We arrived at his three-story Victorian rental house. It looked like a frat boy’s dream, all rich parents and paid cleaners, because Gingy here wouldn’t pretty it up, and didn’t have the mental acuity to set the trash cans out.

He led me in the front door with that nervous look that either said, “I’m not sure what state this place will be in,” or “I’m going to try to take advantage of you, even though I hired you to find my rabbit”. Either way, I keep my hand on Lucille.

The inside was spotless; you can actually see a shine on the banisters. It even had fucking banisters.

“This is it,” the oaf said.

“Great. This where Hoppers disappeared from?”

“No, he was out back last I saw. But that was two days ago.”

The thing probably ran in front of a car and got all waffled.

“Lead the way.”

“Sure. Hey, you wanna come upstairs for a minute?”

I got my pistol-whipping hand ready. “Listen you little tampon. I’m here to help you find the rabbit. Don’t be a dick, or I’ll beat the shit out of you, take your money, and shoot Hoppers if I ever find him. Clear?”


“Well let me make it extra clear. No more passes at me. I get that you’re a sex-starved little freshman with Mommy issues and a missing bunny, and I’m the first female contact you’ve had in months.” Not to mention that I’m fucking gorgeous, if I do say so myself. “But make another pass at me, and you’ll regret it more than an elephant trainer after burrito night.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy. Show me the garden.”

I even surprised myself with that metaphor. Sexist assholes get my creative juices flowing, I guess. Boy do they flow a lot.


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