Editor edit: This is an article by our guest writer Tim. Like what you read? Want more? Check out the about section below and find more of Tim!
Nearly completed books
- From: Dave and the French-Greek detective with the strange chest hairline.
Dave walks with Apuleius into an adjacent room. The door has a plaque that says chambre d’autopsie.
‘You have a private autopsy room?’ Dave asks in surprise.
‘A respected detective who has any commercial intellect applies vertical integration these days.’ Inside, the air is filled with the scent of cheap day cream. You could say the room mostly resembles a war bunker. Two long rows of improvised bunk beds and stretchers are lined up along the walls of the rectangular room that has an aisle in the center.
‘Does Meredith take your interest?’ Apuleius asks while walking the aisle. Meredith, so that’s her name, Dave thinks. But before he can answer he resumes: ‘Let your chest hair grow and fuck her, she needs it.’
‘Chest hair or sex?’ Dave asks. Apuleius takes halt at a stretcher on which a dead body is covered with a blank sheet and hesitates. A drop of sweat is flowing with an exact carelessness down his chest, until it remains still for a moment on a longer chest hair at the height of his nipples, in order to eventually find its way to the floor.
‘Both’, he finally says, while he takes the sheet off the body. Dave startles when he smells the released odor.
‘L’Oreal’, he says in a reflex, as you might say ‘bread’ while passing a bakery, or ‘human beans’ when you’re a Big Friendly Giant carrying a trumpet.
‘Do you own a trumpet?’ Dave asks. Apuleius denies. Dave shrugs. There is another burning question Dave is eager to ask.