Casey Jones and The Bunch of Dead, Tranny Hookers (Chapter Four)

               CASEY JONES AND THE THING THAT IS NOT A BERUVIAN MIRROR DEMON

     I snatch up the compacts and drop them in the purse.

     “I told you to stay on the ground!”

     I can feel Big Mama’s meaty fist rising to punch me in the back of the head, but I know what stops her. She sees a free-floating apparition of a man, translucent and blue, with a cloud of smoke for legs, appearing out of a compact which is held by a particularly ugly man-woman-thing. The Beruvian demon shoots a beam of energy down his/her throat.

     I bolt from the conversion van and onto the street, purse in hand. The roller derby team makes a quick get away, as this is probably far too odd for them. Next time they kidnap me, I’ll have to bring that up.

     “Hold up, demon!”

     “Wait your turn, tranny.”

     “Don’t let the purse confuse you. I’m dressed like a man.”

     I’ll never understand Beruvian mirror demons, because that’s what made him drop just about the ugliest woman-thing I’ve ever seen.

     “I sense something on you. What do you have in the purse?”

     “Seven pounds of corn beef hash. My turn. What brings a nice Beruvian mirror demon like you to a stink-hole town like this?”

     “Beruvian mirror demon? That’s ridiculous. It sounds like something you just made up.”

     “That’s right! I did make that up,” the blood chokes my throat. I wobble a little from my probable concussion. “Then, might I ask, what are you?”

     “Did you bring the mirrors here!? Well, you’ll never get them in a circle around me, hunter!”

     I don’t know what that means. What I do know is this: One - I’m about to pass out. Two - I’ve got a purse full of broken mirrors that seem to magically arrange themselves in a circle. Three - I’m facing a large, incorporeal demon-genie thing that seems to be charging at me. Four - The incorporeal demon-genie thing doesn’t want said mirrors to be arranged in a circle around him.

     So, I do what any other rationally thinking person would do. I scream like a girl and throw the contents of my purse at my attacker. He screams as the circle of mirrors seems to suck him back into the seventh, unbroken mirror, held by the tranny, who regains consciousness just in time to see me save him/her.

     Seeing one of these things get sucked into a mirror is about all my newly developed vertigo could take. I drop to my knees when I’m sure I don’t need to run anymore. The tranny hooker steps over the seven mirrors and cradles my wobbling frame in its arms.

     “You saved my life,” the thick, musky tone of a dock worker tells me. “You deserve a freebee.”

     Correction, Mamma Jamma’s hands are now the second manliest hands to go through my pants. Time to pass out.

@2 years ago
#casey jones #short story #doug driesel jr. #comedy #private eye #pi #los angeles #tranny hooker #dead hooker #dead tranny hooker #tranny 

Casey Jones and The Bunch of Dead, Tranny Hookers (Chapter One)

                       CASEY JONES AND THE BLACK CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON

     When you have as many of them as I do, it can be very difficult to define the phrase ‘bad day,’ but let me give it a shot. A bad day starts when you fall asleep during a stake out in West Los Angeles by the 405 and wake up in a dumpster full of dead hookers in West Hollywood at three thirty in the ante meridiem. Good definition if I do say so myself.

     My name is Casey Jones and I am the latest in a long line of Los Angeles private eyes. My current case has, up until this point, involved me tailing the wife of morning Latin disc jockey “El Cabra.” You know him. He’s that grinning jackass that gives you the thumbs up from the back of busses when you get stuck behind them East of La Cienega. Yeah. That guy. Seems he thinks his wife, who, by the way, is way to hot for his likes, has been cheating on him. And for a guy who’s name means “The Goat” in English, he’s pretty right on about this lady.

     My job has been to find proof of the infidelity. And I did that on the first day. I hate it when they make it easy. It’s not that I like working; far from it. I just don’t like it when they make it hard to pad my bill. Since I’ve been on the case, she’s been dating Jerome Jermaine, whom you’ve probably never heard of. His big claim to fame, if you can call it that, was staring in a number of ‘70s blaxploitation horror films that even the most Asian of UCLA film students haven’t heard of. Seriously, there’s not even a Wikipedia page about them. And Wikipedia has a thousand words on Monster in my Pocket.

     Last night, I trailed Mrs. Goat from their new, four-story house in K-Town (thank God for gentrification) to The Nuart. I parked in the 7/11 parking lot across the street and watched her meet up with Jerome outside the theater. To show how classy this guy is, it seems as though they are there to watch his 1974 ‘classic’ The Black Creature from the Black Lagoon. I’ve seen it. Not actually half bad. Some honkies try to build a lagoon-side country club for rich white people, and naturally they try to exclude The Black Creature from the Black Lagoon, so he starts killing their honky asses. Though, I do find it highly suspect that Black Creature from the Black Lagoon knows karate.

     I’m never going to get the image of Mrs. Goat and BCftBL playing tonsil hockey out of my brain. Partially because it’s my screen saver, partially because he’s twenty years older than her and partially because I’m kind of into that type of thing.

     From experience, I knew I had the entirety of the movie (IMDb lists it’s running time at 88 minutes) to hang out. Seems Mr. BCftBL likes to watch his movies all the way through to the end. He’s self-absorbed and predictable. I like that. Knowing this information, I ended up passed out in my graffiti covered hatchback, or “Emperor Tod-mobile” as the kids are calling it these days. If I don’t get my standard 15 hours of sleep, I’m just a wreck in the morning.

     Unfortunately for me, I when wake up, I’m not in the driver’s seat of my ‘car.’ I’m in a dumpster behind the Red Lemon on Santa Monica in West Hollywood.

@2 years ago
#casey jones #private eye #pi #comedy #short story #chapter one #tranny hookers #dead hookers #hookers #santa monica #los angeles