“Look over here, sarge.” Flopkens crouched by the dead grass. “Here are the poor bastard’s eyes.”
Sergeant Pearson waddled over, all three hundred pounds of gut and toupee, and peered down. Sure enough, there on the green – blue eyes. Two of them.
“What the hell.” The sergeant moaned and plopped down on the sod. “What sort of perverted monster takes a man’s eyes?”
“Well, they’re here. They weren’t taken very far, anyway.”
“We don’t know that. Where’s the rest of…” The sergeant checked the notes. “Pete? He was a caddy, correct?”
“That’s what that dumb pro shop guy Curt told me. Pete Pearl. 22. Syracuse. He’s probably under the cart.” Continue reading
Yep, I’m going to get into the world of crank-‘em-out mystery novels. You know the kind – woman in her forties goes into a bookstore, says to herself that she’s looking for something that “looks like something I’d read.” They hit upon the mystery section – bingo! – find a book that seems to have a pattern in its title, almost guaranteeing an extended trip with the same characters down non surprising roads for many books to come, and next thing you know, this slightly pre-menopausal lady is out on the back porch, reading about some taxidermist getting himself stuffed in a department store, populated by wacky employees, and bringing in a wacky detective with wacky neuroses, making for interesting reading and light, fluffy evenings of enjoyment.
Knowingly Undersold 