Finishing up a murder mystery novel and had this darling left over. I love her because, well, you’ll see… But ultimately she’s just a gag, and didn’t move the story forward, so I had to kill her. But here she is in all her glory.
Officer Purvis Nimrod scanned his ID badge, put his face in front of the security access reader camera lens, and unsuccessfully struggled to keep his eyes from roaming, but they involuntarily panned from the fire engine sparkles of Jamie’s toenails all the way up her legs to their heavenly intersection above the fringe of her stressed jorts.
“ACCESS DENIED,” the security monitor screen flashed.
“It don’t recognize me for some reason,” Nimrod said. “Hold on.” He turned his back on her, hunched over, and palmed something she couldn’t see from his pocket up to his face. After flaring his elbows one at a time, he returned the mysterious object to his pocket, then scanned his ID badge again and grinned into the lens of the security camera.
The red light turned green and the electric door lock buzzed. “You can just look at her picture,” he said, gripping the large stainless steel door latch with both hands as he turned to display the eyebrow replacement he’d Sharpied onto his face to satisfy the biometric security system. “You don’t have to see her like that, you know, with the…” He mimed putting a pistol to his head and pulling the trigger while crossing his eyes.
“I wanna see her.”
“Okay,” he said, leaning backwards to pull the insulated walk-in fridge door open. “It’s your funeral.”
A wave of ice-cold formaldehyde-laden air gushed across the floor, flowing between her legs like ghosts fleeing a Confederate cemetery. She followed the detective into the cooler where a wall of avocado steel file cabinets—each large enough to hold a dead body—was illuminated by a bare dollar-store incandescent.
He went to a Formica countertop, where he flipped through a small box of file cards until he found the one he was looking for. “Number six,” he said reverently as he pulled a folded paper barf bag out of a drawer. “Here,” he said, shaking it open and offering it to her. “You might need this.”
She looked at it but didn’t accept it. “She’s my mother.”
“You might get sick anyways.”
“I’m not going to get sick.”
“I mean, she—” Nimrod began. “He shot her right through the head, right through the—”
“I know, goddammit!” Jamie said, snatching the bag out of Nimrod’s hand. “You told me already.”
Nimrod went to locker number six, grasped the handle, and spun toward her before pulling it open. “Brace yourself,” he said, yanking the handle. An unholy chorus of rusty ball bearings sang as he walked the long drawer open, progressively revealing a white sheet covering a human form until she saw an identification tag twist-tied to a purple toe that was adorned with the exact same polish as her own.
Gazing down at the figure beneath the sheet, she recognized her mother’s slim hips, slender tummy, and the perfect set of D-cups that she still hoped to inherit, but wondered what could possibly be making the tent pole in the center.
Nimrod grabbed the corner of the sheet and fixed his eyes on Jamie’s. “Ready?” he asked.
Nimrod yanked the sheet off like he was a magician, revealing a cross-dressing grampaw in a frilly pink camisole with alligator clips on twisted nipples and a rock hard dick launched straight up toward the ceiling from out of a pair of pink crotchless panties.
Jamie’s eyes got big and round as she stared at the elderly dead transvestite. “Who in the hell is this?” she asked. “That’s not my momma!”
Nimrod turned beet red. “Omigod!” he uttered. “Uncle Kenny?” He snatched the vomit bag from Jamie’s hands, but puked all over the concrete floor before he could position it under his mouth. After he caught his breath, he re-covered the old man with the sheet and bumped the cadaver drawer with his fat ass to slam it closed, then stumbled over to flip through the card file. “Gimme a sec,” he said, wiping his mouth with the barf bag. “I’ll find your momma.”