The Beginning of A Short Story

Not sure where to take this one...



Her hair was raven, like the bird, except the bird is black and the hair is red. I never quite understood the titling of that hair color; but like most things in life, I'm OK with utter fucking confusion.

As she sauntered into my office, I was particularly enamored with her shapeliness; not only did she have a body that wouldn't quit, it was working overtime in hopes of promotion.

"are you Schlongsteen?" she licked her lips seductively and I smiled.

She noticed my interest-filled gaze: "Please don't mistake my lip licking as a flirt, Mr. Schlongsteen. I have a rare disease known as Sexual Tourette's Sydrome. Instead of a nervous tick, I have a sexually suggestive one."

She then flashed her breasts and slapped me in the face with the left one.

"That's my slapping breast, sorry".

"What do you want, Miss...?"

"Flaybin, Rachel Flaybin. I have heard all about you and I think you're perfect for a little job".

This was curious. No one had ever suggested I was perfect for anything, except that one time when I was cast as Odie in my middle school's production of "Garfield: He Hates Lasagna".

"What am I perfect for, Miss Flaybin?"



And that's the end of it. I was thinking of taking it in a Sam Spade "Maltese Falcon" direction, but I haven't seen a private eye movie in years. I literally have 100 text documents sitting around like this, half written. It's the bane of my existence. Well, actually my existence is the bane of my existence, which is quite a logical paradox if I've ever seen one.

Actually what if my existence being the bane of my existence is the bane of my existence? Pretty sure the universe would collapse upon itself; then we'd all be sucked into a black hole, spaghettified, then spit out from a white hole into another universe as a big-bang.

Does that make me God?