Tag Archives: argument

Duck Duck Dead Duck; chapter ten, part four

I decided to check my email as I hadn’t bothered for the past few days.  I wasn’t one of those people who compulsively checked her email several times a day, feeling blue if nobody sent me anything.  I viewed it more as a nuisance than anything else—a necessary evil, if you will.  I sat at my mom’s computer and powered up.  It was slow going only using one hand, but I did the best I could.  I accessed my Yahoo! account and noticed that I had fifteen new emails.  Most of them were advertisements from Yahoo! which I promptly deleted.  There was a few emails from Liza who liked to email me during her workday when she got bored.  I opened them up and saw that they were forwarded joke emails.  She knew I hated forwarded emails, but she sent them to me, anyway.  I deleted them without even looking.

“What’s this?”  I had an email from someone who’s username I didn’t immediately recognize.  I hesitated, then opened it.

Bitch, do you think I’ve forgotten you?  Not a chance in hell.  You fucking ruined my life, and I’ll get you back if it take me the rest of my life.  You better watch your back, bitch.  I’m coming for you soon.

Ah, the gentle tone of Shannon.  There were two more from her, but I deleted them unread.  I knew they would be of the same ilk, and I had no desire to read any more of her ranting claptrap.  I didn’t think she was the one who stabbed me, but it was just a gut feeling.  I had nothing concrete to go on.  There was also an email from Aaron.  I debated about deleting it unread, but my curiosity was too strong.  Was it just the usual, ‘I want to fuck you’ note, or did he have something more important to say?  I opened it.

Trish, how are you doing?  It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?  I just wanted to let you know that I’ve heard from Shannon, and she’s serious about getting you back.  You might say she’s obsessed.  She’s already slashed the tires on my car and trashed the front of my house.  Be careful, girl.  I don’t want her to get you.  P.S.  How about getting together for old times’ sake?

I tapped my finger against my lip.  She slashed his tires?  Trashed his house?  It sounded like she was serious.  I wondered if I should tell the cops about her.  I knew that I should show them the note I had received with my courtesy stabbing, but I didn’t believe that it would do any good.  It was the generic kind of crap I got from time to time and for no other reason than I was a flashy Asian chick in a staid Scandinavian town.   It was hard for me to believe that in this day and age, there were still people who judged me on the color of my skin and not on my merit.  I had a hunch the police would take it more seriously than did I, but I still was reluctant to show it to them.  I had an irrational dislike of the cops which dictated that I stay away from them as much as possible.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter three, part one

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I’m being gently shaken awake.  I stubbornly cling to the remnants of my lovely dream where I am having sex with a very alive Moira in so many creative positions.  I am just making her come for the third time when I finally emerge from my dream.  I am cross at having to abandon Moira, but I struggle to wake up when I see Paris’s face staring down at me.  His mouth is set and his eyes are grim, but he tries to force a smile to his lips when he sees that I’m awake.  Max is hovering behind him, her own mouth pursed.  Officer Clark is somewhere in the periphery, scowling as usual.  I have an impulse to tell him that it’s not catching, that he’ll still be as manly when he leaves as he was before he ever met us.  Somehow, I don’t think that will reassure him.  I stand up and stretch, trying to work out the kinks in my back.  I wince as my back cracks.  I am only twenty-eight, but I feel at least fifty.

“Let’s get out of here.”  Paris says through gritted teeth.  He directs a malevolent glare at Officer Clark who returns the favor.

“Where’s Inspector Robinson?”  I ask, hoping to get one more glimpse of her.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Paris spits out the answer, grabbing me by the arm.

“What am I supposed to do?”  Max cries out, grabbing Paris’s arm.  “I can’t stay here alone.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”  Paris snaps, tugging free from Max.  I glance at him in surprise.  I haven’t seen him this upset in quite some time.

“Can I stay with you?”  Max asks piteously.  She clutches at Paris’s arm again, hanging on with all her might.

“No, Max,” Paris says, his tone slightly softened.  It clear that his sense of responsibility toward her has ended.  “You’ll have to call someone else.”

“Fine!”  Max’s tone hardens.  “And I’ll have to tell the inspector what I know.”  I don’t like the look in her voice or the tone of her voice as she says this.  I don’t think she knows anything, but she’s more than capable of stirring up trouble.

“You do that, Max.”  Paris starts dragging me toward the front door.  “I’m leaving.  I’ll talk to you later.”  Neither of us say anything as he roars away from the curb.  It isn’t until we’re well on our way home that I dare to speak.

“Are you ok?”  I ask timidly.  Paris rarely loses his temper but when he does, he scares me.

“No, I’m not fucking ok,” Paris seethes, his hands clutching the wheel.  “That bitch actually thinks I killed Moira!”  I wince at his use of the word, ‘bitch’, but I chalk it up to his bad mood.  “She kept insinuating that Moira and I had a thing going.”

“Moira’s gay, isn’t she?”

“Yes!  She’s never been with a man, but that didn’t stop Miss Inspector from questioning our sexual history.”

“What possible motive could she pin on you?”  I wonder.  “It’s not like you really knew Moira that well.”

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