Friday, April 26, 2013


A private asshole. As a private investigator I run into more death than the law allows. I mean the law of averages. The guy inside is about ready to reach a crescendo of amorous noises. I always find that if you walk in just as he gets off he can’t take a swing at you. My name is Clem Williamson Snide. When me and the house dick finally open the door with a passkey, the smell of shit and bitter almonds blows us away. We wait outside the hotel room for the cyanide capsule fumes to air out. They’d fucked until the capsules dissolved. A real messy love death. Another time I’m working on a routine case and have to take away twenty-three dead people. These things happen. I am a man of the world. Going to and fro and walking up and down in it. Death backs into you that way. Seems they always smell like cyanide, carrion, blood, cordite or burnt flesh. It’s like opium. Once you smell it you never forget. Industrial sabotage when a factory burns down is worse. I can walk down a street and get a whiff of death. It’s like opium smoke and I know someone is kicking the bucket.  It smells. I mean it has a special smell.

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