The Murder

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“There is a knock at the door…” says the inspector to his Charlo.

“It’s me. Musette. Don’t you remember that I have these next two days off?”

It is easy to hear the disappointment in her voice, but the inspector is too buried beneath his own fat to pick up on any of the signals.

“Yes, of course.” He says.

“I wish you weren’t a goddamn dick all of the time!” she says, storming into the room.

“Sometimes, honestly, I wish you had a dick. Then at least I wouldn’t have to be subject to your labic aggression.”

‘Well, sometimes I wish you had a pussy, so that then you would have more justification for being one all the time.”

“You just called me a goddamn dick.”

“Well, you’re a pussy and a dick, you faggot!”

“Don’t do that…”

“What?’

“Not in public sweetheart…”

“What? You don’t like the word faggot, pussy?”

The inspector grits his teeth. That fridge is looking mighty fine right about now…

“I told you to shut your mouth, you bitch.”

He grabs her beneath the chin and drags her to the fridge. Her eyes stare into his from above her palm clenched mouth. That mole on her cheek is pulsing above the hot red of her flesh. The inspector lifts his other arm.

“With this hand I shall slam your face.” he says.

“My God, no!” say her widening eyes.

He opens the fridge and lines up her head. With his fingers round the handle he hesitates. The door slams down. His rage has been transformed into guilt. Her face is bouncing against the door.

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