Gwen's Corner

It was bitterly cold by Texas standards out on the streets – high sixties. At least the wind had died down for the moment. The lights, the smoke, the grime, the city itself... seemed to be alive that night. I had just stopped by The Ridgmar Movie Tavern and ordered a good hot pizza. So in strolls Billy the Photographer - looking for hot ass to shoot as usual. "What a way to end the week," I muttered under my breath. I went for a cigarette but remembered I was allergic to nicotine.

Right about then it hit me. It being a pile of programs I was meant to hand out. It’s not a pretty job but then again it’s not a pretty world. I carry two things with me at all times. One is a .44 and I keep it loaded. The other is 80 proof and it keeps me loaded. My name is Matt Morrison: Criminologist.

Every Saturday it was the same thing. Hand out the programs, make some funny talk and then sit around half the night running the odds as to which short skirt would leave me feeling good at the end of the night without leaving a burning sensation the next morning. Stronger men than me have broken in this life but this job requires a lot more than strength. It requires stealth, smarts and a certain stubbornness that many lacked.

Still, I had to wonder if it was really worth it in the end. Lost a lot of friends walking down that road. Made a lot of enemies too. I couldn’t begin to calculate if the one was greater than the other but math was never my strong subject and my calculator was broke. I took a pull from the flask by my side. Electrolyte-enriched fluid flowed down my throat like water down Niagra. It was just the rush I needed to get through the long night.

I spent most of the rest of that night with my feet kicked up and my head in the clouds. It’s no way to spend a show, I admit, but I was running on three hours sleep and had nothing in my belly but butterflies and Jim Bean. What little I remembered was a symphony of music and strange images. The head dame they called Leah playing at being a boy playing at being a man, dressed like a broad was the main draw that night. Things passed without incident, save for an EXIT sign nearly being destroyed by the shenanigans of some of the local color – white trash, to be specific. Not a bad show, all things considered.

“Gee, I can’t imagine YOU sleeping through the show.” The voice stirred me like iced tea as I looked up and saw a dame. She had legs than ran all the way up to Heaven and up past Avalon. She was one of those dames who you knew liked hot fuzz and made you good and goddamned glad you were a lawman or a lesbian.

“Not a chance. Just resting my eyes,” I insisted before I gave the boys some exercise up and down her body, taking in the sights. Fishnet stockings, six inch heels and a long vinyl trenchcoat. No way a dame her age could afford a coat like that, but suckers were born for the Broadway smile she flashed me - and that night, I was a sucker.