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hooker with a penis: a completely made up story

You can blame this nonsense story on Solonor, who blames it on D (which is interesting considering I blame those two for everything, and D blames it on a guy named Pomo. I'm just following suit).

Back in the days when I worked for a sinister, secret cabal of government types who wanted to take over the world, I had the misfortune of meeting one Mr. Ken, the man with no last name.

I was knee-deep in sinning that year. I broke every commandment known to man and then some, as it was my job to protect the secrecy of the cabal at all costs. Murder, adultery, idolizing the almight dollar - I did it all. Though the adultery had a lot to do with the dollar itself, but that's another story. Anyhow, when one is entrusted with the truths of life and death, one must do anything they can to keep those truths hidden from those who would use them for the wrong reasons.

This cabal was made up of not just government types, but otherwordly types as well. Forces from the great beyond, evil creatures with horns on their head and fire-streaked tails were as important to us as the politicians who sat among us. Satan himself would show up once in a while, if the meeting was important enough, and he would always wear this stunning black silk suit he bought at Barney's, back in the days before Guiliani tossed the devil out of New York.

It was at one of the meetings, attended by both devils and angels alike, that I met Mr. Ken.

He was a tall, imposing man with hands of solid steel. I wondered what else of him was made of solid steel, but I was too polite to ask. My boss, an ex-president who will remain nameless, asked me to brief Mr. Ken on the current situation. I apprised him of all the details; the information leakage, the dead courier, the strange, talking, human-sized rat in a running suit who bought me dinner in a restaurant that appeared like magic in a misty meadow, a place that served the best damn burger I ever had.

Mr. Ken told me that the rat was an informant for the enemy. He wanted to know what I told him.

"I told him nothing," I said.

"Then what did you talk about while you ate?"

"Metaphysics."

Mr. Ken looked at me curiously. He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.

"Why do you suppose the rat wanted to have dinner with you?" he asked.

"He was hungry?"

"Yes, yes. Hungry for information! He probably sucked the brainwaves right of your mind and read every thought you ever had!"

"Obviously not. Or he would have known I didn't want to sleep with him and he wouldn't have bothered asking."

I could tell Mr. Ken did not like me. In fact, he said, "I do not like you, woman."

I stood up and drew my gun. Mr. Ken did not even flinch. The steel metal hands then made a whirring noise and extended out from his french cuffs and onward, until they were within inches of my throat. I shot him anyhow. The bullet clipped him in the leg and he fell down, crying in pain.

Mr. Ken did not bleed. In fact, his wound healed right as I stared at it. Damn automatons. Can't trust them, can't kill them.

My boss watched all this with a wary eye. I say a wary eye because he only had one. After his presidency ended in a rather disturbing fashion, he had been reassembled by the cabal's doctors, but they couldn't find his left eye, so they just left a gaping hole there, which was unnerving to look at but made a nice ashtray.

"What is it you want from me, Mr. Ken?" I was stepping on his abdomen at this time, my Doc Martens making an imprint on his suit jacket.

"I want to know who your contacts at the U.N. are. I think one of them is the source of our information leak."

"You know what I think, Mr. Ken? I think you are the information leak."

Mr. Ken's face turned ashen. My boss remained still, staring with his one eye at the painting of Marilyn Monroe on the wall.

"That is slander! A lie!" Mr. Ken stood now, as I had removed my foot from his body. He wiped my dusty footprint off of his jacket.

"The rat ratted you out, my friend. He has video. Audio. Photos. Your game is up, Mr. Ken. Tell us who you are really working for."

But Mr. Ken would not hear of that. No, he made for the door, using his steel metal extendable hands to reach the knob before I had a chance to turn on the locking system. He was out the door in a flash, his hands clacking against the floor as he ran. I guess he forgot to pull them back into his sleeves and I could only watch as his the metal of his hands scraped across the metal gratings on the floor as he ran, throwing off sparks in the hallway.

I ran down the hall after him and as I closed in on Mr. Ken, I did the only thing that came to mind. I pulled out my gas vapor gun and aimed it directly at his still extended hands. I pulled the trigger just as the next spark came up from the floor and suddenly the hall was filled with flames and remnants of Mr. Ken's part-human, part-automaton body.

I flashed back to the duck-and-cover exercises we were made to practice in third grade and crouched next to the wall, tucking my head between my legs. I stayed in that position for a few minutes as all around me sirens blared and stormtroopers, Imperial Guards and Satan himself came running into the hall to see what happened. After a while I dared to look up and as I did, I saw out of the corner of my eye a piece of metal hurtling towards me. I didn't move fast enough and it flew across the side of my face, it's hot surface stinging my cheek. It then fell to the floor with a clang and rolled right against my boot. I looked down and saw a twelve inch, tubular piece of metal and my burning question was then answered. Mr. Ken indeed was made of metal in other places.

Had I known that, I probably wouldn't have been so quick to kill him.

Comments

Ahhhh...It all makes sense now! That's the reason for that thing you do with the...oops! Shutting up now. Sorry.

Which meant the immediate cancellation of the WB Ken Show.

I've read all four, and yours wins in the "noir" category. (At least, I think it's "noir" to have a one-eyed guy whose empty socket is used as an ashtray as a character).

Ah ya big suck-up Meister

Linkmeister? Assmeister, more like. How dare you not realise my cross genre effort was shot in moody black and white (therefore qualifying it as noir). And as the original, I maintain mine was the best.

Except for Michele's. And D's. And Solonor's was pretty good too.

Christ on a bike, what's happening to the world?