Curves of a Killer - Flash Fiction Pulp Noir

The 3 A.M. Epiphany's second exercise is titled "Imperitive"—writing in the second person was strangely satisfying. I grew up playing D&D (among other RPGs) and so this was natural for me. It's also how adventure books (like Choose Your Own Adventure) are written- telling you where to go and what to do. Kind of bossy, really. 

Still, it was a great exercise; I wouldn't mind trying to create an adventure book, someday.

Exercise #2: IMPERITIVE (500 words)

Dusk slices horizontal strips into your dim office and onto your face, waking you.  You stretch, rub the sleep from your eyes and move to adjust the blinds when a quick rap turns your attention away.

You open the door, and a shapely female silhouette is softly illuminated by sunlight splashing off your desk. Her red fitted dress and matching flat-brimmed hat hide eyes that cut through black lace, judging your gape.

“It’s customary to ask a girl in to have a seat, detective.” She breathes. Her eyes glisten, moist and red from an emotional hotplate.

“Ah- sorry. Come in, Ms-?” you stammer while removing a stack of opened, unpaid utility bills off your guest seat.

“Devry. Lorraine Devry.” She smiles as you turn and shut the door behind her. You pull the chair and gesture her to sit. She places a Virginia Slim into her pert lips and you light it in one suave move.

She takes a long drag and blows smoke to the side. She notices the wall photo from your long-gone patrol days.

“You knew my father.” She exhales. You sit and pull a bottle of scotch out of your desk drawer.

“Devry. I thought you might have been related. He doesn’t have your legs, though.” You say as you pull out two glasses. You pour two shots but she refuses. You shrug and down your Scotch and Scotch chaser.

“Didn’t, as in past-tense. He’s dead.” She lowers her head. “I’ll have that shot now.”

A lump seizes your throat; Sgt. Devry took you under his wing as a snot-nosed cadet. He was a good chum with a hearty laugh. Though straight and narrow, you never liked how merciful was to dumb bums and undeserving vermin… the ones you knew were guilty.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Devry. What happened?” You wipe a glass with a handkerchief and pour a shot for Lorraine.

She takes a shot then begins to cry. You move in to comfort her but she shrugs you off and gives you the one-minute finger. She pulls out an envelope and hands it to you.

You see it’s a letter from him penned to you. Curious.

“It’s been opened.” You give her a side glance.

She shrugs. Never mind that now. You pull out the letter, turn and walk toward the window. You notice blood stains across the bottom of the paper.

The note reads: “Grimes. You son-of-a-bitch. I’ve known all these years it was you who turned me in to internal affairs. I lost my pension, my wife. All I got left is this gun to my head. Go to hell.”

You drop the suicide note. You turn and Lorraine is holding a gun right at you. She squeezes the trigger and three whispers fly out the silencer. You fall, feeling the wet splatter drain you cold to the floor. As your sight grows dim, you see her walk out and you contemplate the swing of those hips… the curves of a killer.

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