Grad School, Part 307

She was a tall drink of water, that's for sure. Hell, a broad built that well doesn't just walk into your office every day of the week. I mean, this dame was quality. Those stems went all the way up. At least I assumed they did. I didn't exactly ask to ensure for myself, if you know what I mean.

- I hear you're a man who knows how to find people. That you're a real people finder, Mr. Pickle.

- That depends, sweetheart. And that's Detective Pickle to most people. Pick to my friends.

- Well... Pick... What exactly does it depend on?

She had that deep, breathy voice. You know the kind of mean. She must have been around the block a few times. She smelled like a carton of Lucky Strikes and her voice sounded like she'd smoked more than a few in her time. But dammit if that isn't just how I like 'em. She was some kind of tall, smoky drink of water, I tell ya.

- Depends on lots of things, Mrs...?

- Miss. Hotcans.

Obviously a fake name, but with a tuchus like that, who's going to argue?

- Alright, Miss Hotcans. Depends on who you need found. Depends on what you need 'em found for. And mostly, it depends on how much you're willing to pay for the privilege of the finding.

- Okay, Pick. How about this? I want you to find my sister. Layla. Layla Hotcans. Aren't you going to write this down.

She must be kidding. Hotcans was her real name? Or the sister used the same alias?

- Oh, I got a mind like a steel trap sister. You just keeping yappin'. Ol' Pick'll keep it all up here.

- Very well... Mr. Pickle.

So that was how she was going to play it. Well alright toots. Two can tango. Three can mambo. Four can salsa. Five can do the can-can. After that we just got ourselves a real crowded dance floor, if you take my meaning.

- Please, Miss Hotcans. Continue.

- My sister disappeared two weeks ago. She lives in Mission Bay and I... I...

She started to cry a little. What a cute little act. I could tell this tight little shotgun piece wouldn't cry from an onion up her pantyhose. You could smell that a mile away. The scent of a hardcase was all over her. Between that, the lightly toasted smell of her Luckies and the intoxicating flatulence she was laying liberally into the air, I was hooked. Damn, she could have bottled that scent and I would have poured it in my coffee in the morning. That's right, baby. I'm a real fart-sniffer and I ain't afraid to say it. These mean streets call for a man to sniff a fart occasionally. And I'll be an orangutan's bare-assed monkey's cousin once removed if you think I'm not going to do my very damned best to enjoy the smell. Of the farts. That I'm sniffing.

I handed her a tissue.

- Here. Miss Hotcans, please don't cry. Dry those eyes mama. Pick'll figure this all out.

- Thank... Thank you Detective... Pick. Yes, I don't know how I'll ever thank you.

- Oh we'll think of something, I'm sure.

With that, she let out a deep wet trumpet blast. I leaned my face in and breathed deep. My nostrils flared with the sheer elation of the moment. We locked eyes for a moment and a devilish grin crept across her face. I knew it then, like I know it now. We were destined to do the horizontal mambo. To make the beast with one back and one face buried in one smelly anus.

My favorite dance...

To be continued... maybe...

The Legend of COLTON HARRIS-MOORE !!!

From The Times On line
In the forests and remote islands around Seattle, police are setting traps for a barefoot teenage outlaw who has eluded them for nearly two years.

Police say 18-year-old Colton Harris-Moore, whose escapades are turning him into a folk legend, is a one-man crime wave, responsible for 50 burglaries as well as stealing light aircraft, which he taught himself to fly from video games, and several speedboats.

He lives in the woods, shuns shoes and catches his own food. His only technological aid is a pair of thermal-imaging goggles to hunt at night and his weakness is pizzas, which he asks to be delivered at the edge of the woods.

For some Harris-Moore is a modern Butch Cassidy: a surprisingly agile 6ft 5in cat burglar who thanks his victims by leaving them notes and cheeky photographs of himself, which have sold for £300 on eBay.

Thousands subscribe to his Facebook page and his image appears on T-shirts with the logo “Fly, Colton, Fly!”. Local rock groups have penned songs about him.

Hollywood producers have lodged lucrative film deals with his family and offered to pay for lawyers if he gives himself up.

Raised in a caravan on Camano Island, an isolated community in the Puget Sound, Harris-Moore started living wild at the age of seven. He would break into holiday homes, steal blankets and food and vanish into the woods for days.

In April 2008, after being sent to a juvenile detention centre, he complained that the beds were too short for his lanky frame and went on the run.

Police believe he fled to Canada and then, a few weeks ago, came back across the border to Idaho where he stole a Cessna 182 and flew to Seattle. He crash-landed in a forest clearing and walked away with cuts and bruises.

Since then he has been accused of stealing other planes for hops around the islands in the Puget Sound, including another Cessna belonging to a disc jockey who vented his frustration on radio, saying: “He still doesn’t know how to land a plane in one piece.”

He evaded a police pursuit by crashing a Mercedes-Benz into a roadside gas storage tank, using the explosion as a diversion to escape back into the woods where, he says, he feels like a Native American.

This was followed by the largest manhunt in recent memory. Three dozen sheriffs, aided by specialist armed units and an FBI helicopter, fanned out across Camano Island but failed to capture him. “We saw him, we think, but it’s like he disappeared in front of our eyes,” said one sheriff.

His luck may be about to run out. During a recent sweep a rifle shot was fired at police, raising his status to “armed and dangerous”. His mother, Pamela Kohler, now fears that even if he did not fire the shot he will be held responsible.

Kohler said she was proud her son had stolen the aircraft because he had never had a flying lesson in his life. “I was going to send him to flight school, but I guess I don’t have to,” she said. “I’d tell him the next time he took a plane: wear a parachute and practise your landing.




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