Prologue
According to my second in command, Renfield, everyday is Bring Your Pet to Work Day in Saragun Springs. At least it is in our office, that braintrust of the Springs from which the best bad ideas possible are concocted.
Renny has three pets that she allows to charmingly run amuck. Two are “The Braw Brothers Baw, Beezer and Barkevious” (who insist they are brothers even though Beezer is a British Bulldog and Barkevious is clearly a Scottie). Just yesterday, the third member of “Team Renfield” leapt onto my desk with that insolent indifference perfected by Cats, who know the precise moment when to leap from an unseen spot and land in front of you, thus giving your heart a test far more conclusive than that of the treadmill.
“Oh, you little fuckstick! What have I told you about that?” I damn near fell out of my chair when Renfield’s Black Cat, Professor Moriarty (or “Pro-Mo”), pulled that old trick on me for at least the fiftieth time in a week.
All Cats in Saragun Springs have cultured, mid-Atlantic speaking voices. The Professor ignored my complaint and started in with the insults, as is his habit. “You humans don’t have a sense of smell, outside the stenches you create–If you did possess my olfactory keenness, you would have been aware of the godly fragrance caused by my magnificence.”
I lit a smoke and hooked my thumb at the litter pan in the far corner of my office. “Tell me, Oh Magnificent One, what god creates something straight up from beer-shit hell? And if the Germans had sprayed the Allies with Cat pee in the Great War we’d all be singing David Hasselhoff songs today. And what’s that goddam thing doing in here anyway? You’re Renfield’s Cat.”
“Tut, tut,” Pro-Mo said, shaking his head. “I am my own master; ‘tis amazing that your head stays inflated with so little in it.”
I have a deft hand with Cats. Before he could swat me I landed “scratchies” on top of his pointy little head. He immediately fell into an opium daze. All Cats become hopeless stooges when involved with scratchies; we all have our weaknesses. “I’m putting you in a story,” I said. An epic day to day thing and you, little sir, will like it.
“Yes, yes, yes, in a story” he purred. It’s disgraceful how little of their bad temperament Cats retain while under the influence of scratchies. Whilst I had him under my power (my hand was starting to cramp), I whistled for the Bros Baw.
Renfield’s fiends will appear (by and by) in a daily opus that begins tomorrow and will last all month.
See you in the morning…
Leila
Saragun Springs 
Cats – Ours for the last several months of his life left us solid waste on the carpet. Don’t know if would have been able to cope if it had been liquid. We have observed what that does to a house. What we called the cat house (told many indoor cats) had to be torn down before the property could be sold.
Did you suggest King Arnold should show up in London on the LS doorstep? I’m assuming that was the message.
Short crime story. I try to mix male and female villains. Don’t do mystery – one I’d be horrible, and two they seem artificial to me even the ones I like.
Bio – Doug Hawley picked up writing after early retirement. He switched from number to words with his writing hobby. His writing appears in most genres, short of novel lengths, and several countries. https://doug.car.blog/
Paperback Writer
Back at Jason’s apartment, Debra asked “I hope that you remember that it’s our one year anniversary of dating. Do you have anything special in mind?”
“I’m not proposing marriage if that’s what you think, even though we make a great couple. I do have some good news. Why don’t we drink to it?”
They both drank their martinis in one gulp.
“You probably know that I spent months trying to come up with a story to write since my last best seller ‘Murder Lurks’. I finally have an outline. A bright and gorgeous couple has been dating for a year. He’s having second thoughts because she likes to one up him. He’s a writer. If he mentions the sales on his last book, she will tell him about the contract she has to develop a new neighborhood for ten thousand people. It’s small thing, but her hair starts to bother him. She’s much too old for a ponytail and the clothes she wears. He decides killing her would not only set him free, but he could use her death as the basis of his next story.”
Debra innocently asks “How does he kill her?”
“He has an undetectable poison which mimics a heart attack. The writer knows that her family has a history of heart disease. He doses her drinks.”
“The murderer watches carefully to be sure she drinks the poisoned drinks?”
“Right.”
“There’s no cure or antidote?”
“No cure and the antidote must be administered before the poison is taken.”
“Why isn’t the writer suspected of the murder, if he writes a book based on it?”
Jason smiles. He loves the revenge for her lack of appreciation of his genius. “Here’s the clever part. He’s agreed to swap this story, with a few changes, for a sure best seller from one of the top writers in the genre. The other writer loved this story. Nobody would suspect the top writer, and the murderer gets another best seller.”
“Is the victim stupid or ugly? The murder doesn’t really seem justified.”
“No, she’s a real beauty and smart, but not so smart she wouldn’t fall for something this clever. The murderer will miss the dynamite sex.”
“Great plot. There is only one thing that could go wrong.”
“Like what?” Jason is sweating and trembling.
“What if the supposed victim knew the other writer, the one with the big dick and great stamina?”
“What? Big dick?”
“We can stop playing now. You know, Clark Samson – the one that’s a better writer and lover than you. I’ve been seeing him on the side. If you had paid any attention to anyone other than yourself you would have known. He double-crossed you and made a better deal with me. I got the antidote before our drinks. I have the same deal that you had, because I always wanted to be a writer. A best seller written by Clark but with my name on it is a good start. This way Samson gets the first deal plus mind blowing sex with me.”
Jason is suffering heart palpitations as he asks “Does she give the writer the same poison that he gave her?”
“That’s right sweetheart. You were so intent on making sure that I had the poisoned drink, that you missed me poisoning yours. It’s late enough for me to call an ambulance now. By the time it arrives, you won’t have anything to say.”
Appears in Terror House, Dark Dossier, World Of Myth, and Stray Branch
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Hi Doug
Thank you for the story. I figue to be wise because I never let people mix my drinks unless they are paid to do do. In that regard poison is bad for repeat business and severely reduces the tip.
Thank you
Leila
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Dear Leila/Authoress
Boo the Siberian was riveted to what he afterward called the “Animal Realism” of this Springs Prologue. To quote Bob Dylan from “Desolation Row,” Boo can’t read too good right now (or ever). But he can understand just fine as it’s read aloud to him, like they used to do in the old days around the (in our case nonexistent) fireplace. He said to tell you he’ll be sharing this serial tale of tails with his confreres and gang members, Bandit and Colonel (sharing means tell them about it with barks, howls, and tail wags; he doesn’t do social media). Also to tell you he knows all about the scratchies and their opium-like effects, esp. behind the ears or on the chest.
Looking forward to tomorrow’s episode!!
D. & B.
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Thank you Dale
It is heartening that fine persons (and they are persons) such as Boo, Bandit and Colonel are on my side, along with you!
Leila
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