A Dame Called Danger

The moment the dame sashayed into my office, I knew she would be trouble. The way she waved her tentacles coyly about her, the way her pseudopodia left hardly any slime. And the fact that she was pinker than any female I’d seen in my life. She exuded class, and class is what gets mooks like us dead in a ditch.

I tried to maintain my poise as she talked. I kept my suckers closed, my dirt pipe lit, and I looked out the window once in a while, staring at the heat death of the universe while trying not to gawp at her.

It was her partner (grr) – her business partner (yes!) – who kept trying to make a play for her (bastard). He’d made a drunken scene outside her cave the other night, and then gone missing (lovely). She didn’t mind him being gone (although she’d dutifully registered a formal complaint), he’d changed the password to their joint safe (oh really?) before going away. She wanted me to trace him and bring either him or the password back.

I gave her a long look. I knew bullshit when I saw it, but when it came from that mouth with those lovely rows of teeth, I was willing to eat it up. Besides, the divorce cases were getting boring.

I pushed forward a tentacle and grinned my most razor-toothed grin. Me, I liked trouble.