murder on the seven seas splendor, a blog noir review
Posted: Fri Mar 13, 2020 6:43 am
It was March 13 - a Friday, of course - and I was awakened from fitful sleep by thunderous blasts, like red-hot pokers to my ears, again and again and again.
It sounded bad, like the noise a Shylock makes when you ask if a check is okay. And it felt bad, like falling out the rear window of a creep joint wearing somebody else's pants. Still, somehow I managed to quash all that jingle jangle jingle, as if I had stuck something long and hard down the shaft of a snub-nose 45.
I answered the phone.
"Who's there?" I says.
"It's Claire," she says.
Message translated: It was Claire, the comely Miss Voyant. It was Claire, built the right way, and in all the right places. It was Claire, my personal trip adviser, and spelled the right way, not like that cesspool of online drivel and all its phony reviews! Claire.
"Hello, Doll, " I says, "What are you wearing?"
I knew well that, as a rule, Claire's rule, her weekend come-hither ensembles had as much material in them as any regulation basketball net, or less ... and that they smelled like sex, and jasmine ... and sex. And they tasted like chicken. My mind wandered.
"Listen to me, drib," she says, "Don't board that ship tomorrow!"
"You mean Seven Seas, Splendor?" I says. "Why, because of the virus?"
"No," she says, "because there's going to be a ... a ... a murder!"
"Who," I says. "Who is going to be murdered?"
"You are!" she says.
And then the line went dead, along with all my hopes and dreams.
It sounded bad, like the noise a Shylock makes when you ask if a check is okay. And it felt bad, like falling out the rear window of a creep joint wearing somebody else's pants. Still, somehow I managed to quash all that jingle jangle jingle, as if I had stuck something long and hard down the shaft of a snub-nose 45.
I answered the phone.
"Who's there?" I says.
"It's Claire," she says.
Message translated: It was Claire, the comely Miss Voyant. It was Claire, built the right way, and in all the right places. It was Claire, my personal trip adviser, and spelled the right way, not like that cesspool of online drivel and all its phony reviews! Claire.
"Hello, Doll, " I says, "What are you wearing?"
I knew well that, as a rule, Claire's rule, her weekend come-hither ensembles had as much material in them as any regulation basketball net, or less ... and that they smelled like sex, and jasmine ... and sex. And they tasted like chicken. My mind wandered.
"Listen to me, drib," she says, "Don't board that ship tomorrow!"
"You mean Seven Seas, Splendor?" I says. "Why, because of the virus?"
"No," she says, "because there's going to be a ... a ... a murder!"
"Who," I says. "Who is going to be murdered?"
"You are!" she says.
And then the line went dead, along with all my hopes and dreams.