This is a blog where a starter sentence is given every Friday@12PM PST. You then have until the following Tuesday@9AM PST to come up with short story or poem.
This week MRMacrum has come up with the starter sentence, which is in bold the rest is what I made of it....
"Hanging on with one hand, he considered his alternatives."
Zilch came back as goose pimples rose on his naked backside in the cool night air.
Below the goon sat on the bonnet of the BMW M5 saloon and sucked on a cigarette. Unaware of Valentine PI perched precariously on the soil pipe. Valentine’s fingers gripped the window ledge for dear life. His other hand, clutched to his chest, held trousers, boxers, shoes and a shrivelled latex condom.
Inside he could hear raised voices. Lily, adopting an affronted tone and wiping away crocodile tears as Pork Pie stalked, like a feral tomcat, from room to room.
Valentine’s brief was to watch and report any sign of Lily’s infidelity. She was young, beautiful and recently married to violent gangster Pork Pie; nicknamed, not after the staple British meat pie but his love of Ska music, tailored suits and flat top Trilby hats.
Good money and a straight forward case until Valentine’s dick started to do the thinking and Lily’s insatiable sex drive kick started like a Harley. The PI’s rule book went out the bedroom window and Valentine followed it when Pork Pie returned early from his Soho club.
The goon flipped the glowing butt and sauntered over to the shrubbery, standing directly below Valentine. He unzipped his fly and let out a low sigh of relief as urine gushed over the flowerbed.
They were at the top of the stairs now. Pork Pie unused to being answered back, raising his voice and then his hand. A cold, harsh slap made Valentine wince. Seconds later the front door slammed with enough force to take it off the hinges.
“Put that away and think of the bleedin neighbours,” barked Pork Pie, straightening his flat topped hat and crunching gravel on the driveway with his Italian leather brogues.
“It’s good for the roses guv.”
Pork Pie fired up a fat Cuban. “Where the fuck’s that poor excuse for a Private Dick? He’s supposed to be snooping twenty four seven.” He pulled a mobile phone from his expensive suit jacket and blew a cloud of blue tinged cigar smoke. “If I could get my hands on Valentine’s balls....” Stubby, calloused fingers stabbed at the phone.
Valentine felt his trousers start to vibrate in his hand and the condom shrivelled some more. He closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer as his ringtone greeted the night with.... ‘This one’s for the bouncers. Big, big... Monkey Man! Aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye!’
© 2009 Alan Griffiths