Pulpy Snafus – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 22:14 to 22:15. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

His foot flicked up and opened the bottom drawer where he kept his crutches. It slide open as smooth as cheesewire through a neck, but Snafus had no support today; he was out of whiskey and he was out of smokes.

A thin jangle of two lousy dimes in his pocket reminded him that the client seat hadn’t been troubled for a couple of months. The top drawer was where he kept his preserver and this one glided silently and keenly to reveal the trusty old two-pound toy. He toyed with it. “Well, Pulpy old boy, this is it I guess”, and the cold cylinder found itself kissing a warm temple.

It eased up like a bartender to a lush, the gentle decisive knock at the door. Dimly the sound meant something to him. That’s right; the it meant long nights pounding the streets, it meant sore knuckles and an even sorer chin, it meant the rustle of banknotes and the crack of a fresh bottle of Old Forester. Pulply Snafus had a client. The Colt and the temple parted company once more.

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