The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Exotic Solos =&gt; Topic started by: MrDiamondBackJack on 15-09-2010, 01:46:52</h2>
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				Title: <strong>The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>15-09-2010, 01:46:52</strong>
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				Genre: Pulp Fiction/Comedy<br>Setting: The Planet Zeta in the Year 2269<br><br><span style="font-size: 10pt;" class="bbc_size">The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist, A Dick Hancock Mystery</span><br><br>My name is Dick Hancock.&nbsp; I'm a private dick.&nbsp; I specialize in anything that will pay the bills and keep the Ministry of Citizen Recycling from deciding that I would better serve society by becoming a Soylent Green smoothie.&nbsp; The name from famous movie had stuck around in the public consciousness.&nbsp; When it came around to a planet like Zeta, which was a shit hole of an ecological nigh mare, the product had actually become real.&nbsp; Now the product was produced on many worlds, under a strict recipe of the Finger-Lickin' Good Corp (a subsidiary of Kentucky Fried Chicken Interstellar).<br><br>The local flora and fauna were all toxic for human consumption and Earth breeds did not far well here on Zeta.&nbsp; The average lifespan of a human born off world was fifteen years from the moment they stepped onto the planet and those bore locally lived an average of forty three years.&nbsp; Still, all of the human controlled planets were full and this was not the worst world out there.&nbsp; We were the 1st runner-up.<br><br>It was a hot, sticky day on Planet Zeta when I parked my beat up hover car in front of my office.&nbsp; The temperature was hovering around the temperature required for any exposed skin to start to resemble beef jerky.&nbsp; A Zetan, with a push cart full of frozen spin backed critters on sticks, pushed past me. Her tentacles look wilted and glossy, but she kept on moving.<br><br>My office was located in one of those old brownstone buildings that they built to try to make we earthlings feel at home.&nbsp; It was like working in a giant brick oven, but the rent was cheap and neighborhood was just that mix of lower and higher class which can give you clients from both sides of the track.<br><br>As I entered the office, it looked about like it always did.&nbsp; Stacks of papers were piled randomly about on desks and filing cabinets.&nbsp; The windows were open and two metal Old Earth fans were moving the stale air around.&nbsp; The coffee maker was done brewing the morning sludge and my secretary, Greta, was hard at work painting her nails candy apple red.<br><br>I took off my trench coat and hung in on the rack.&nbsp; I knew that it was crazy to wear a trench coat in this weather, but it was so good at hiding things like guns and pay off envelopes.&nbsp; Under it my lean, athletic body was clad in a red Hawaiian shirt with white flowers and knee length white shorts.&nbsp; Greta called it my 'Old Man in Paradise' outfit.&nbsp; My short brown hair was stuck to my head with sweat.<br><br>No one has ever called me pretty, but some women have told me that I am rugged.&nbsp; I've had my nose broken more than once, but I have a sturdy jaw and I can take a punch.&nbsp; Before I became a private dick, I spent a stretch in the Merchant Marines, sailing from planet to planet.&nbsp; There are quite a few scars from those years, still on my body.&nbsp; You would think that the Merchant Marines were all about business, but business can often get rough.<br><br>Today, Greta was wearing, or half wearing, quite an outfit herself.&nbsp; Her skirt was black and tight and would have ended at her lower thighs, if her sturdy, but shapely legs had not been propped up on my desk.&nbsp; As it was, it had rode up on her thighs to the point I might have laid odds on the color of her panties with confidence.&nbsp; Her feet were bare, but her toes were freshly painted and had bits of cotton swab stuffed between them.<br><br>Her ample bosom was hugged tightly by a black cotton bodice and spilled over the top of her red linen corset.&nbsp; Her bodice squeezed her plump girls together to form a deep pale cleavage which was only shown as a thin strip down the center. Her neck extended up into a slightly rounded face with thick, heart shaped lips, enormous emerald eyes, a cute button nose and large red dimples.&nbsp; Her long blond hair was in two long braids, which fell down her front and over her breast.&nbsp; She was wearing a lot more clothing that was advisable did on days like these, causing beads of sweat to run down her neck and into the valley between her glistening mounds<br><br>"Hard as work Greta?&nbsp; Don't get up.&nbsp; I won't want to hurt yerself."&nbsp; I sat down on the edge of my desk and stared, pushing her legs aside, and cocked an eyebrow at her.<br><br>Greta was the sort of dame who did not give a shit about the opinions of others about how she dressed or acted.&nbsp; She wore what she wanted, came in when she wanted and worked if she wanted.&nbsp; Still, she was the sister of my best friend and I owed her, after what happened.&nbsp; She wasn't hard on the eyes either, though her charms were about as subtle as a smack upside the head with a Louisville slugger.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist, A Dick Hancock Mystery</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>15-09-2010, 19:59:05</strong>
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				<div align="center"><strong>Denise Nichole Hammerstein, Wealthy Heiress in Need of a Detective</strong></div><br>It was about eleven o'clock in the morning when Denise stepped out onto the curb outside her six story brick apartment building, a cigarette dangling from her scarlet hued lips. She wore a powder-blue man’s suit with a dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief. Her pumps had five-inch fuck-me-heels. Black stockings completed her outfit. She looked neat, sober, and just a little dangerous even to those who didn’t know about the .32 Beretta tucked away in her pocket. No bullets of course, last night saw to that, but still, its weight against her thigh felt good. <br><br>Summoning an orange hover taxi, she waved off the squid’s tentacle (as she lovingly thought of the Zetans) and slid into the back. The ride was humid and uncomfortable to a human’s sensibilities. But she couldn’t let that deter her. She had a man to see, Dick Hancock, Private Detective. She glanced at the once white, now coffee stained business card and confirmed the address. <br><br>It was important that she went with the best. Time was of the essence and she needed the most skilled detective available. Unfortunately, Jack Slade was in the hospital. So this joker, this Dick Hancock would have to do.<br><br>God, she could use bourbon, and not the adulterated schlock Zetans tried to pass off as bourbon, but the real thing with a blue ribbon label. When she stepped out of the cab and began the short journey to Mr. Hancock’s office, she thought briefly about what he would see. A mid-twenties, gender challenged girl with a halo of short red hair, hazel eyes and showgirl legs complemented by a pancake model’s bust as in flat.<br><br>The neighborhood he lived in didn’t inspire confidence. The smell of Zetan waste hit her like an acrid slap across the face. The glaring leers of unemployed squids standing around made her reach into her pocket to caress her empty Berretta. She came from a wealthy family with huge interests in manufacturing a variety of reprocessed semi-edible food-like products. It meant she rarely spent time in the less desirable venues. She wrinkled her pert, slightly freckled nose in disgust and entered Mr. Hancock’s building.<br><br>She hoped he was a New Harvard man. Ideally, he would be a slim well-dressed figure of man who would sensitively understand her terrible dilemma. They might laugh at how it could have happened to anyone. She’d feel an instant kinship with him. <br><br>Pausing briefly, she gathered her thoughts and walked into his office. “Mr. Hancock,” she started before freezing in dismay at the sight of this Neanderthal of a man. An unconcealed expression of disgust briefly crossed her pretty heart-shaped face as she thought dryly, this is no New Harvard man.<br><br>Nonetheless, she pressed on. “You the detective?” she asked. Her tone hoped desperately he would say no. But even as she spoke, she pulled a stack of hard currency thick enough to choke a Zetan muley from her deep maroon leather wallet. “I seem to be in need of your services.” <br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist, A Dick Hancock Mystery</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>17-09-2010, 09:10:17</strong>
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				Greta was staring up at me and preparing a sarcastic comeback, when money walked through the door.&nbsp; The outer door open and closed and a female voice called out.&nbsp; “You the detective?”<br><br>A lot of my very best and very worse days have started with that exact phrase.&nbsp; Everyone assumes that a private dick can handle just about anything that they can throw at us.&nbsp; At times, we are called upon to be policemen, lawyers, murders, fences, counselors and a post of other legal and illegal profession.&nbsp; You never know what will follow that phrase.&nbsp; It could be a simple case of some executive type fucking his secretary, or it could be a complicated case where he is fucking his brother's Zetan life partner and is now blackmailing him to keep the holos out of the news feed.<br><br>I got some idea of the kind of trouble the phrase would cause me, this time, when I turned around.&nbsp; A think slip of a woman stood in my office, obviously slumming it.&nbsp; She had an elegant, stylish edge to her which belonged in upscale brothels, corporate board rooms and the perfume counter at Maxine's.&nbsp; She was a slim and sharp as a stiletto and believed that when she shit, her shit was diverted away from the shit of lowly types like me.&nbsp; I could tell the type, because I had been down that road before.<br><br>My secretary was, I am sure, focused mostly on the green backs clutched in the woman's hands.&nbsp; Greta was a practical woman, with simple and deeply felt greed.&nbsp; She like being paid and she did not much care what I had to do, to get the money for her salary.&nbsp; I knew that she was already pulling up a black text document, to take notes with, and was trying to figure out how to pad our expense reports.<br><br>Despite my misgivings, there wasn't much choice here.&nbsp; We needed the money to pay the rent, so I would give her a fair hearing.&nbsp; She might be a rich snow princess, but her money would spend as well as anyone's.&nbsp; It was time to turn on the old Hancock farm.<br><br>"Yes, I am Dick Hancock, private detective!&nbsp; Come sit down and you can tell me why you are visiting us today.&nbsp; Would you like some coffee?&nbsp; My girl will be happy to get you a cup.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist, A Dick Hancock Mystery</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>18-09-2010, 23:18:03</strong>
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				While Denise didn’t like the hardboiled look of this detective, hard enough to bounce off the sidewalk, she really had no choice. At the offer of coffee, she glanced at Greta. “If you can find a clean cup, I would love a cup of fresh coffee.” She offered a half-smile, flecks of cold light in her eyes. “No need to hurry back.” <br><br>Her words might be rude. But no one misunderstood that this was her brusque way to say, “I want to talk to the private dick privately.” Even in the humidity of the Zetan air, the edges of the folded handkerchief, monogrammed handkerchief in the breast pocket of her blue looked sharp enough to slice bread. A closer looks showed that the monogram letters read RDC. Curious, she introduced herself as Denise Hammerstein. He might later learn her middle name was Nichole. <br><br>When the two were private, the girl began to talk. Her tones were fast, clipped and screamed, ‘I’m an over-educated, upper-crust, East coast bitch.’ My sister is Cassie. Well her full name is Helen Cassandra, but everyone calls her Cassie. She’s very sweet, innocent. But she got mixed up with an entertainer.”<br><br>Denise paused, tears shimmering on strawberry lashes. Her voice held an audible sneer that said there could be no lower class of life when she added, “A ventriloquist.” At Dick’s prompting, she continued a little slower.<br><br>“There was a pregnancy scare. I know it’s a dirty lie. Cassie would never be involved in that way with a ... ventriloquist.” She had paused on the word <em>ventriloquist </em>and her listener had the distinct impression that Denise had originally intended a different word. “Daddy hired gentlemen to discourage this louse’s intentions. Cassie thought they were going to run away together. But it turned out he was far more interested in blackmail. I guess he claimed there were letters, one or two photographs, maybe a six hour video and a holographic computer simulation, you know the sort of thing. Well he wanted to meet. When I went there, he was gone and a thug named Jazx Meicwlien was waiting in his place.”<br><br>She reached into her pocket. “He wanted money.” Here she paused for three dramatic beats. It was easy to tell it was three beats; she counted them off silently under her breath. “And I gave him this,” she said with a flourish pulling out her .32 Beretta. “Unfortunately, he took my bullets away. You can see why I need your help.”<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist, A Dick Hancock Mystery</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>19-09-2010, 09:30:55</strong>
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				If Greta was offended by our client's request for coffee, she didn't show it, beyond putting a bit more of a swing in her hips, show what she had that this rich dame did not.&nbsp; I can say that I didn't follow her with my eyes for a moment, but I was a professional.&nbsp; I could watch flashed of Greta's lovely rear appear through her slatted skirt, around the edges of our potential client, and still listen to our client.<br><br>Miss Hammerstein was like a delicate, starched silk flower when placed next to Greta's red screaming rose, but she looked like she could be just as thorny.&nbsp; Her hair and face had that art deco sort of beauty, like it should be painted on a vase.&nbsp; She had the long, narrow figure and look of an Old Earth flapper, from her masculine attire to her paper flat figure.&nbsp; Hey, I may be a private dick, but we still need to know things you know.&nbsp; A few of my cases had involved tracking down stolen and fenced art.&nbsp; I might not know too much about art, but, as they say, I know what I like.&nbsp; She was an a dried beef stick&nbsp; of a woman and I liked mine like I like my blood sausage; plump and full of juices.&nbsp; Still, there was something about those ankles and toes....<br><br>I listened to Little Miss Entitlement's tale of woe without much interest.&nbsp; It was an old, sad song, which had echoed down the years.&nbsp; The rich had and the confidence man took away.&nbsp; Maybe this ventriloquist was as nice a kid as he had presented himself and maybe not.&nbsp; He might be behind the blackmail, or be a pawn himself, but the facts hardly mattered to her.<br><br>This dame wanted him six feet under with a dump truck full of rocks to mark his grave, and she wasn't afraid to take matters into her own filthy rich hands.&nbsp; I didn't know the kid, but felt bad for him.&nbsp; This bitch has spoken about him being a performer, like she thought it was on the same level of walking the streets for coin.&nbsp; Every Friday night I was a Fran's ogling the dancing girlies and listening to two bit comedians complaining.&nbsp; They were good enough for me, so I was sure that she had already placed me in the same category.&nbsp; <br><br>I had to prompt her a few times and look attentive.&nbsp; I noticed that her monogram handkerchief didn't match her name.&nbsp; She hadn't stolen the suit from someone, so it probably belonged to a lover boy.&nbsp; He was probably the son of a rich family, with a white flashing smile that was as phony as half of the certificates on my walls.<br><br>Finally she got to the end of her little tale and pulled a pop gun out of her pocket.&nbsp; I reacted without thinking pulled my favorite revolver half out of its shoulder holster, before relaxing.&nbsp; "Careful waving that thing around toots!&nbsp; You coulda bought yourself a coffin nail through your pretty little skull!"&nbsp; In my surprise, I momentarily forgot to play nice and talked to her like I would a regular dame.<br><br>As my heart returned to a normal rhythm, I considered what to say, as I reholstered my weapon.&nbsp; I knew what she wanted.&nbsp; She wanted the rat bastard who had knocked up her kid sister to sleep with the tartorn.&nbsp; Sure, I could find him and plug him, but that might not be the end.&nbsp; These things were never as simple as they seemed.&nbsp; Also, she had to be clear what she wanted from me and I had to keep it off the books, if what she wanted wasn't something that I wanted Detective Shrllthm wringing out of me with the long tentacles of the law.&nbsp; Hell, she might want me to cover up her crime as well, if she had thought that far ahead.<br><br>"See here Miss Hammerstein, your gonna have to be straight with me.&nbsp; You’re not looking for someone to negotiate a deal and deliver payoffs.&nbsp; Spell out what you want, or we're done right now."<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>20-09-2010, 20:18:12</strong>
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				Before she began speaking, Denise’s own eyes had lingered briefly on the sway of the secretary as she left the room. Whether her gaze was to ensure the woman would not eavesdrop or just to admire the view was left unclear. Perhaps Denise contemplated borrowing the woman’s body for a dirty weekend. When it came to sex appeal, Greta had it in spades. It was thus no surprise a wistful look crossed the hazel eyed younger woman’s face, a look that held a touch of envy. <br><br>Faced with dark memories of last night, the way that underworld thug had laughed in her face as he whipped the gun from her delicate wrist with one deft touch of a tentacle, she rubbed her bruised wrist, put on a tough face and spat out the tale to the detective in fast, clipped tones. It was only when she pulled out the empty Berretta the detective’s quick reaction and hard-edged words hit her with all the force of a full-sized tuna across the face of an overly clumsy fisherman working for a cheap reality television show. <br><br>“I’m sorry detective,” Denise said in a voice that wanted to imply she meant it, but couldn’t quite manage the deed as she put away her little pearl handled birthday present. It hadn’t been her birthday present, but that was neither here nor there and certainly more information than this private dick needed.&nbsp; She slid the gun back into her pocket and said, apologetically, it needs bullets anyway.<br><br>Dick wasn’t quite sure whether she was apologizing for pulling the gun or, because it lacked the bullets needed to actually shoot him. But as she made clear what could have happen, the girl nodded with a shock looked on her face. “Where does this cement-pavement pounding, off-the-rack suit-wearing altogether too arrogant two-bit detective get off snapping at her, just because she was trying to make clear what had happened.<br><br>She blushed a bit as she recalled the lies she had told the man. But they were necessary, she vowed before answering his question. “Look, I just want the photographs and other evidence back in my hands. And I never want to come near our family again. He can keep the baby and I don’t care how you make sure he vanishes, but he must never, never ever come around Cassie or her family again. Never!” <br><br>He had rattled her hard with his ‘pretty skull’ comment and talk about straight talk. So Denise had spoken quickly without really thinking through her comments. Luckily, Dick ‘Handcock’ came across to her as a bit of a sap. With luck, he would only be sharp enough to find the ventriloquist, get the photos back, and make him vanish, but not so sharp as to dig deeper.<br><br>To move him along, she added. "Look, I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but I think going back where I was last night makes the most sense. You can probably get information out of that thug, which means&nbsp; you'll be done sooner rather than later with a fat bonus in your pocket." She smiled, a smile that never reached her eyes.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>22-09-2010, 05:27:36</strong>
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				Dick rocked back on his heels for a moment.&nbsp; Three things struck him immediately, and he needed to address them now.&nbsp; He stood and leaned over the woman, with one knuckle supporting him on the edge of his desk.&nbsp; Despite his tourist without a clue clothing, there was nothing at all comical about the scowl on his face.<br><br>Dick was used to being screwed over, sometimes by the best and sometimes by the rest.&nbsp; When that screwing involved a taste little Martian stripper from the Double Nebula, named Mindy May, with a fetish for his big gun, that was one thing.&nbsp; When it was some stuck up, daddy's girl, it wasn't so much his style.&nbsp; It hurt just as much as a good screw from Mindy May, but without any of the pleasure.&nbsp; Sure, there was always foreplay, but then the double cross came.&nbsp; At the end of both he was just as spent, but with one he smoked a joint and with the other he might end up getting smoked by someone.<br><br>"Now listen here lady!&nbsp; Let's get a few things straight!" He held up the pointer finger of his left hand, almost pointing at her face. "First of all, I have not accepted your case yet!&nbsp; If and when I do, you will know.&nbsp; This is not a lawn care service or some fucking maid service.&nbsp; I am a professional and I chose when and where to take my cases.&nbsp; If a case smells to easy or to good to be true it usually is, and yours has a stench about it."<br><br>"Secondly,"&nbsp; This time he put his his middle finger. "You did not kill him?&nbsp; What planet are you from where they put a man down without finish him off?&nbsp; Don't you know that your willing to be physical now, but won't follow through?&nbsp; They are going to be after you!&nbsp; This ventriloquist of yours is involved with some heavy hitters, so this is not simple case of paying hush money."<br><br>"Lastly,"&nbsp; This time he somehow used his thumb to make his point.&nbsp; "What fucking baby!!!&nbsp; You just fucking told me that it was a squid-fucking scare, not an actual fucking baby!!!"&nbsp; His face was red enough now that it was starting to match his face.&nbsp; At that moment, the office door started to push open and a rounded bottomed, inadequately covered with black strips, backed into the office.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>23-09-2010, 07:35:37</strong>
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				Denise blanched when Dick held a finger near her face. His veritable explosion of questions shook the girl. She had dismissed him a hick, a hired thug. In truth, he was as sharp as a box of needles from the 99 cents store. He easily saw through her attempt to gloss over the events that led to this moment. And his scowl said her read her like a cheap romance novel.<br><br>She tugged at the tie around her neck. It felt tight, hot suddenly. How did a man wear one of these on a daily basis? She reached to the desk and picked up the stack of bills. “I apologize,” she said softly. “The Hammersteins don’t discuss their private business with just anyone. And perhaps I let my natural reticence flavor the amount of information I provided. I felt so much of what happened is irrelevant to the real issue, which is stopping anyone from using the unfortunate letters and videotape that the Ventriloquist has in his possession.”<br><br>A Dick moved to the second point, she nodded. After a brief pause she disguised by taking the opportunity to brush her bangs back out of one eye, she continued. “I thought I could handle this situation without involving my father or anyone else. I took one of dad’s guns from his office drawer. The little .32 I showed you. The squid who met me didn’t scare. He didn’t scare in the least. To be honest, I got one shot off and it went in the ceiling. But I was expecting the ventriloquist,” she offered by way of explanation. As if, that really explained anything. “When I realized there were others involved, aware of my sister’s indiscretion, I knew I needed help. Everyone said Jack Slade was the man to see, but in the next breath two out of three mentioned your name as a top detective, really a great man for a tough case.”<br><br>Her voice had wandered off as she realized it had probably been impolitic to mention another detective in the same breath that she was trying to get him to take her case. But then he asked about the baby and she blushed. “I didn’t really think the baby came into it. To be honest, I don’t even know if there is a baby. Cassie went off with the Ventriloquist for almost a year. I think she did shows with him, appeared in the act dressed in sequins, that kind of thing. We heard there might have been a child. But if there is a child, Cassie doesn’t want custody. The ventriloquist can keep the baby as far as the Hammerstein’s are concerned. We just want the evidence of the affair and the Ventriloquist to be gone forever. And as far as I know, there is no baby. I think it’s probably just another effort to shake the family down for money.”<br><br>Her eyes turned as the door opened and Greta reentered the room. “If this isn’t the right job for you, I understand. Perhaps, you have a recommendation?” <br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>25-09-2010, 18:23:59</strong>
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				There were times when Dick hated himself.&nbsp; He hated that he had trouble walking away from a dame in trouble, especially if he knew that she would probably end up dead without him.&nbsp; This little pencil of a woman thought that she owned the word, but if she kept running around with her pop gun, going alone to meetings with a blackmailer, then she was going to get owned.<br><br>Greta turned around, carrying a cardboard drink carrier with three iced coffees in tall plastic cups.&nbsp; In this heat, no one actually drank hot coffee, unless they were trying to look like a bad ass.&nbsp; Her bodice was damp with sweat and clinging to her bosom in a way that would have gotten Dick's attention, if he wasn't worried.<br>EWe<br>He nodded at Greta as she passed out the cups and went back to her desk to busy herself with paper work.&nbsp; She was listening, of course.&nbsp; Hell, she had probably left her audio recorder going while she was out of the office.<br><br>"O.K., I will take the case, but you better not be dealin' out yer sleeve sister.&nbsp; We're not going back to where you took a pot shot at that thug either.&nbsp; They'll be long gone.&nbsp; The way I figure it, if they sent a thug to meet you, they might have intended to lean on you a bit.&nbsp; I think you better come with me, until I can call in a friend to protect you, or you should head home, lock your doors and hope that they don't pay you a visit.<br><br>Do you have any idea where this joker is, or might be?&nbsp; How have they been contacting you?"
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>27-09-2010, 07:33:15</strong>
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				Relief shot through Denise when Dick agreed to take her case. If he had refused, she had no real idea of her next step. Her voice held a note of genuine gratitude when she thanked him. Even so, her eyes flickered nervously toward Greta. While grateful for Dick’s intervention, she still felt reticent about sharing information. Although, if she were realistic, it was clear that what Dick knew, Great would know soon enough. She was his secretary and they seemed close. A virile man like Dick and a woman like Greta whose curves were to Denise’s own curves as an Olympic swimming pool was to a kidding wading pool, well, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn they didn’t just spend the 40-hour work week together. <br><br>When Dick mentioned calling a friend to protect her, she nervously nodded her head. “Daddy has security. It makes more sense for me to head home. I’ll make sure everything is locked up and wait for your call. She cast a soft smile in his direction. It wasn’t a flirtatious smile, but it held a touch of something more than just a friendly parting of the lips. It might have just meant she was grateful for a friendly face. Turning from the issue of where she would be, she gave him the last known address for the ventriloquist. “He lived above a club,” she said. “It’s a rough part of town, but I guess he grew up there and knew people.”<br><br>She tried to explain how they had communicated. She felt a little foolish for not paying more attention. “They’ve left letters in the past. At one time, I thought maybe they knew someone on our staff. The letters would just appear in my car, but everyone’s been with us for ages.” She crossed her legs and took a sip of the iced coffee. “When I thought about it, I remembered that every time I found a letter in my car, I’d been the dance studio where I train. It’s driven me nuts, trying to figure it all out.”<br><br>After she had given all the information she could remember, she handed over one of her white cards, having jotted down several numbers. “This is my contact information,” she said. “And I’ve given you my address. Please help Cassie and I.” <br><br>As she turned to leave, Dick’s telephone rang. Maybe he would have followed her down. But it wasn’t to be. While he dealt with the phone call, Greta stood by the window and looked down; watching as the young redhead paused on the corner and looked left and right trying to spot her driver. She saw the long, black hovercar swing by and just like that Denise screamed as she was snatched off the street by four, muscular tentacles attached to an unseen Zetan thug. <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>29-09-2010, 03:36:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				I was just finishing the tentacle extender salesperson on the line that I wasn't a Zetan and that my performance in the bedroom did not need any help, when Greta started screaming like that fat lady at the opera.&nbsp; I dropped the phone and ran to the window and threw open the sash, when I spotted a black hover car peeling off.&nbsp; Greta wasn't being much help, but I could guess what happened.&nbsp; The black-mailing ventriloquist and company had realized that they weren't going to get their money after Annie Oakley started taking pot shots at one of their boys, so they had decided to make a career change and become kidnappers.<br><br>There was nothing for it.&nbsp; I had not seen the plate and it wasn't likely that tracking down their lair would be easy.&nbsp; I had to go after that fucking hover car.&nbsp; With as little thought as possible, I took a flying leap out the window, activating my emergency hover system on my belt in the process.&nbsp; It took me down three stories in seconds, with a large amount of pain when I hit, but without breaking anything.&nbsp; I stumbled to my feet like a drunk and ran for a taxi on the corner.&nbsp; Sliding into the back of the yellow and black checkered vehicle I yelled that one peach of a line that has been used by every private dick worth his or her salt, "follow that car and don't lose it!"<br><br>A little old man with skin like a raisin turned around and stared at me.&nbsp; "No way am I going..."&nbsp; He started up the hover taxi immediately, when I realized that my revolver was drawn and pointed at the back of his bald head.&nbsp; There was an energy weapon dampening field in every taxi, public restaurant and business that you could name.&nbsp; That was why I carried a two hundred and fifty year old Colt service revolver, instead of a phaser.<br><br>We wiped around the corner, going faster as I prodded him with the muzzle of my pistol, like a jockey whipping a horse.&nbsp; Just ahead of us, I could see the black hover car taking a corner, but I couldn't see my client since its windows were tinted.<br><br>This was not happening to me!&nbsp; She had left will I was taking the phone and I did not even have her retainer yet!&nbsp; If she died now, I would make nothing of off this case, and yet still put myself in danger!&nbsp; Sometimes it makes a man think about going into a more stable, safer line of work, like Zorinian bull fighting.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>01-10-2010, 04:23:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Denise was a hard headed girl (some brave souls might say pigheaded). Those who really knew her would call her more than a bit foolish, little scared her in life. But those ropey tentacles snaking out of the dark vehicle and snatching her off the street was a nightmare that would invade her dreams for years to come. The Zetan kidnapper had a brutally tenacious strength that left bands of dark purple bruises around her arms and chest. When she was pulled into the hover car, she felt jagged streaks of pain shoot through her body when her head smacked against the side of the vehicle, leaving a faint stain of blood to mar the black paint.<br><br>&nbsp;It took several moments for Denise to recover from her abduction and open her hazel eyes and peer around. She was in a vehicle with three squids. From their colorful marking, these were males in the prime of life, somewhat larger than the average Zetan. The one driving kept casting one of his eyes backward and Denise had a sense they were traveling much faster than could be considered safe even in this city of famously lackadaisical drivers. <br><br>Despite her momentarily addled brains, Denise considered launching a surprise attack on the Zetan thugs. She rapidly concluded this would be akin to a fly launching a vicious attack on a flyswatter. No doubt there would be pain and blood and someone would get flattened, but Denise had a sneaking suspicious it wouldn’t be the any of the Zetan cretans. So instead, she relied on another famous feminine technique, she closed her eyes almost entirely shut and went totally limp. If an opportunity presented itself, she might emerge from this convenient faint. But in the meantime, she would remain incapacitated.<br><br>She was unaware that Dick Hancock (or rather “Handcock” as she has surreptitiously albeit not particularly creatively labeled him privately in her mind) was in hot pursuit.&nbsp; Unfortunately, the black hover car had one of the biggest engine blocks available and slowly, but surely it slipped away from the vainly pursuing taxi cab. As this happened the little raisin faced man felt sweat dripping down his creviced face and running into the disturbingly plump folds of his neck. He could almost feel a bullet from the cold, hard metal barrel of the revolver piercing into his brainpan and terminating his pitiful existence. <br><br>In an effort to placate the stern faced man who had literally hijacked his cab, he offered a half-hearted excuse for why losing the big black hover car was actually a good thing. “Those men are Diamond Billzy’s men. “No way was you wanting to get involved with a connected gent like Diamond Billzy,” the little raisin offered wryly. Dick may have lost the hover car, but within a few minutes, he had more information about Diamond Billzy, a gent who loaned money to widows in need at 500% interest, supplied university’s and hospitals with extraneous bodies he happened upon in his day to day business, and specialized in blackmailing those in the upper class who suffered an unfortunate addiction to lower class and often illegal fun. In short, Diamond Billzy was a dangerous Zetan with a tentacle in almost every racket in the city. “Sure,” the man said. “I could tell you where he hangs out, but trust me, you don’t want to know. Easier to pick up another whore to take care of you’s needs.”<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>03-10-2010, 09:06:10</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The hover car traveled along for another fifteen minutes, weaving in and out of traffic with reckless abandoned.&nbsp; Finally, the tentacled mobsters were able to shake their taxi tail.&nbsp; The hover car pulled up to a private parking entrance, behind a small night club.&nbsp; Three pairs of eyes on eyestalks looked at Denise and four tentacles reached out to grab her.&nbsp; The Zentan who owned all of these appendages started to squeeze her a little too hard and hissed in her face.&nbsp; "Look here girlie girl!&nbsp; We don't want no trouble see?&nbsp; The boss wants you still wriggling, but he didn't say nothing about not bruising you.&nbsp; If you give me any trouble at all, you'll be sorry."&nbsp; His breath smelled like the pickled glarbock liver which he had eaten for lunch.<br><br>The car settled down in a tiny parking garage, only big enough to hold about ten cars.&nbsp; The garage had concrete walls on four sides and a sliding metal door toward the street.&nbsp; The thugs yanked Denise out of the car and started to pull her up a short flight of stairs, leading to an unmarked door.<br><br>The door opened when one of them rapped on it with his pistol.&nbsp; Denise found herself dragged into a long, room with wood paneled walls.&nbsp; There were four pool tables set up and a few benches sat along the walls.&nbsp; The room was currently empty, except for the strains of Martizs Dislawers singing "These Tentacles Were Made to Hold You Tight and Eat Your Head by Morning Light".&nbsp; &nbsp;The mating rituals of Zentans never made a good subject for a song, but when that song was sung with a twang and accompanied by steel guitar, it was always worse.<br><br>----------------<br><br>I pulled out outside The Titillating Tentacle a few hours before lunch.&nbsp; I had taken the time to ditch my unwilling accomplice and go back for my own wheels.&nbsp; I had also tucked a few little surprises under my recovered trench coat.<br><br>The club was along the boardwalk at the Thalta Lakefront.&nbsp; Lake Thalta was boiling, and letting off toxic fumes.&nbsp; Excited Zetan children were already wading out, under the watchful eyestalks of their parental units.<br><br>The club itself looked like an Old Earth western salon, right down to the plate glass windows, the swinging doors and the old drunk, in cowboy duds, slumped over near the door.&nbsp; I pushed past the drunk and headed through the swinging doors, feeling as if I was in an old western.&nbsp; I just hoped that no one decided to add to my feelings by pulling a gun and plugging me in the head.<br><br>It was still early in the day, so the club was pretty empty.&nbsp; There were lines of one-armed bandits along one wall and a long bar along the other.&nbsp; Ten or so round tables were at one end of the room and a small stage was at the other.&nbsp; About twelve Zetans, heavy into their bottles, sat at the tables, along with a few humans.&nbsp; The Zetans like alcohol almost as much as humans do.&nbsp; It was the one thing which seemed to be true of both races and one of the only things that they could bond over.<br><br>I moved toward the bar, trying to remain casual, and waited for the bartender to turn his eye stalks toward me.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>04-10-2010, 06:02:03</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Like a hummingbird beating its wings against a bit of honeycomb, hope had fluttered across Denise’s tough little heart when she realized that the ruggedly handsome, but sadly lower class, detective she had hired was chasing after the thugs who had forcibly abducted her from the Zetan street corner. The incipient hope was crushed when the detective could not keep up with the high power hovercraft the Zetan thugs used. She would have struggled, but the creatures had a greasy strength that overpowered her own forty-five minutes daily rain or shine treadmill induced fitness. As the craft pulled up to a private entrance, she bit into one rubbery tentacle, but the creature had shrugged it off as if it were nothing, leaving her with a disgusting taste akin to a mixture of Korean fermented cabbage and week-old sashimi. <br><br>He then gave her a rib-cracking squeeze and as she cried out in pain, he let her know the facts. Alive, but bruised was fine if she tried any more tricks. “I’ll see you bastards boiled, buttered and served with lemon juice,” she squealed back in a voice that trembled only slightly. Truly, he smelled like something rotted deep inside his belly. Far from being offended at her gastronomic threats of doom, the creature what might have been called a deep belly laugh if Denise had any idea where the creature located said belly.<br><br>She was then dragged up a flight of stairs and into a saloon that resembled nothing so much as a dive in an archaic classically bad western.&nbsp; The hideous music made her shudder. It wasn’t just the grating sound of a steel guitar, but the verses which reminded her of what had happened to her sister. Her eyes darted to and fro looking for someone who might have an answer for what had happened. “Where’s this boss?” She demanded angrily.<br><br>The Zetan started to respond, but fell silent and his eye stalks bent toward the door marked “Boss” where the massive creature known as Diamond Billzy now made his presence known.<br><br>“You’ze got something I want,” a rumble of a voice rippled across the room with the force of a Zuma Beach undertow. Hours later, Denise wished she had not been so brave. She wished she had just answered his questions. But it was too late when she only remembered blacking out and waking up in a dark and cramped little tomb, feeling sick and like her ribs might be broken. She had felt around and thought it might be a wooden box or crate. She tried not to give into the deep panic that threatened to overwhelm her. But as time passed, she began to scream and when the only response was the echo of her voice, the screams turned to tears and then a sort of shuddering acceptance.<br><br>***** <br><br>The bartender spotted Dick and nodded an eye stalk in his direction. None of the thugs from earlier were in the bartender. “What can I get you sheriff?” He said in a bad Texas drawl. He called all male humans ‘Sherriff’ and all human females “Pretty Lady.” “We don’t get many of your kind in here,” he added a moment later as one tentacle reached out to grab whatever the human had ordered. The door labeled boss was shut tighter than the lid on a year old can of summer buttercup latex paint.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>06-10-2010, 05:56:09</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				If there's one thing that I have learned, in my years of being a private dick, it is that going in the front door is sometimes your best move and sometime your worst.&nbsp; I had been able to tell, right off, that the bastard behind the bar was going to dick with me for a bit, but in the end I won't learn anything useful.&nbsp; In the end, I left the bar and called Greta to bring my car to me with my usual stakeout needs.<br><br>Twenty minutes later a battered gray hover car pulled up two blocks down from the club and I jumped in.&nbsp; Greta was in the driver's seat and looked pissed.&nbsp; I didn't have to ask what was the wrong.&nbsp; It was the money.<br><br>Her big corn feed face was looking straight ahead and her hands were clenched on the joystick, like she wanted to ripe it off.&nbsp; "You fucking moron!&nbsp; You stupid, low rent Marlow!&nbsp; How many fucking times I have told you to get the mother fucking money right away?&nbsp; Here I am hauling my sweet ass down to the corner to get your skinny bitch a hot cup of Joe and you don't get a red cent out of her tight ass!"&nbsp; Greta was no shrinking violet.&nbsp; For her, this was actually remarkably clean language.&nbsp; I had once hear her tell a Zetan delivery boy, who had damaged her triple meat hoagie, that she was going to rip his sexual appendages off, stuff them up his out hole and then yank them out the other end with a pair of pliers.<br><br>I sat back and let her anger wash over me.&nbsp; It wouldn't last for ever.&nbsp; Whoever wrote La Donna è Mobil must have know my Greta, because her moods changed faster than a politician's stories.&nbsp; Her chest was heaving in her anger, and I couldn't help notice.&nbsp; She was working herself in to a lather which complimented her hills well.&nbsp; I wondered if I could shift her anger in another direction, thought that was dangerous ground.&nbsp; We had only done the old bump and grind twice, and both times I had found myself checking my equipment afterward for damage.<br><br>We parked across the street from the club, in the rear, where I could see the loading dock.&nbsp; If they had the girl there, they would have to move her, or her body, eventually.&nbsp; It wouldn't due to have a body sitting around in one of the freezers, if the police raided them.&nbsp; I almost considered calling my old buddy Collins, down at the precinct, but didn't.&nbsp; I wanted that damned money and if the fuzz stepped in, I was unlikely to be paid.<br><br>There were no windows in the rear to peer into.&nbsp; Playing peeping Tom was a dangerous business anyway.&nbsp; I had to wait six long hours before I spotted what I was looking for.&nbsp; During that time I listened to Greta bitch, ate the crappy peanut butter and butter sandwiches which she had brought for me in a fit of spit and tried to stare to openly at her breasts.&nbsp; She had given up on the corset and shirt beneath it.&nbsp; Now she was down to a black bra and panties and fanning herself with a Chinese takeout menu.<br><br>I tried to tell her a few times to go home.&nbsp; I told her that she was a secretary and not an assistant.&nbsp; She told me to go fuck a porta-potty, because she was not letting me out of her sight until she had some green backs in her hot little hand.<br><br>After six hours of MegaFilter Electric Cigars, a twelve pack of Zetan Zone power drink and Greta's filthy mouth and wet bazombas, I was about to give up.&nbsp; Finally, I saw a Zetan carrying a wooden box, roughly the shape of a coffin, out to a delivery truck.&nbsp; This had to be it!&nbsp; The bad part was that it looked like that girl might be dead.&nbsp; Still, I had to see it through now, money or no money.&nbsp; If she was dead, it would be my fault for not bringing in the cops from the start of this whole mess.<br><br>I carefully shadowed the delivery truck through the streets of town.&nbsp; It was a large box with giant mag tires and a blaring horn.&nbsp; The driver seemed to love honking at the buzzing hover cars around him, as he crawled through the streets of town at a snail's pace of seventy miles per hour.<br><br>I followed him out along Route 86, past the sulfur swamps, to a forest of stunted, ugly ass trees.&nbsp; He kept moving as if he did not see me, but I kept being careful.&nbsp; It wouldn't due to spook him.<br><br>After an hour, he pulled up beside a beat up looking domed building.&nbsp; It was a poured concrete affair with a rusty metal door, rusted shutters over the windows and a rusty red handled pump in front.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Spice</strong> on <strong>11-10-2010, 23:05:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Billzy pounded the polished black walnut desk with three arms. Brazil nuts, his favorite snack, went scattering across the floor like cockroaches fleeing the light. Three of his generic thugs trembled dramatically in fear (it was well-known that those able to show fear on cue lasted longer in Billzy’s organization). “I need those photographs,” he growled. “If she doesn’t have them find out who does. You said you snatched her outside some private dick’s office. Go find that bastard and stretch him out a bit, maybe he’ll talk.” Like Keystone cops the three thugs slammed into each other in their effort to leave Billzy’s presence and do his bidding. It was imperative that he be able to blackmail Denise’s father who was no simple industrialist, but also a liberal minded do-gooder who had been appointed to an influential council that was determined to grant Zetans additional civil liberties. As his men left, Billzy frowned and picked up the telephone. “Yeah, yeah,” he said as he listened to the other end. “Look the girl’s no use to me now; she’s like a ... liability, see, so make her go away.”<br><br>Frowning, he called down to the city beat of the only newspaper worth calling a newspaper in town. He had done some favors for the crime reporter in the past and he was about to call in some favors. “Look, I want everything you got on this Dick Hancock,” he snarled out after the obligatory pleasantries. His next call was to city hall. “Yeah, I want his f’ing license pulled,” he demanded. Given that Billzy’s organization kicked in the bulk of bribes city hall and the police collected in this city when he wanted heat to rain down on someone, it generally got hot wherever that person was standing. He was about to make it very, very hot for this Dick Hancock fellow.<br><br>It didn’t hurt that when Dick Hancock eventually returned to his office, he would find it brutally, but futilely ransacked in an attempt to locate the videos that established the indiscretions of Helen Cassandra, youngest daughter of Theodore Ian Cane-Kottrell, III of the Boston Cane-Kottrells.&nbsp; If this private dick knew what was good for him, he would close up shop for awhile and pretend like he’d never heard of Denise or her sister or her do-gooder father.<br><br>In the meantime, the eldest daughter of the Tick as he was affectionately known to his peers was sucking one by one on broken-nailed fingers, her eyes red from crying as she finally felt the wooden casket-like cocoon in which she had been stored shifting with movement. Why had those thugs kept asking about the videotapes and photographs of her sister Cassie? They must already have them. Unless the ventriloquist wasn’t working hand in hand with them, could it be possible? <br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist (D.B. Jack/Spice)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>MrDiamondBackJack</strong> on <strong>14-10-2010, 22:01:56</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				If there is a second thing that I have learned in my thirty five years of life, it is that there are times for quietly surveying the landscape, there are times for trickery and there are times to go in with both guns blazing.&nbsp; If you're wondering how many things that I have actually learned whilst alive, I will shrug and guess about three.&nbsp; The third one is not to drag Greta along with me on stakeouts.&nbsp; That one is still a work in progress.<br><br>In this particular case, I had no idea if there were goons hiding in that building, but I knew that there was one in the delivery truck.&nbsp; I also knew that if he got that box into the building, it would be much harder to get her out again.&nbsp; Those shutters and that door might be rusty, but they also looked solid.<br><br>The Zetan driving the truck slithered out the front of the delivery van.&nbsp; He was a big fellow with ugly yellow tattoos all over his purplish tentacles.&nbsp; There was a derby hat sitting toward the middle of his body mass, with three eye stalks popping up around it.&nbsp; He did not look like he would be fun to beat in a fair fight.&nbsp; He also did not look like he would be easy to intimidate.&nbsp; There was only one choice, besides simply running away.<br><br>Greta screeched when she realized my intentions.&nbsp; I had shoved my thumb on the accelerator, shooting my hover car out from hiding and sending it barreling toward the illustrated calamari to be.&nbsp; The squid was alert and tried to get out of the way, but not fast enough.&nbsp; I clipped my car along his side, sending him slamming into the side of the house.&nbsp; I jumped out and yelled at Greta to take the joystick.&nbsp; Seconds later I was firing hot slugs into his remaining eye stalks.&nbsp; Two had already been cut off by my car, but he seemed to keep popping more out of his injured body.<br><br>The bastard was still alive, and apparently conscious.&nbsp; He was turning a darker and darker shade of purple.&nbsp; I knew that any second now that boy might start shooting deadly venom at me, so instead of taking the time to wrastle with him, for rights to be bad ass of the year, I simply jumped into the cab of the delivery truck and turned the key.&nbsp; As the truck coughed its way back to life, three Zetans poured through the door and the windows of the doom house.<br><br>I floored the accelerator and threw the truck in reverse, just as tat boy started shooting ink at me.&nbsp; It covered half the windshield, but I kept moving in reverse out onto the road.&nbsp; I peeled good, old fashioned rubber on the hot black top, as I speed, away, hoping that my client, and therefore my money, was safe in the back.<br><br>I knew that if we were separated, Greta was likely to go back to the office, or head straight to the police station if she had a reason.&nbsp; I wasn't sure which she would choose, but I knew that she would call my mobile when she got herself settled.<br><br>I needed to find someplace safe and quiet, to look in the back of the truck.&nbsp; I didn't need any noisy do gooding, concerned citizens seeing me pulling a girl, in a box, out of the back of a truck.&nbsp; I also did not need whoever was really behind all of this, and odds are it was Diamond Billzy, finding me before I could rescue the Miss Paycheck, if she was in fact in the back.&nbsp; I did not want to count my golden goose before she hatched.<br><br>I drove about three miles, at top speed, with only about a foot square of windshield that could sill been seen through.&nbsp; After a few minutes, I found a dead strip mall, conveniently located next to the Hog's Run Trailer Park, and pulled in back of Pick N' Squish.&nbsp; I went to the back of the truck unlatched the giant metal doors.&nbsp; As they slowly swung open, I held my revolver in open handed, pointed toward dark interior.<br><br>The truck proved to hold a shipment of heavily salted pig carcasses.&nbsp; The Earth animal had proved very popular with the Zetans.&nbsp; It also held a tall wooden box, trapped down with lashes, hooked onto massive rings on the floor.&nbsp; It took me a few minutes to remove the straps and pry open the front of the crate, but soon I was able to lift the entire front off of it.
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