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Gary and the Dead Guy


Gary is a fuck’n riot. He’s a court jester in blue jeans, pretty much the funniest man I’ve ever met. Who knew a murderer could be so likeable? But, there he was, like a present on Christmas morning. Blood spatter on his face, holding the murder weapon, with a body at his feet, gift wrapped, and the FBI was loving it.


The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end. It was a cold November day in Prescott, Arizona, or as Gary referred to the town, Arizona’s ass-hole. He itched his five o’ clock shadow and looked down at his soaked pants. The prick in the green mini van had hit the puddle just right. It soaked him from loafers to crotch. Gary sighed. He took a sip of coffee. The hot liquid poured down the collar of his shirt. Convenience store lids never fit right. His burning nipples caused him to do a water-head’s version of the chicken dance. He let go of the styrofoam cup. The wind picked it up, and blew it against his supervisor’s feet.

“That’s littering you know? What happened to you? You look like shit,” said his boss.

Now, Gary was known around the sheriff’s office as a bit of a jokester, but today all he could come up with was: “Fuck off! Where’s the dead guy?”

“Nice,” said his superior, “Over there wise guy. And hey, Gary, be nice to the FBI agent.”

Gary bent over and under the crime scene tape. A human hand lay severed between the gap where two police cars were parked. He knelt down and examined the appendage.

“Shit, and I thought I was having a bad day.”