Concerning The Death Of A Scoundrel

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I always had a horror of being found dead in a bad suit.
The four stylish women who are standing over me are each a little bit happy that I am dead.
I was a bit of a scoundrel, but I loved them all.
It was just that they needed something from me that I wasn’t capable of giving.

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Women are like that.
They like what they see, and then they try to make you into something else. I’ve never understood that.
I had money and didn’t play by the rules, and the ladies enjoy that, it gives them a thrill.
I never pretended to be a one girl guy.
They didn’t listen, they just heard what they wanted to hear, and I guess I just let them, it was easier, or it seemed that way at the time.

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I had things I wanted to do, and most of them were more fun with a woman on my arm.
I had a little money, and usually, I could turn it into a lot more, sometimes by legal means, but if necessary I could take it from those who could afford it, but only from those who could afford it. I had been known to win money playing cards and occasionally playing chess, but only occasionally. Chess was for fun and taking money from people was only fun when I didn’t like them.
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I know exactly who shot me; Billy Prentice.
He’ll swing for it, but that won’t help me.
Although, being dead isn’t all bad.
It doesn’t hurt, and my clothes don’t get wrinkled, no matter what I do.
I’m pleased I was wearing this suit.
I love this suit, and it looks like I will be wearing it for a while to come.
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I’ll miss them all, but I’ll miss Margo the most.
She’s the one on the right in the green dress.
She has a magnificent body; they all do, but Margo was very generous with hers. She never used sex as a weapon, and she excelled in the ability of pleasing a man.
She liked sex the way a man likes sex; often.
It wasn’t difficult to bring her to orgasm, and that made it fun. She could achieve orgasm as many times as she wanted and each one seemed more intense than the last.
This gave me great pleasure.
It’s a common misconception that guys are only in it for the personal pleasure, but that’s not true, at least it isn’t for me.
Being able to give pleasure over and over again is intense, it’s powerful, and it’s fun.
Margo had an easy-going air about her. She made me feel special. If I were ever to settle down, it would have been with her. She was genuine, at least in private. In public, she was a lot like the others, but I knew her secret, she was a friendly, loving person.
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But, back to Billy Prentice.
You see that brown and yellow tie I’m wearing? It’s my school tie, St Josephs College. Billy and I were classmates.
There were two ways to get into St Josephs, you were either very bright, or your family was very rich.
Billy’s family was very rich.
I had the brains and my parents damn near bankrupted themselves for me to go there.
My degree cost a small fortune, and if my parents were alive, they’d still be paying off the debt. Thank God for debt insurance.
 Billy’s family money had made it very easy for him, but in College, he was surrounded by students with money and the college didn’t care if you were rich, they only cared if you passed your exams. If you dropped out, there was always someone who would transfer in and take your place.
 Billy had a major and a minor in ‘party’, and I have to admit that he was magnificent at it. He rarely turned up to class, and he had a string of the less well off students taking notes and writing assignments for him.
He made it through the first year by paying a lot of money for an advance copy of the final exam papers.
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The second year went a lot like the first year with the single exception of him being expelled for cheating on his finals.
From what I can work out he thought I dobbed him in. I didn’t, but I was not broken up by not having to see him again.
 For a long time, I didn’t know who did drop him in it, but one of the perks of being dead is that you get the answers to all the stuff you wanted to know when you were alive.
Some guy I’d never noticed gave him up because Billy had ignored him for the better part of two years.
Hell hath no fury like a quiet guy ignored; apparently.
It was just too simple.
I was hoping for a much better story.
Like the one behind why Mary [she’s the one on the right in the red] never wore anything other than black underwear.
I asked her heaps of times, but she just kept saying, “It’s none of your business.”
Of Course, it was my business, I was the one who was looking at them, removing them, trying to find where I had thrown them, giving her money to replace the ones that went out the window on an especially passionate night.
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Would you like to know why she only wore black? OK, I’ll tell you.
She was colour blind.
Can you believe it?
She didn’t want anyone to know.
She had all her dresses labelled, but she just couldn’t be bothered with her underwear, so she just bought black.
Practical, but annoyingly simple.
Can you see what I mean?
Up to this point, it isn’t worth being dead, all I’m getting are really annoying answers to old questions.
 Back to Billy again.
I guess he thought that I had been fooling around with his woman, which I had, and mix this with believing that I was responsible for getting him sent down and his tiny little mind decided to take me out.
He never was a big thinker.
 Screw Billy, I have to make the most of the situation I find myself in.
I’m wondering if I should look up all the women I know who are dead, or should I set my sights a little higher?
Quite a few women must have died since this whole thing kicked off.
I think I’m going to like this.
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So far no sign of St Peter or a judgement day, no one is sticking me with a pitchfork, and I haven’t seen a single pair of wings.
I know these four are going to miss me, but you would not know it by the look on their faces, would you?
Did I mention that I know all the answers to all the questions?
Yes, there is food and drink and dogs and sex, and yes guys, you can go all night if you want to, no matter how old you are, and yes we do have night and day, but the best part is the conversation.
Everyone has something interesting to say especially the ones who have gone around quite a few times.
 
I’m sure you have questions.
 
What would you like to know?
 
The scoundrel is in; ask away.  

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Death of a Soundrel

Dyspnoea

Version 4

I’m really not that good at breathing in.

My mum was the first to notice it.

It has a name and everything — dyspnoea.

It created a few problems when I was at school.

I would talk really fast on the out breath, and everyone would stare at me, waiting for me to finish the sentence, which I was unable to do until I managed to breathe in.

As I got older, I learned how to say stuff in a precise manner, but when I was younger, it multiplied my embarrassment.

One of the upsides of my affliction was that I rarely needed to be banged on the back because I had ‘breathed something in’.

You know the scenario; you are eating a biscuit, and someone says something that requires an answer. You breathe in quickly and down goes a chunk of biscuit followed by you coughing and sputtering followed by some large bloke pounding you on the back or worst still, trying the Heimlich manoeuvre on you resulting in three cracked ribs and flying biscuit crumbs.

Doesn’t happen to me.

When I breathe in small children, stop and stare.

The convenience store is open [I’m pretty sure that they stay open unless someone dies, and even then it’s only a ‘half day’] and I don’t recognise the person behind the counter, and more importantly, they don’t recognise me. I grab a newspaper and a pint of milk. I might be technically on the run, but I’m not missing out on milk in my cup of tea; a person must maintain standards.

The newspaper doesn’t have anything in it about me, and I’m not sure why it should, but it is reassuring all the same.

The date on the newspaper tells me that I have travelled forward in time by one hundred and fifty-eight days.

People are still driving cars and talking on mobile phones, and there are no longer any unmarked police cars parked outside my house.

Amazingly my letterbox is empty; someone has been collecting my mail.

When I get back home from the convenience store, I see Mrs Wilson waiting for me.

It’s too late to hide so I keep on walking, and I say ‘hello’ as though there is nothing unusual about this day.

“I’ve been collecting your mail for you. The man on the TV said that burglars notice if the mail piles up, so I have been taking it to my house each day. Not Saturdays and Sundays, of course, they don’t deliver on the weekends. They used to on a Saturday when I was a little girl.”

Mrs Wilson is pleasantly nuts.

She’s been pleasantly nuts for as long as I’ve lived on this quiet little street.

The other neighbours talk about her behind her back, but I’ve always liked her, and she has always been friendly to me.

She babbles on for several more minutes without mentioning the police raid or my boarded up front door. She doesn’t ask me what happened, and she doesn’t want to know where I’ve been, she’s just happy to see me.

She reminds me of a large faithful dog. They don’t care where you have been, what you have been doing, or why you have been away for so long — you are home now, and that’s all that matters.

As I mentioned, Mrs Wilson is more than a little bit crazy, and I wonder how she has escaped the attention of the authorities and her greedy family.

Her house must be worth a small fortune, but somehow they have not been able to sell it out from under her.

I asked her about it once, and she gave me the best answer.

“I know where they live, and everyone’s scared of people like me. They never know what we might do,” she said with a cheeky grin.

I patiently listened as Mrs Wilson continues her monologue but it occurs to me that I’m somewhat exposed standing on the street, in daylight, in front of what remains of my front door.

“Would you like to come to my house for a cup of tea Mrs Wilson?” I say, remembering that it has been six months since I’ve had a cup of tea.

The thought of that much time makes me wonder how I managed to go that long without a cup of tea; then I remember it has been only a few minutes for me.

I feel a little silly and hope that the next time I’m drunk I don’t mention it to any of my scientist friends — I’d never hear the end of it.

“That’s all right dear; I’m fine for the moment. Besides, you don’t have any gas or electricity.”

Mrs Wilson is sharper than people think she is.

“That nice young man was here a few days ago. He was carrying a large black bag when he left your house. I asked him about it, but he said that it was okay, and I was not to worry. He did ask me to say hello to you when I saw you and to tell you —— now what was it? I know I can remember it, just give me a moment ——- that’s right he said to tell you, ‘thank you, and remember Custer’s last stand’. He said you would understand.”

I must have looked a bit confused because Mrs Wilson asked me if I was feeling all right.

I smiled and told her that I was okay, but in my head, I was working out how I was going to get to Blairgowrie.

‘Custer’s last stand,’ was what we called Michael’s grandfather’s holiday house.

Now I know where he is, and I’m going to beat him with a very large stick when I catch up to him.

Too Busy To Die

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Scarlett put the phone down, stared at the wall for a moment, then burst into tears. The clock showed 3:22am — still dressed in the clothes she was wearing when she rang D.I. Blank to ask for his help.

“Sam didn’t come home. Somethings wrong.”

“I find it hard to believe that Sam never came home late before. Just relax Mrs Bennett. He’ll stagger in when he’s had enough.” D.I. Blank wasn’t exactly a friend of the Bennetts, but he did like them. They handed him a case which made the brass take notice of him for a change, so he had a soft spot for Sam which would last about as long as it took for Sam to piss him off again.

“Had enough of what?” Scarlett was shouting and D.I. Blank had never heard her shout.

“Okay, look. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can find out.”

It was well after midnight when Blank rang back. Scarlett had walked up and down in her lounge room, too frightened to sit down in case she fell asleep and missed the call. She wondered if the carpet had a groove in it. The mind does funny things when you are waiting for a call to tell you that the man you love has been murdered. She knew Sam’s life had been dangerous before he met her. She knew that there was a good chance that someone had tried to kill him with that stolen car. She lived with these thoughts and never said them out loud — to do so would be to tempt fate, and fate had been kind to them both — so why take the chance?

Her’s were tears of joy and relief. The young policeman told her that her Sam was on his way home. He had given his statement and the police surgeon said that he was bruised and battered but nothing a nights sleep and a good woman couldn’t cure. The young constable hesitated after he said the last bit. “Sorry, Mrs Bennett, I was just saying what the surgeon said. Probably should have left the last bit out.”

“No need to apologise. I will look after him and try and keep him out of trouble,” said Scarlett.

“I know the surgeon sent him home, but he is going to have a hell of a headache in the morning. I saw the bump on his head. Oh, sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that either.”

“Not to worry. I’m just glad he is coming home, bump or no bump.”

The dogs woke from their sleep and came to Scarlett’s side. They were both sensitive to her tears. They did what they could to comfort her — they stayed by her side.

She didn’t know how long she had been asleep. The dogs were excited about something — scratching at the door. A car backed out of the driveway and Sam stepped through the front door.

“Honey, I’m home,” sang Sam.

“Don’t you honey me Sam Bennett. Have you been playing with those rough kids again? How many times have I told you to come straight home after school — no hanging out with your hoodlum friends.”

“But mum, there’s not that bad really. Except for the one who stuffed me in the  boot of his car and tried to take me for a ride. Him I can do without.”

“Holy shit Sam. You’re covered in blood!”

“Relax. It’s not mine. Long story and I’ll tell you as much as I can before I fall asleep.”

Scarlett ran him a bath and included her least feminine bath salts. Sam was naked by the time she had turned on the taps. He embraced her and she hugged him back.

“I see that a bang on the head has not dulled his enthusiasm.”

Sam stepped back a step still holding his Scarlett. He looked down proudly.

“Not bad if I do say so myself. You always said he had a mind of his own.”

They held each other and Sam kept his erection. The bath was ready and Scarlett suggested that what Sam had on his mind could wait until after he had his bath.

“And no self-pleasuring. He’s mine,” Scarlett said — smiling.

Her bed was warm and inviting and her naked skin enjoyed the fine Egyptian cotton. What she yearned for was the feeling of Sam’s naked body close to hers. She knew he was in pain so she let the warm water do its healing.

She’d almost drifted off when she felt the bed move. Sam slipped in beside her. He snuggled up but did not caress any of those personal bits that signal a need for lovemaking.

“Do you feel like talking?” said Scarlett.

“What would you like to talk about? Football, the weather, knitting patterns, or my near death experience?”

“Near death experience, please.”

“Oh, that. Not much to it really. Some moronic bozo who held a family grudge. Wasn’t brave enough to face me so tried to squash me with a stolen car, then sneaked up behind me on the way home and attempted to increase my hat size — succeeded on that front.” Sam rubbed the bump on his head. There was no way he could sleep on that side of his head for a few days. The thought panicked him momentarily. Being able to roll over at will is one of those things that you take for granted.

“How did you escape?” Scarlett sounded like a little girl listening to her grandfather telling her a bedtime story.

“I used a technique that has been working for possums for centuries. I played possum. He fell for it, and in the end his scarf finished him off.”

“Damn dangerous things scarves. I’ve always said that.” Scarlett’s humour was a little bit hysterical and this was understandable.

“His mum knitted him that scarf and I held him when he died.” Sam’s voice trailed off and Scarlett waited before putting another question.

“Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah. He was an idiot, but even an idiot shouldn’t be alone when they die. It was sad, and don’t ever tell anyone I said that.”

“I won’t. It’ll be our secret.” Scarlett hugged him for being sad. She loved her tough guy Sam and she loved the Sam who knew what feeling sad meant.

Sam filled in some of the blanks and Scarlett asked a lot more questions and they both knew that when she had sated her curiosity they would make love.

Their passion had a visceral edge that comes from seeing death up close.

They made love as though it might be the last time — not wanting the intimacy to end, but of course it finally did, and they lay exhausted in each other’s arms.

“You might have a bump on your head, but you’ve still got it, big fella.”

“Thanks, kid. You’re not so bad yourself.”

They regained their breath and lay staring at the ceiling as the early morning light was slowly filling the room. First light gives a person new hope — a fresh day full of possibilities.

“Your next session with Dr Doug is going to be interesting.” Scarlett was lying uncovered on the bed and as she cooled down from their passionate encounter she moved the sheets across her stomach and legs — she left her naked breasts exposed. Sam loved her tits and he always enjoyed watching them in the wild.

“I hope the story cheers him up. He’s going to need it. Do you remember me telling you about looking for his missing secretary? Well, she turned up and when the story gets out, Dr Doug is finished. His clients are going to disappear like smoke through a keyhole.”

Scarlett didn’t completely understand why Dr Doug was in trouble. There would be time enough to find out all the details and now there was sleep — glorious sleep.

The Bennetts drifted off into a wonderful slumber and would not stir until the sun went down.

Sam and Scarlett lived in a house on a very large block of land. Imagine four average sized build lots. Despite the distance between them and their neighbours the volume of their lovemaking was such that even the neighbours needed a cigarette when they had finished.

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YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS

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Slipping Away

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When the front door opened the suitcases were prominent – sitting there – mocking him. Bright red, shiny, defiant.

The happenings over the last few weeks had caused Dr Doug to lose track of some events, but a trip to anywhere was not on any of his mental lists. The penny dropped – my wife is leaving me.

It was the final kick in the guts.

Every sentence needs a full stop.

It was worth a try, “Are you spending a few days with your mother. Do you want me to drive you?” Dr Doug was projecting his voice into his cavernous mansion. He didn’t remember ever wanting a mansion, but now he had one and a mortgage that could flatten a small city.

“No Doug, I’m leaving you. You can have the house. I’ll take the beach shack and the Merc. You’re a disappointment, Doug. I had a plan for my life and I thought you were a part of that, but apparently not. We are getting a divorce and don’t think about contesting it; my family will eat you alive.”

“Do I get a turn?”

“What’s the point. What could you possibly say? It’s over Doug.”

Dr Doug’s wife picked up her shiny red suitcases as though they were feather pillows.

That gym membership is working, thought Dr Doug.

The bags went into the Merc and she was gone.

Dr Doug was still standing in the hallway –- moving seemed like a waste of time.

It got dark and an indeterminant amount of time had elapsed. By now he had made it as far as the three seater leather lounge. He stopped along the way to collect the bottle of scotch from the sideboard — no need for glasses, drink out of the bottle. Glenmorangie goes down smoothly. Half a bottle and he no longer cared about his fatuous wife or the mortgage, or he’s dwindling business. Sleep was close at hand, but before then there was a feeling like despair.

When he woke it was daylight and his head hurt – a lot. There was something strange about the light. A clock would come in handy – small problem, Dr Doug’s eyes refused to focus. There was a magnifying glass in the top drawer of the sideboard, just below the drinks tray. Doug sat up – big mistake. His headache went from a lot to galactic.

“Fucking lightweight, wifeless, jobless, loser.”

Each word hurt worse than the previous one, but he still had the energy for emphasis when he got to loser.

Dr Doug fell off the couch and as he hit the floor he realised what it was about the light – it was afternoon light – late afternoon light. He had visions of a waiting room full of impatient patients. Then it dawned on him, “I don’t have any fucking patients,” which wasn’t entirely true – Mrs Norris was due at 3 pm – his only appointment for the day.

“I wonder if she did her homework?” She hadn’t, but she made a special effort before her next appointment.

Dr Doug’s secretary liked her job. She liked Dr Doug and she liked being in the one place. She longed to remove the word temporary from her job title.

“Good morning Dr Doug. Can I get you a coffee? There are a lot of phone messages; I put them on your desk. Your first appointment cancelled.” Dr Doug winced every time he heard the word cancelled. “Your next appointment is at 1 pm. Is there anything you would like me to do till then? I really like this job and if you decide to stay on and fight through this, I would say yes if you offered me a permanent position.” She held her breath.

“Why would you want to be here? This ship is sinking. If you stay with your temp agency, you will land on your feet when the lights finally go out.”

“I don’t care about landing on my feet. I want to work for someone I respect.”

Dr Doug was hung over and very close to tears. “I’m going to go into my office and sit in the dark and wait for my headache to subside; hopefully. While I’m sitting there, I’ll think about your words. You don’t have to sit at your desk. Please take the morning off and come back after lunch.”

“I’ll wait at my desk. It’s my job.”

“Okay.” Dr Doug walked slowly into his office, drew the blinds and turned off the lights. He lay down on his couch and fell asleep.