I wrote this little short story years ago. It’s a joke. It’s a joke in several levels, but I kind of have to tell you this story, so I can tell you the next one—which is the funny story (to me anyway 😄).
In fact, I originally wrote this just to set up what I think is the funny story. But was fun to write and it’s not much at all like what I “typically” write (whatever that is)?
Anyway, while I’m working on finishing the full Songs for the Autumn Wind video and some other stuff (taxes! Bleah! as Zana would say) I thought I’d pop this up here.
Then, I’ll tell you the funny story! I’m sure you can’t wait! 😂
And since I brought up Zana, if you don’t know about here, you totally should!!! Go get acquainted here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here!
And Here => This just dropped and it’s SUPER AWESOME!!!! Curse you, Riley!!! CURSE you and you’re freakin’ flippin’ Video Wizardry!!! (And how did you know to post this while I’m linking to Zana? Highhhhly suspect! 🤣)
So that I’ve been totally overshadowed, please consider supporting Riley. Treat yourself to all the amazingly sexy, happy, joyful goodness she creates! Goodness that’s good for you!
Here’s my subscribe button!
That’s it. Now for my little joke of a story… (I’ll explain more later 😄)
As always and over and over again… Thank you.
Thugs, assassins, garden-variety goons, spammers and those guys who program robo-calls—I’ve dealt with ’em all. Absconding wives, roving husbands, blackmailing spouses, revenge-porn posting ex-boyfriends, lost pets—they’re my jam. Stave off the Apocalypse? Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. (I’d show you, but it’s in the laundry right now.)
I’ll even handle mysterious disappearances (especially involving the family jewels—both kinds), nosy neighbors, and that creepy dude down the street who’s always having his obnoxious bro’s over to play drunken beer pong naked at 3 AM. (What’s a little bromicide between friends, huh?)
And trolls. Gawd, I hate trolls. Don’t ask.
Throw in the Underground Mafia—no, I mean literally underground, as in a whole ’nother world down there, a world you lucky suckers never have to see, thanks to me (no applause, just send money—cash only, small bills please)—and you’ve got the whole shebang.
I’m Shiloh Mars. I’m a PI, though I have other talents too. You could say I live a hard life (Geez, I crack myself up!) but that’s okay. I’m used to it. So if you need help with any of the above, or just things that go bump in the night (hey, not those things—I know where your mind just went—unless, well… never mind that for now), gimme a ring. (I wear size-7 and don’t like diamonds much—rubies, star sapphires and emeralds preferred… LOL! Kidding!) No, seriously, I’ll jump right on top of it. (Haha! Get it?) For the right price, of course. (See note about cash, above.) Satisfaction guaranteed. 😉
Hey, before ya go, here’s a fun fact: “Shiloh” means “Place of Peace.” Yeah, Peace my A$$.
But Piece of A$$? Now you’re talkin’…
The Trap
“A’right, which of you dumb motherfuckers is about to make one big-ass mistake, already?”
And I hope to gawd it’s not me.
Okay, before we get off on the wrong foot here, lemme explain. Even though I said I hope it’s not me—and all that implies—my self-esteem is on par or better, and I don’t talk about myself that way. To be absolutely clear, I do not consider myself to be a ‘dumb motherfucker.’ My intelligence is above-average (though I guess that kinda depends on who you’re averaging) and while I’ve been known to take a jog on the wild side, I’m not a down-and-out degenerate. Besides, my mom died before I could walk, so that whole fucked-up issue is academic. But the point stands.
My problem is that there’s five of them—trolls, I mean—and one of me, and I’ve got three rounds left. I know that because the handy little blue display—okay, it’s actually kinda turquoise, but this is no time to split hairs and most people expect displays to be red anyway, so who cares—in the back of the receiver of my Iyler-Thompson 38-30 chain pistol tells me so. I’m just really fuckin’ happy the trolls can’t see it, although I’d give odds they can’t comprehend numbers greater than two.
What they can comprehend is there’s a lot more of them than there are of me, though up until a few moments ago, there were even more of them. Now there’s mostly parts of them and, believe it or don’t, trolls do have a survival instinct. Gawd knows why. If I were a troll, I sure as shit wouldn’t.
But if I thought like that, I guess I really wouldn’t be a troll, now would I?
As it is, I get ready to put one round of 10-mm explosive-tipped caseless into the beady, black unreflecting eye of the twitchiest looking one. It looks like a lump of coal pushed into a dough ball. His huge-knuckled grayish hands are flexing. There’s a double-barreled Machon blunderbuss slung at his right hip. He might decide enough is enough and pull the fuckin’ thing. I know they have orders to take me alive and that’s why I’m still in one piece, but that line of reasoning could be wearing thin at this point. The other four are giving each other shifty side-eye.
They’re probably trying to figure out why I haven’t mowed their lame troll asses down yet. I’m trying to work out a story for that, in case I get a chance to use it. Y’see, I could maybe handle one troll by myself. I wouldn’t enjoy it, but it’s possible. The fuckers mass close to 200 kilos. I’m about 70, dripping wet. But two is outta the question. So if I had four rounds left, this’d be a whole ’nother kettle of fish, as they say. (I’d say ‘cesspit of trolls’ but people might not get that right off.) Unfortunately, I got a tad carried away with the whole blasting-the-head-off-trolls thing (explosive-tipped caseless is really good for that) and it’s left me pondering how to divide five trolls by three shots and have me left over.
Just so you know (cuz I want this on record, in case shit goes way south into Never-Never Land) I came here with two stick mags for the IT 38-30, taped together. At thirty-four rounds each plus one up the spout, that’s sixty-nine rounds. Sixty-nine is my lucky number, as Xel—my semi-demi-hemi sometimes, well most-of-the-time, kinda-sorta-all-the-time boo thang, BAE, ride-or-die, fuck-buddy snuggle-bunny partner, call it what you want—who is, by the way, totally killer hot—will tell you.
Or she might tell you, if I can get my little problem solved in a way that leaves both of us breathing.
I’ll hafta get back to you on that. Because this whole thing was a trap. I knew that going in. And yes, I walked straight into it, because it was a trap.
And Xel’s in it.
Beady-eyed Blunderbuss guy licks his lips and gives me a blatant eye-rove. My tight-fitting deep sapphire jumpsuit (black’s so 15 minutes ago) doesn’t leave much to the imagination (not that trolls have much imagination), but… seriously? That’s why he’s twitchy? Cuz I know that look. Doesn’t matter if it’s a troll, some drunk-ass douche-canoe in a bar, or just a dickwad on a random street corner—if it’s male and vaguely humanoid, it means the same thing.
Here it means—given my situation—it’s time to weaponize the Girls.
Y’see, the aforementioned Beady-Eyed Blunderbuss guy has that aforementioned blunderbuss, which has two barrels. Two plus three equals five, so… Bingo! Problem solved. Assuming I can get him within gun-grabbing range before he takes me down. That’s where the Girls come in.
Alright… there’s a trick to this. Well, a couple. Okay, okay, I’m sure you fabulous ladies know all this, but I’m gonna spell it out anyway, just cuz… I like to be clear about things. So here goes…
First, make eye-contact. We call it eye-fucking and yeah, it’s kinda the yucky part. Next, sweep the tip of your tongue across your upper lip. Deep inhale—that arms the Girls. Reach for the zipper (or the next button, if you’re the buttoned-up type—you do have at least two buttons undone, right? Pro tip: three’s better…) and exhale slow as you drag the zipper down, one centimeter at a time.
And keep watching his eyes (as painful as that may be).
When the zipper reaches your belly button, smile. Maybe wink, if he’s dense. (Trolls are real dense. And yes, I know this is about as subtle as getting smacked by an overloaded garbage truck, but these are fucking trolls!)
Zipper reaches belly button. I smile. The Girls start to crowd their way out of the deep V I’ve created. V is for Victory—or so I hope. The V widens. The troll’s eyes widen. I wink. And just to pile on I say, my voice sugary enough to frost a pop tart, “Whatcha waiting for, Big Boy? You don’t want your friends to get in ahead of you, do ya?”
Now, you might be wondering why they’re not suspicious of my sudden change in attitude. If so, that proves you’re not acquainted with trolls. (Do your best to keep it that way.) They have a one-track mind that can jump tracks easily given the proper cues. I’m about to give that cue—the final cue.
I drop the IT 38-30 to my side, stand tall and flex my shoulders back. The Girls spring into action! The troll’s head bobbles as they bounce free.
Yes! Bingo! Winner, winner, chicken dinner and… Shit! The troll lunges—which was the whole idea—but it’s the wrong fucking troll! Beady-eyed Blunderbuss guy is still standing there, slack jawed, apparently mesmerized by my tits. Which are kinda awesome, but shit! now I have 200 kilos of wrong troll incoming! I flex my knees to pull some ninja move I saw in a movie once and raise the IT 38-30, knowing full well that blowing his head off is gonna ruin the mood.
Fuck-fuck-fuckety-fuck and… Blunderbuss guy grabs Wrong-Troll guy by the shoulder and yanks him backwards. Wrong-Troll guy stumbles, turns, slugs Blunderbuss guy. They go down in a heap. The three odd-trolls-out step over to break things up—I guess they’re a little slow on the uptake—but that’s my cue
I put a round into each of them and as they topple, snap roll toward the tussling trolls. Blunderbuss guy is sitting on Wrong-Troll guy, pummeling his face with both fists—the makeover would be an improvement—and they both look around at the three meaty thwacks as their buddies hit the floor.
I, meanwhile, used my incredibly nifty roll to snatch Blunderbuss guy’s blunderbuss from its holster and spring to my feet. Blunderbuss guy pauses in his pummeling long enough to look confused. I end his confusion by unloading one barrel into his chest.
Holy shit, that was messy… I should’ve stuck with the head blasting thing. The stench is unbelievable, but thank Goddess (she’s cool!) I have a strong stomach and don’t hurl.
Last Troll Remaining looks dazed, as if he can’t quite figure out while he now has only half a troll sitting on him and is covered in entrails. He makes a grumbling noise and nudges what’s left of Next-to-Last Troll (formerly Beady-Eyed Blunderbuss guy) onto the floor. I step over and plant my 3-inch stiletto bootheel on his big toe.
If you’re thinking wearing boots with stiletto heels is impractical, this is why I do it. Trolls have tender toes. Plus it saves time not having to change first if I wanna hit a club later. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
It doesn’t take much pressure at all to make the troll whimper and writhe. His face is all screwed up like he’s about to troll blubber. It’s pretty disgusting. I ease off just enough to get his attention off his toes, off my tits and on the business end of the blunderbuss.
“Cells, asshole.” Yes, I’m still tits out, but I can’t spare the attention to tuck in and zip up. Besides, maybe it’ll allow me to keep the edge I’ve gained.
He blinks his wet charcoal eyes. Snot and troll blood drips from his rearranged nose.
Gross.
“Take. Me. To. The. Cells… Asshole.” It helps when you spell things out slowly.
He nods and flaps his fat troll arms feebly.
“Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Asshole.” We’re on a first-name basis now.
He nods again. I step back, bearing down again as I do. He squeals. It’s ridiculous sounding.
“Up.” I waggle the blunderbuss slightly. He lurches to his feet, trying not to put weight on his stilettoed toe. Trolls can be big pussies when you get the better of them.
“Move.” No, I’m not bothering with Hands on your head or any of that. It’s additional syllables and there’s no point in complicating this more than it has to be. The troll limps off. I follow at a safe distance.
Why exactly am I trusting a troll to take me to the cells where Xel is? Caught that, did’ja? You’re good! It’s because I already know where the cells are. First, I’m not dumb enough to do this without a little recon (I am a PI, after all), and second, this is a trap, so they wanted me to know where Xel is. I want the troll for cover in case we run into something unexpected. That is, I want the troll to run into it first. I also might need him when we get there. If I’ve guessed right. My string is intact so far.
We walk—or in his case, limp—through some dimly lit corridors (low lighting sets the mood) and I know he’s leading me in the right direction. Within a couple of minutes, we come to a holding cell. Yep, this is the place.
“Open it,” I tell the troll. He sticks a fat thumb, liberally greased with troll gore, into a receptacle by the door. It hisses open.
Yes! I was right! Go me and my bad self!
Except now I encounter the ‘something unexpected.’ Or, I wish it was unexpected.
The floor of the cell is covered—as in carpeted—with dead trolls. They look to be two deep in some places. And they have these really wide, really stupid grins on their stupid dead faces.
Fuck me…
Yeah, right. Poor choice of words.
Xel is nowhere in sight. Of course, she isn’t. I prod the live troll inside and stand by the door.
“Where are ya, my little demon spawn?”
I wait a moment and then there’s a stirring in the midst of the contorted troll bodies. Xel stands up. Really, that’s way too mundane a way to put it. It’s more along the lines of emerging or manifesting or some fancy term. Y’see, Xel is not quite of this Earth. One of her talents is being able to make her skin blend in with any background, even heaps of troll corpses. Which is why I couldn’t see her before.
Now she’s standing, or maybe floating, in the middle of the cell, her skin glowing soft ultraviolet, her freakin’ amazing hair, which reaches to her knees—or would if it was better behaved—swirling around her like the aurora borealis. Her eyes are like two blue-white stars and her perfect plump lips curve into a perfect smile.
“You know I prefer ‘Imp of Satan’.”
I snort. We have this discussion all the time. “You’re so old-school. Like he’s even a thing these days.”
“One of us has to uphold tradition.”
“I just wanna uphold your fabulous ass. Or your boobs.” Yeah, I’d spend all my time being Xel’s bra, if there weren’t so much work to do. “But first, are you gonna tell me what went down here?”
The perfect smile morphs into a perfect frown. “They did. They weren’t very good at it though.”
Holy mackerel on a candy-coated fuck-me stick… says my inner voice. It’s more creative than I am. “They’re fucking trolls, Xel!”
She pouts. It’s supernaturally cute. Of course. “Not anymore.”
Goddess give me strength… “So you just had to fuck an entire legion of trolls to death?”
Xel crosses her arms across her outta-this-world chest (literally) and shrugs with her other pair of arms. Did I forget to mention Xel has four arms? Sorry, I got distracted. There’s a rumor Shiva is her ninth cousin, thirteen times removed or some shit like that. Damned if I can keep it straight. The Underworld is a hella complicated place. Four arms are hot, though. And handy at times… if you get my drift.
“They were rude.” Her perfect lips twist as she spits the word and her hair lashes in a private electrical storm as a pair of ram’s horns appear from her temples. “And I was horny.”
“Fer fuck’s sake, Xel! You’re horny like the sun shines.”
That perks her right up. “Oh! You say the sweetest things!”
Sweet Galloping Ganesh… And here I was worried about a trap. “C’mere, imp. We gotta go.”
“What about it?” She waves at the troll, who’s huddled in a far corner, the very picture of troll-ish desolation.
I consider. One less troll in the world is always a step up, but frankly, I’ve kinda had enough of troll bits and pieces for today. “We leave it. It can give ’em the message this was a dumb fuckin’ idea.”
“Okie-dokie.” She gives the troll a pinky wave. “Ba-Bye!” He flinches. I don’t blame him—for once.
I jerk a thumb at the open door. “Can we take this elsewhere, please?”
“Okie-dokie.” Xel grins and licks her lips and parts of me get tight and tingly and even a wee bit painful. I keep an eye on the troll as she glides past me, the scent of lavender, musk and alien spice tickling my sinuses. It makes me a little dizzy.
“You coming?” she purrs from just outside the doorway.
“You did not just say that,” I growl, as I back through the opening. There’s a big red button next to where the troll stuck his thumb. Now that’s an intuitive interface. I slap it and the door slams shut. “After you, babe.”
She giggles like a ripple and saunters or sashays or swans down the corridor, lighting the walls with her aurora-glow. She starts humming and it makes the Music of the Spheres sound like a busted chainsaw. I watch her hair dance and her bare ass sway and Oh Lordy, Lordy… It’s gonna be such a long fucking night.
I can’t wait.