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The Remington

I had inherited my grandfather's old Remington Typewriter. I was suffering the anguish of despair, snapping my pencil in half. Running out of cues for a "whodunnit short story. I had inherited my grandfather's old Remington Typewriter    
   
"Slowly sipping from the bottle, my warm flat beer. Getting a glow on for an out-of-work gumshoe. My new flame, massaging my shoulders..."    
   
I let my mind loose and drift back to the 1950s feeling a breath of stale air touch the nape of my neck.    
   
"...taking the edge off my personal monsters. Prohibition might appear glamorous, with secret speakeasies, all-night cocktail parties, and scantily clad women..."    
   
Musette raised my pulse with her dark eyes as she applied her fingertips, putting the noose over my head. Loosley about my neck.      
   
"....displaying their knees, but crime and conspiracy lurk beneath the city’s shining illusion."      
   
Becoming aroused. My breath was fading with la petite mort, "the little death."  Listening to the keys of the Remington play its song.    
   
   
   
     
      
Written by adagio
Published
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