Doug Nufer

Ackwards Bass, Eye Private from Novel Double/ Double Novel

     Was I down, belting the fizz gin of a remains when the gang gel aired
the bit like a clam razor on a beach blood of a wrist tour red dyed? I
normally answer to phone the hate. It's a disorder personality like
women: less harm but cute, unless the business means call. Was I about
thinking a woman, but of the not call that voiced?

     Can you voice a tell from a wire on the lot? This pure was one skank
of a fruity juice swank, specific with a dripping need intimate. Bag
the in half, a while took me to beef up the pick of her drift. She
named her claim was jizz man. That beyond was there a story cover about a
cover story.

     "Can't you book a judge?" said she, proceeded then to gut her spills,
"I'd read an ink, mean I mean, need a drink."

     It did that. I meant what she knew. Booking fucks.

     "Be babe, you meet an hour in the at slack rope tow hell, the in bar
piano," I matched the struck I was nosing my pick with to up fire a
ghostie.

     Didn't I offer tip to the shirt Hawaiian ways all I like wore a day
suit birth of garment Mormon wonder air? Didn't she say exactly she what
on either had?

     The rick deed womb bar piano was a squad vice lode mother of criminal
petty vain guys wise as doubling pigeon stools came shove to cash when.
Yet and, was it the place of kind where body no with you messed if you
ruled by the plays? One rule: questions asked nobody nothing for.
Voluntary was free but never information. People mostly Wack Patty
listened to ivory the tickles and tune the croons from bygone days and
guessed to try her sex: like booking to try a cover by its judge.

     Bass Ackwards, Private Eye

     I was belting down the remains of a gin fizz when the jangle bit the
air like a razor clam on a blood beach of a tourist dyed red. I
normally hate to answer the phone. It's a personality disorder women like:
cute but harmless, unless the call means business. I was thinking about
a woman, but not of the voice that called.

     You can tell a lot from a voice on the wire. This one was pure swank
of a juicy fruit skank, dripping with a specific intimate need. Half
in the bag, I took a while to pick up the drift of her beef. She
claimed her name was Jasmine. Beyond that, there was a cover story about a
story cover.

     "You can't judge a book," she said, then proceeded to spill her guts,
"I need a drink. I mean I, I'd read an ink."

     That did it. I knew what she meant. Fucking books.

     "Baby, meet you in an hour at the Rackslope Hotel, in the piano bar,"
I struck the match I was picking my nose with to fire up a stogie.

     I didn't tip her off to the Hawaiian shirt I always wore like a
birthday suit of Mormon garment underwear. She didn't exactly say what she
had on, either.

     The Dickweed Room piano bar was a vice squad mother load vein of petty
criminal wise guys doubling as stool pigeons when cash came to shove.
And yet, it was the kind of place where nobody messed with you if you
played by the rules. Rule one: nobody asked questions for nothing.
Information was voluntary, but never free. Mostly people listened to
Patty Wack tickle the ivories and croon the tunes from days gone bye and
tried to guess her sex, like trying to judge a book by its cover.

Copyright © 2003 Doug Nufer

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