Damn
A week had passed since I took on the case of the deaths of the Three Amigos and Bird, my snitch. I had to get myself in gear. Tracking down the murderer would take an olympic effort. Citius, altius, fortius I said to my self. We say that a lot in the detective business. Especially every four years around February. Not to be confused with the motto of a certain writing challenge: dimmer, dumber, drunker.
I'd escaped the clutches of the ax-wielding Boom Boom and left her commiserating with some French broad called Maryse (not a bad looker by the way). They were nursing a few at Rover's Rump pub when I excused myself and jumped out the men's room window. Now I was on the road, lukewarm on the trail of the bad guy.
What better place to track down a man called Horse than at a Dude Ranch. There were twelve of us all told - eight men and four women wanna-be cowboys - and morning came early at the dude ranch in the desert. In fact, it came before sun-up as we gathered in the mess hall for breakfast,
I'd escaped the clutches of the ax-wielding Boom Boom and left her commiserating with some French broad called Maryse (not a bad looker by the way). They were nursing a few at Rover's Rump pub when I excused myself and jumped out the men's room window. Now I was on the road, lukewarm on the trail of the bad guy.
What better place to track down a man called Horse than at a Dude Ranch. There were twelve of us all told - eight men and four women wanna-be cowboys - and morning came early at the dude ranch in the desert. In fact, it came before sun-up as we gathered in the mess hall for breakfast,
One of these twelve was Horse, a drug lord and the murderer of the three Amigos and my snitch, Bird. Well, one of eleven, because the twelfth was me and I know I'm a good guy. I had my work cut out for me, though. I didn't know Horse's real name but I felt confident that at the end of the day I'd be able to say I'd been to the desert on a Horse with no name.
As the group sat down for breakfast introductions were made. As we went round the table there wasn't a Horse among them. I sipped my orange juice nonchalantly and surreptitiously eyed my fellow dudes. Then it hit me. My hand. Flat across my forehead. "Damn" I exclaimed "I coulda had a V-8!"
Now I didn't think any of the women were murdering drug lords so that left me with 7 men to keep an eye on. I'd heard Horse had a horse's head tattoo on his chest - information that had cost me a couple of Bordens (unfortunately I'd run out of Benjamins) plus the exchange rate - but I'd left my x-ray glasses at home because I didn't want to make a spectacle of myself.
I'd have to think of some other way to see just who might wear a mare in the hair on their chest. Maybe I could scare up a game of Truth or Dare. I didn't know where. I just knew it had to be while I was there, at the Dude ranch. I mean a horse's head tattoo is rare, I dare say.
Damn, it's too bad I'd ruled out the women, I thought to myself.
Be sure to tune in tomorrow for Day 9 of our ongoing tale. In the meantime check out the links at We Work For Cheese and see how those other guys are dealing with today's prompt.
Comments
Nice one, punny man.
P.S. I don't think Horse is trying to hide from you. He just forgot who he was. Once you get him out on the desert, I bet he'll remember what his name is. It will save you the trouble of coming all the way back for the x-ray glasses.
"but I felt confident that at the end of the day I'd be able to say I'd been to the desert on a Horse with no name." ----- I love that you referenced the band, America, by using lyrics from one of their songs!