The Love Shack

Out of the darkness came the sound of the punk’s modified engine, like a freight train through a library. I started trailing the mutt, keeping back far enough so that he wouldn’t catch on if I started flashin’ my lights and belting out the theme from Chicago. I followed the cheatin’ dog to what I assumed was his love shack, located in isolated up-scale country. Shack was a bit too fancy of a word for this dump, though; it stuck out like a potato in a fruit basket. I pulled to the side of the road as this father of two got out of his car to meet his mistress like a senator meets the guy payin’ him off. He slinked around to room number thirteen of the flimsy motel with a girl that looked like she had seen one too many rough nights in a back ally. I took a few snapshots with my night vision camera and high-tailed it out of there to see his smokin’ hot wife and mother of two girls. On the way I needed to get my photos developed so I stopped at the same place as always, Mac’s 30-minute photo. I took the half-hour to stop at a nearby bar to see my good old buddy, Dudley the bartender. His uninterested eyes always died a little bit more whenever he saw me walk in. He hated my stories and I knew it. After unloading today’s case on him, I went back to pick up the photos, next thing I knew I was on my way to see the soon to be Miss Valerie Nickerson. I always used to take a hit right in the heart when I had to do this, now it was just another cheatin’ mutt. I rang the doorbell o the quaint suburban home, no doubt waking the kids up. The mother answered; looking like a buck thirty-five rather than her usual million and one. Baggy eyes and equally baggy sweatpants showed that she didn’t care much for herself at the moment. I passed the folder with the newly developed photos. She grabbed ‘em wordlessly; she seemed like she already what was inside, like a physic with ESP. She slammed the door and sauntered away, looking like a kitten that caught it’s mouse. Another day, another paycheck, another broken heart.