T.J. Washington In "Hoodoo, Hoodone, Hoodid Pt. 2

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II.

I don’t really like to talk to the police. My line of work routinely requires I rent a flame thrower from someone who is over 300 years old. Also, I’m dating a pixie and I just helped my best friend murder a mummy while committing insurance fraud. Talking to the fuzz is part of the job, though. No getting around – or used- to it.

” ‘Grease fire made worse by way of mummy interference’ is my best guess officer. Near as I can figure, the mummy stumbled into the kitchen and then, well you know, everything was on fire,” Sam explained to the cop in front of him.

She was a short woman in a big hat. It was the smallest hat available (Sam made sure to ask) and it was still too big on her. Continue reading

T.J. Washington In "Hoodoo, Hoodone, Hoodid" Pt. 1

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I.

“Put the gun down, Sam. Ain’t going to do us no good.”

“Can’t hurt.”

“I’m not saying that you shouldn’t shoot him or that it isn’t the right move to do so or even that I don’t want to shoot him myself, just saying that it won’t help.”

Sam pulled the hammer back on his .45 and rolled his eyes at me. I covered my ears and waited while I rolled my eyes at everything.

People with .45s are different from people with .38s in the same way people with .38s are different from people with .32s. People with .32s are the same as people with .22s and don’t let anyone tell you different.

Sam’s gun barked twice and spat once. A stream of embalming fluid trickled from between the man’s eyes and then there were two holes in his chest all a sudden. The wall behind him now wore his hat and most of his skull, there were no brains.

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