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June 27, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 27

Today's theme needs to consider the following concept:

Brunettes in red dresses = nothing but trouble.

Film noir, dime-store detective novels, or modern-style fiction...choose your poison.

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Tanya: La robe écarlate

She walked into my office late that night, with a truckload of attitude and a rack to match. Pulled her derringer from her thigh holster, started reloading it, and told me she'd beaten up Max for squealing and bribed the judge to go easy on my client. Just like I asked. What a dame.

Then she slid a pint of chocolate milk and a homemade chicken salad sandwich slowly across the desk. My favorite.

I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her standing at the altar in a red wedding dress. Fortunately, I like that kind of trouble.


Ted: The Case of the Turkish Eagle

I could tell this one was going to be trouble. They always are when the dress is crimson, the night is rainy, and the girl is brunette.

But I sized up the four mugs hassling her and even through the gin knew she couldn't handle it herself. She could handle lots of things, but not four guys in an alley.

My sap took the first two on the back of the head but the others needed convincing from my .38.

"Who the hell are you?" she said, her accent rich, exotic.

"Toots, I'm just the next man you're gonna blame."


Laurence - Hold the dead brunette, please.

Podcast of this storyEvery day at noon, I head down to Harry's Hotdog Cart for a footlong with mustard, sauerkraut, and relish.

“The usual, Sam?” asked Harry.

“Work your magic, Harry,” I said.

Harry smiled and waved his tongs.


The man's a hotdog wizard, I tell you.

Just as Harry handed me his latest masterpiece, a scream came from above. And then WHAM!!!! a red blur smashed into the cart, scattering bottles and buns everywhere.

I picked myself up and looked at a woman sprawled across the cart.

Red dress. Dark hair.

Very dead.

“No cutting in line, bitch!” I yelled.



Michele: Your Kiss Goes Everywhere

Marta ordered drinks - "Something large and hard" - in a breathless whisper and excused herself to the powder room. The bartender raised his eyebrows at me. “Eh, brunettes,” I explained.

Two minutes later shouts rose from the riff-raff in the bar. Maybe we heard a gunshot, maybe we didn't. I just know that right after the ruckus, Marta was seated next to me, excitement in her eyes.

When they finally found the corpse in the bathroom, we knew our welcome had been worn out. We slipped out the back door, leaving some cash and a lipstick-kissed napkin for the bartender.


Andy: The Doggone Girl Is Mine

Look, I don’t even know the crazy bitch.

I was out on the town, round Marietta and 16th, and I see her standing there, tight brown curls, tighter red dress. She sees me. There’s some kind of chemistry between us, right? So we go to my place, have a drink, and then I hit it good. So we’re done, she leaves, and I think, hey, all right, strangers in the night and all that. But, no, today she comes by saying the kids are mine!

Want my advice? Don’t ass-sniff a poodle all tarted up in red; that butt’s trouble.