Craven Gets Flashed 30

At the coffee shop counter Detective Raven Stranger poked his egg yolks with a fork and screamed.

“Aaarrggh!”

“You sure are mad at those eggs,” said the waitress. “I know how it is. Sometimes you gotta let it out.”

Detective Stranger reached inside his jacket and pulled out his detective special.

“Ah, don’t do it, hon. It’s only eggs. It ain’t worth it. Not here, anyway. The custodian’s out sick and I ain’t gonna spend what free time I never get anyway cleaning brain off the chocolate cake stand.”

Stranger twirled on his stool and fired off three rounds. All went dim.

“Not too fond of lightbulbs neither, I see.”

Stranger holstered his gun and sighed.

“I have sensitive eyes,” he said. “And now that I see you in a softer light I think the two of us should make some eggs together.”

“What?”

“You know, hop on the griddle and get cookin’.”

“Huh?”

“Slide one in the toaster?”

“Eh?”

“Peel your tomatoes?”

“Oh, I know what it is you want,” she said. “You want the idiot waitress. I’m afraid it’s her day off. Come back tomorrow and I’m certain you’ll be walking out of here with waitress-drool pourin’ out both ears. As for now? More coffee?”

Dwayne Dobbins crumpled the sheet of paper and tossed it in the waste basket.

Writing detective stories is harder than I thought. That story isn’t gonna grab anyone by the neck. Maybe I should be writing dime-store romance novels. Detective Raven Stranger: The Liver-lipped Lover of Yorkville. Yeah. That’s it. The only thing bigger than his gun is his pounding heart. It pounds for the love of every gum-smacking waitress who ever slid a steamin’ hot coffee his way. ‘Sweet an’ hot. Ain’t that how you like it, Mr. Detective?’ Yeah. Sure it is. Let’s see . . .

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