Solidarność!

story segment

Madame Python says: It’s time for another segment and I’ve got a story for you, Wicket.

Miss Cricket says: I thought today’s segment was supposed to be about female fulfillment – in a sexual sense. In a sensual sense, by men. The “how to find things” and…

Madame Python: No, Wicket, we are not having women’s orgasms yet. An interesting manuscript came across my desk this morning and it is completely unpublishable, but I thought you might enjoy it.

Miss Cricket: Oh, by all means, let’s take a look, Py.

Madame Python: Thanks, Wicky! There’s no title, so I’ll just start in:


     I had a dead Polish woman on my hands and a husband who was glad about it.

     “She was going to divorce me! I found out! Now that she has her green card, she was going to divorce me!” Herbert Fleck spat as he was being led away.

     But all that Yetta Szczepański was actually going to do right about now was get taken down from the bannister where she was hanging. It was an all-male forensics team that was with me at the pink ranch house at 347 Oak Ave. Rościsław was helping Banes, the medical examiner, get Miss Szczepański into the body bag.

     “She was killed before she was strung up,” said Banes as he zipped up the body bag, “Blunt force trauma mostly to the head. Nothing on but a locket and her pajamas.”

     Delgado motioned me over, “The mother-in-law is in the kitchen if you want to question her. Seems that Herbert lived with mommy.”

     “Now look at what she’s done!” Mama Fleck castigated from the kitchen, “Defaced my house by killing herself in the foyer! How can I ever be at peace in this house again?”

     “I want to look at the body before I question Mommy Dearest,” I told Delgado, “Go make sure she doesn’t run away.”

     Rościsław was starting to zip up the body bag. I stopped him. “Where’s Banes?” I asked.

     “Went to the van for something,” Rościsław said.

     I looked down at our victim. Nothing around the neck now, not even much in the way of rope marks. Banes was right. She was dead before someone carefully dangled her under an expert knot.

     “Delgado!” I called back to the kitchen. He walked toward me with his hand on his side arm. We’d been working together for a long time. He didn’t know what was up, but he knew I wanted his bulk standing between us and the front door.

     “Why’d you do it, Rościsław?” I held out my hand, “Give me the necklace.”

     Rościsław let the locket fall into my open palm before Delgado expertly had him in cuffs.

     “Tell me what happened,” I spoke as if to someone sleepwalking. Rościsław was the new guy on the team but had come with excellent references. He was an expert marksman with a quiet demeanor.

     “She was the love of my life,” Rościsław stared at nothing, “She was my whole life. And she left me in Warsaw eight years ago. Just left. A week later I got an email from her saying that it was over and not to try to find her. She tore my heart open. She ruined my life. I vowed I would find her. I followed her here. I let that fat bastard believe she was going to divorce him so that he would go down for this, but I did it. I had to speak to her, but she screamed when she saw me….”

     Delgado just looked at him like he was scum.

     “You don’t understand!” Rościsław began to weep, “You can’t imagine that week in Warsaw. For a whole week I thought she was dead.”

     “Well, there’s no doubt about it now, is there?” I said, “Take him away.”


And then

     A big pair of perky Polish tits sidled out of a black Audi that had been parked along the road. She wore only a St. Jude metal and a pair of thigh-high black patent leather button-up boots. She aimed two modified full-auto Colt M4 Carbines at the house and shot the hell out of everything. She fucking almost cut the house in half. She killed everyone except the Chief Inspector.


Miss Cricket:

Madame Python: What?

Miss Cricket: You added that last part with the Polish, you know, lady. That wasn’t in the original story.

Madame Python: Well, what if I did?

Miss Cricket: Everything doesn’t have to be about violence, you know. The story didn’t need a bunch of people being killed needlessly.

Madame Python: Okay… "She aimed the rifles into the air, yelled 'Solidarność!!' and shot 500 rounds into the air. She was arrested without incident and patted down very slowly."

Miss Cricket: She isn’t needed. Who is she anyway?

Madame Python: The dead woman’s sister, of course. And she is needed. I am sick to death of mamby pamby writing in my industry! I would rather choke on a horse whip than read more mealy-mouthed stories. We need more “R” words in writing! Retribution! Redemption! Religion! Relish! Rastafarians!

Miss Cricket: Really. Thank you, Py, for bringing this spot of clarity to the publishing industry and for sharing this lovely story with all of us.

Madame Python: Rhinoplasty! Ribald! Rip! Rut! ‘Roids! Rutabagas!

Miss Cricket: Muzzle.

Madame Python: That doesn’t start with an “R”. Rick roll'd!

Miss Cricket: Muzzle and a horse whip.



Copyright 2012, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved