An Assful of Secrets (intermission and episode iv)

My secretary is gone for the night, and I’ve had a few pops from the bottle of Marie Brizard that lives in the big bottom desk drawer.

A man has to get his thinking done, even if it takes until daybreak with a bottle vacated and a couple of ashtrays filled.

My name is Leno. Sal Leno. Says so on the door. I don’t give out business cards — people come when they need to come.

I knew when the goth dame came in last week that it was going to be a rough job. I just didn’t know how rough.

“He’s missing,” she said, rolling her tongue piercing against her teeth. “No sign of him for months, and you could say he’d made some enemies.”

“No last name?” I said.

“No, just Pete M.” She handed me a photo.

“Good-looking guy,” I said. “Maybe there was another girl, and…”

“No, you don’t understand,” she broke in. She made the international loony-loony sign, spinning her finger around her ear with her tongue sticking out like, ‘Blar!’

“Oh, wingnuts,” I said.

“Wingnuts,” she said.

I pointed to my file cabinet. “See how those drawers are alphabetized? That top one is A through V. See the three drawers under it?”


“Right. Then there’s X through Z. I honestly don’t do that much business with X through Z.”

“You’ve dealt with wingnuts before.”

“Sister,” I said, “You can either come to me or go to Ms. O’Crap down the hall, or P. T. Boggington if you’re looking for the quick denouement, but frankly, I come cheaper.”

Ten minutes later, my secretary was booking the flight.



Comments: 13


Ms. Zoll down the hall

Hee-hee… it’s funny cuz it rhymes…


Pete M., now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.


I thought your secretary was out for the night.


Yep, and then he says he’s talking about events the week before.

Don’t make me put in stuff like, “And then there was a spiraling vortex with backwards, reverbed harp music — and I knew I was entering a flashback.”


I was thinking about Pete M. the other day. I really miss The Dark Window. It was a fav.


Yeah we all miss Pete M.

Now can we get to the porn scene with Amber Pawlik?



This is gonna be fun!


Is the Amber scene going to involve ass sex, if only to please Brad?


The sun hung blood red over the Hollywood Hills and the last dying gasps of day staggered weakly down Highland toward Santa Monica. This was slightly perplexing to meteorologists of the time because it was also foggy and rainy and a hot, dry Santa Ana wind was blowing in from the west.

Sal, oblivious to the current debates within the innermost circles of atmospheric physics, leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly at the pebbled glass door in front of his desk. ‘Sal Leno,’ it read. ‘Private Dick’ And beneath that, in a slightly smaller script: ‘Saab Enthusiast.’

There was a sudden sound like the whip-crack of a leather belt and the glass in the door was shattered instantly. Thinking he’d been shot, Sal clutched his chest and sank to the floor. His life passed quickly before his eyes ? a strange mix of raucous night clubs, questionable dames, and broken down cars.

After a bit of self-reflection, though, he realized that he was, in fact, fine and he slowly got to his feet. Standing before him was a tiny troll of a man wearing a white linen suit and enough perfume to make Ann Coulter smell like a lady.

“Eh…Sorry,” said the man in a heavy French-Canadian accent. “I always seem to be doing zat when I close doors. Must be ze growth hormones. De toute facon, I believe I can be of some assistance to you.”

Leno sat down heavily in his chair and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He fished into his pocket for a cigarette but, before he could reach for a match, the strange little man in front of him had his arm extended, holding a blazing Seinfeld lighter.

Sal took a long drag on his cigarette (‘Ahhhh…Menthol.’) and growled, “I don’t like French Fries. I find them a little too…greasy.”

The miniature man winced a little and then said, “You misunderstand me, Monsieur Leno. I am not French. I am Canadienne. And more importantly, I am a psychologiste. My name is Docteur No. But you can call me Seb.”

“Yeah? Well whaddya want, Doctor No? I’m busy here tryin’ to solve a case.”

“I’m here to clear up zis whole Pete M. business,” said the shriveled shrink as he pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his brow. Sal couldn’t help noticing that the monogram read: ‘A.P.’

“May I sit down?” asked the doctor.

Sal motioned to an empty wooden chair and then listened to the doctor’s story, astonished. “So you’re saying this Pete guy never existed?”

“Zat is precisely what I’m saying,” said the pint-sized psychologist. “He was created as a marketing tool by a Christian t-shirt company but zen some zing went horribly wrong.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Sal. “I’ve read his website.”

“Non, non,” said the frighteningly wrinkled little man. “Worse zan zat, even.”

“What could be worse zan zat?!” stammered Sal.

(To be continued…)


Is that really you, Pete M.?

And does your parole officer know you’re here?


Oh man! This story keeps getting better! Reading Pete M. post again is like seeing Star Wars Episode One (if it didn’t suck).


Pete- Your presence is missed. Por favor, come back soon 🙂


Pete! Yay Pete!


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