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Monday, March 6, 2023

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 6 and 7


Posted 03-07-23 


By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6

Narrative of D.D. Callahan, continued

By the time I got back to my office, I was feeling like a sap. How could I have let the Mystery Woman get off scot-free, without even copping a feel? If word of that got out, I’d be a laughing stock. I just hoped that I could bear down after work and make up for lost ground.

It looked a mess with papers lying on the floor. I was suddenly concerned. Our secretary certainly had a careless attitude to her job, but she was also a neat freak usually. "Sheila? You still here?" I yelled.

I heard someone moving behind the inner office door; 'mystery solved,' I thought with a chuckle. I supposed that Sheila was sitting at my desk again, pretending to be a bigwig like me. Being a fun guy, I wanted to pop in and give her a loud horselaugh. But when I opened the door, what I saw made me stop and stare. Sheila was there all right -- only she wasn't sitting behind the desk. She stood in front of it, expectant-like, with one hand placed on her hip in a sexy kind of way. Most notably of all, the usual ankle-length skirt was missing.

It was about time that she got rid of that she was wearing creeped me out. I was reminded me of that big, wide grin that Captain Hook always got from his crocodile buddy.

"I don't know who you're waiting for dressed – or undressed – that way, sweetheart," I said, "but it's only me." I stepped around her and sat down my boss chair. Because I’d been around the block a few times, I started to wonder whether Sheila was trying to set me up for a sexual harassment rap.

Sheila turned around and did the hip-rolling “dame walk” to my side of the desk. She leaned forward, steadying herself with one hand braced against the desktop. “You've kept me waiting, bad boy!" she said. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

I wanted to say, "You can do anything you like, crazy legs, as long as it's sordid and sexy." Instead, I took a quick look-see, trying to spot the Candid Camera. "What's this about, Sheila?" I asked, dry-mouthed. Suspecting that there might be a hidden microphone I said, "This kind of behavior really shocks a straight-laced employer full of rectitude like me."

"Come off it, D.C.? I know you didn't hire me for my office skills. I thought that both of us knew what the real deal was. I’ve been doing everything I can to make you want me. I even played hard to get. Usually, that’s all it takes to start the bouncy-bouncy stuff. What does a girl have to do in front of you to let you know that she wants it?"

Was she crazy, or had I been oblivious to a lot of cool signals? All of a sudden, I was no longer sorry that I had left Schitz behind and come right back to the office.

"What's wrong?" Sheila asked. "Did that black streetwalker wear you out?"

"I was only her client," I said. "I mean, she was only my client. But if you want to get jealous of that fox, that's okay, too. There’s nothing in the world cuter than two girls competing for the same guy."

She grasped my tie. "Where is she now?" Sheila was trying to sound casual asking that question, but for some reason she was pulling my chocker so hard that I was starting to strangle.

I gulped hard. "Don't yank so hard, Miss Coffin. All t his time I had you figured for the demur kind."

"Demure girls finish last, hotshot. Don’t you get it? You're every woman's dream of a super hunk. I’d blush to tell you about the fantasies I've been having about the two of us getting down and dirty!"

The way she was acting now, I doubted that there were many things that could make her blush. To be fair, though, I'd had a few fantasies about Sheila, too. All that said, I still didn’t trust here, so I only asked, “Yeah? How did they go?"

She looked frustrated.

I took another gander at the layout of the office. There had to be a camera and mike tucked in somewhere.

"No, I want to hear your fantasies first,” she said. "I'll be your genie. I’m going to make your wildest, craziest wishes come true."

"I've been hoping you'd say that," I replied, swallowing hard. “I’ve had this opium dream about you getting caught up on your backlog of filing. The other thing that makes me hard is imaging you giving Martin and me a big smile whenever we ask you to make coffee."

She let my tie go and took my lapels in both hands. "How can you talk about filing at a time like this, D.C.?"

"Filing is important, don’t you know?" Keeping hands-off this girl of my dreams was deuced hard, but I wasn’t going to let her pull a fast one on me. "I can’t figure what's gotten into you, babe, but this isn’t either the place or the time for either of us to succumb to beaver fever."

Oops! My use of the term "babe" to an employee could hang me if this actually was a harassment scam.

"What are you saying, D.J.? Up to now I had you figured as a man who knows what he wants."

"Are you so sure that you know what you yourself want?" I croaked, my throat feeling parched.

“All I know is that I want you and I want you to want me back."

"You wouldn't mind putting that sweet little endearment into writing, would you, doll? --just in case you feel like suing me later."

Letting go my of my suit, she straightened up. "If you don't believe I'm on the level, I'll just have to show you how serious I am."

"So show me," I said with a smirk. "I'm from Missouri." Actually I was from Wisconsin, but I didn’t size up this one boy-toy as anyone who was looking for a geography lesson.

Sheila went a couple steps away and started taking off her shirt. Then she paused. "Would you like to help me get comfortable, D.C.?"

"Well, actually..." I couldn't fight it any more. The next thing I knew, my hands were all over her, and hers were on the exact parts of my body where I wanted them to be. She went after my shirt buttons and those dirty little cowards surrendered without a fight. The next thing I knew, her bosoms were slammed face and rubbing hard. She was fulfilling a fantasy that I hadn’t even asked for. Her boobies tasted better than sweet cream. The favorite part of myself was starting to feel taller than Mount Everest. "Use it or lose it," some naughty little devil was whispering into my ear.

I stood up, loosened my belt, did a shimmy, and kicked off my trousers. And Sheila was stripping down to less than her essentials, too.

It was a heaven-sent relief to get rid of my Fruit of the Looms; they'd gotten much too small for me over the last five minutes. Now that the two of us were finally in the grips, Sheila was hotter than Mount Vesuvius. But shame on that mountain; my gal Friday was making the earth move like no volcano could ever pull off. I pushed the junky stuff off my desk with one hand while doing good work with the other. Now that the concerns of comfort were taken care of, we got down to business.

Way down.

I love hot, wet things as much as anybody but, all of a sudden, everything changed -- and not for the better. I yelled like a banshee, as if I’d shoved my pride and glory into a 120-volt lamp socket. I'm not kidding; it was just like that. Since when had lovemaking become just like electrocution?

Whatever that wild woman was doing to me, it had the effect of putting my lights out.

When I could finally see again, my shoulders were aching as though I'd been sleeping on a lumber pile. I groped for a blanket, not immediately realizing that I wasn’t home in bed.

I could tell light from dark, but everything was a blur. Also there was a deafening ringing in my ears. As I lay back, I could still remember having a great five minutes with Sheila, so why was I feeling so rotten now? I wasn’t so old that I should be floored by a simple horizontal tango. All over I felt damned strange and as weak as a kitten which had had too much catnip. Had the minx slipped me a Mickey? No, impossible; I couldn't remember eating or drinking a thing.

As  lay there, I inch by inch, recovered motor control enough to lift my head. That inch or so of elevation brought on another wave of dizziness. Just as I settled down again, I started hearing voices.

Hands were clenching me, and these were not Sheila's dainty little potato grabbers. They were big, hard meat hooks. Some some person was turning me to my side and raising me up. I opened my bleary lamps and found myself about six inches away from an ugly face that somehow looked familiar.

"What a mug!" I slurred. "Don't I know you, Bud?"

I looked again. I sure as hell did know that smarmy puss! It was the same guy who’d been hanging around my bathroom for my life in all different states of undress.

Cripes! It was looking at my own face, only I was looking at it from the outside! And that face was next to Leigh Spielman’s. That didn't figure. But if I had a choice about dreaming about one or the other of the two, I’d pick snappy little Leigh every time.

"Spielman? What's the deal ---?" I mumbled, but my words sounded squeaky. "Hrummp, hrummp," I grunted, trying to get my firm baritone back.

Without really intending to, I caught sight of a pair of legs in sheer hose. They were great legs, but why were they in a place where my own legs should be! They had on the kind of women’s shoes that I liked best – the four-inch heel type. But I couldn't figure why I was ogling that sexy foot-gear over the tops of a couple of dark mountains. These I tried to push them out of my line of sight, but they came right back, as if made from rubber.

Leigh Spielman leaned over me. "How are you doing, Mr. Callahan?" she asked. "Or should I say, 'Miss Coffin'?"

Miss Coffin? I looked around trying to find her, but she was gone from the room. I still felt woozy so I groped at my head, only to find that my skull didn't feel exactly right -- especially the hair. I'd have to have slept about as long as Rip Van Winkle had to grow a thatch as long as the stuff I was grasping.

Even though I might not always be the fastest horse out of the starting gate, I was pretty good at getting up to speed. I suddenly remembered Schitz telling me about how the aliens had pulled a body-switching stunt on her. On him?

My God!

"Sheila? I'm Sheila?"

No, that was impossible. It was just a bad dream from listening to Schitz’s silliness.

I made a clumsy jump the desktop and stumbled because of the nutty heels I was wearing. I went down to my knees, yelling, "You dirty crooks! Bring back my bonny -- my body -- to me!" Just then I saw a second woman waltzing up, a redhead who – almost -- had a mauve dress on. Before I could tell her to make herself comfortable, she reached out to touch my face. I batted her hand away; when I did that, she flashed a sneery kind of grin, like a Cheshire cat thinking evil thoughts about the family canary. "Get used to it, Callahan," she said. "What you’ve been given, you[re going to keep. But we’ve got plans for the new you."

"W-What plans?" I muttered.

The redhead didn’t try to be coy. "We traced Senator Schitz to your office. We need to find out where you'd hidden her, and so we switched bodies with your girl Sheila. Her memories didn’t tell us anything useful, so now we’ve switched with the one guy who can tell us what we need to know."

"So that's what you’re after!" I growled indignantly. "Well, you don’t know D.C. Callihan. I’d never double-cross a client, not even a low-life like Schitz!"

The redhead made a face – and not a nice one. "You don't have to tell us anything, Callahan. We know what you know. Like I've said, when we switch with somebody, we get all his memories."

I winced. "All of them?"

What a gruesome thought! There were things that I haven’t even mentioned to my analyst.

"What a rip-off!" I complained. "You get my brilliance, but I don't get anything from you, except – what the hell am I wearing?"

The copper-top shook her head. "It’s called a little black dress. Bimbo outfits make abducting women easy. People don't look twice when they see a streetwalker getting roughed up. But you're wrong about not getting anything from us. You've actually gotten quite a lot."

"What? Martian V.D.?"

"Our sex-drive. Or, actually, half of it."

"Only half?" To tell the God's truth, the less radioactive contamination these saucer jockeys passed on to me, the better.

"You got the female half. Every member of our species carries the libido of both genders. Our sexual drives are super-charged compared to yours. It’ll take some time for your brain to assimilate them, but you'll start feeling their full force before very long."

I stared, wide-eyed. "Female sex-drive? No way! I feel perfectly normal!" I looked at the female alien and a shudder ran through me. "What did you do with the real Spielman?"

"We put her into a wino’s body. Normally we would have taken both her and Sheila down to the Potomac, but we're in a hurry today."

She was talking about murder – double murder! What made it the crime of the century was the fact that they had blotted out the only two good-looking women in the whole damned building. "You bastards!"

I tried to spring, wanting to slug her, but my vertigo took me down again. Pretty clearly, body switching was something that could take a lot of the pizzazz out of a human being.

"Save your sympathy, Callahan," Red warned me, "you'll need it for yourself."

Suddenly the metaphorical light bulb came on inside my reeling noggin. "Say, you wackos are the ones behind all those the derelict and streetwalker murders, aren't you?"

The one with incredible fashion sense smiled. "This will be a different crime. We’ve planted evidence to make it look like D.C. Callahan killed them."

"Wait a minute, you creeps! You can't frame me. I've worked hard making people think of me as the great American hero."

With no reply, the two of them grabbed me, one taking each arm. Whatever these Martians had in mind, this manhandling was no way to treat a lady!

Chapter 7

The General Narrative, continued

Blackjack half-led, half-dragged Schitz from the parking basement into the elevator. It opened just across from his flat. "See that door? That’s the door to your new home," he told her.

He shoved Schitz over the threshold and she fell forward over a beanbag chair. Lying on her carpet, Schitz rolled over and got the impression of a big room full of expensive, ill-assorted furniture. Suddenly, two other girls trotted into view. The short one wearing pink was short; the other, in blue, had a fashion model's physique and a subtly Latin cast.

"Gina, Evelyn, my sweets," B.J. addressed them, "this is your new wife-in-law …." He only now realized that he didn't know the new girl's name. "What do they call you, love toy?" he asked her.

"Go to hell!" came her sputtering reply.

Blackjack shrugged. "Okay, have it your way. From now on, your street handle is gonna to be 'Ginger Spice.' Like it?"

Schitz -- Ginger Spice -- yelled indignantly and scrabbled to her knees: "I'll Ginger Spice you, you puffed up prick!"

"She's got spice, that's for sure," the Latina remarked, her smile tight and unsympathetic.

"Boy, is she pretty, B.J.," Gina volunteered, sounding a little worried. Maybe the precious little hooker suspected that the black girl was going to be some major competition.

The olive brunette sighed and shook her head. "You always like them sassy, don't you, B.J.? But don't let this one get you too excited. Remember what the doctors said about your ticker."

Blackjack scowled. "If I have to cut back on living the way I wanna live, I might as turn into compost! Say now, gals, Ginger and me is gonna to do some man-to-woman negotiating. Ain't it high time for y’all to head out where the Johns is?"

Evelyn's brown eyes flashed with annoyance, but her heat-lightning flare-up  quickly subsided. "We were just going, B.J."

He unlocked the door for their exit. The two young women went out into the hall and Blackjack swung the self-locking door shut.

"Tonight we'll get acquainted," he promised Ginger.

"Ginger Spice" got up from the floor, her fists clenched. "You can't keep me here! What about my Civil Rights?!"

"This isn't the Attorney General's office, baby," B.J. replied. "On the street, a gal has one right – to do everything that her sweet man tells her to do, and that’s bout it." He sauntered to the bar, where he a filled a pair of glasses from a decanter. He handed one of them to Ginger, saying, "Drink up, girlie. It'll calm you down and pick you up."

Schitz loved to drink and just then she needed hard booze more than anything. She  down the port in three swallows and it calmed her nerves somewhat.

'Think, idiot, think!' Schitz rebuked herself. What were her options? She couldn't beat the big, strong man silly and also didn't have a red cent to bribe him with. And she had no clear idea where to from here. Life wasn’t worth living if one couldn’t be in control. Everything Schitz respected about herself derived from the power and status that her old identity carried with it. She had an election coming up; how could she possibly steal it in a body like this one? If out of office, she couldn’t even depend on her law license for a livelihood. She'd never be able to prove that the license was hers. Her head whirled, partly from the potency of the drink, but mostly from the situation. The one thing she was sure of was that she was not going to stay with this low-grade pimp, even if she was worried about what would come afterwards.

"Feeling better now?" Blackjack asked with insincere solicitude.

"I'm hungry!" the girl informed him, taking the tone that Schitz had always used when talking to servants. And she really was famished; who knew how long it had been since this particular body had eaten? In fact, she was feeling weak and faint.

"When you’re with me, sweet cheeks, you’ll always have something to eat," the mackman promised her. "Just don’t try to bite me. But there is a few rules your gonna have to learn. If a gal who doesn’t bring home the bread won’t have any bread to chew on."

She glared rebukingly. "What bread?"

"I’m talking about your job. You're job is all about making me happy. And I'm not too happy right now with you smelling like you just ran the Marathon. You need a shower, and I need one, too. As they say, 'Save water, shower with a honey.'"

"Take a flying leap!"

"Baby, your attitude does try a patient man," B.J. opined. "No more crap! You gotta learn respect. What I order, you do! That's Rule Number One. Doesn't the Good Book say, 'love, honor, and obey?'"

"No it doesn't, you buffoon. And you don't get to make any of the rules, got that?" The black girl, emboldened by the port, stood facing him with her hands braced on her hips.

"That isn’t how it works in my pad," he informed her. "Now, I wanna see you naked. After that, us two is going to take that shower."

Ginger, backing away, raised up her empty glass as if to throw it at him.

"If you break that glass, I'll burn your ass!"

Ginger threw the crystal furiously. B.J. ducked and went to grab her. The girl wrestled herself out of his hands and dodged about the room, her host in hot pursuit. She toppled furniture into his way, trying to trip him, but the mess she was creating only made Waters the madder. The black girl made a dash for the locked exit, but tugged at it in vain.

"Yiii!" she cried as B.J.’s strong arms squeezed the breath out of her.

The muscular pimp dragged Ginger, kicking and clawing, toward the couch. He pressed her on the cushions and smoothly pulled her low-cut dress down to her navel.

"You bastard!" Ginger yowled, but Blackjack continued her undressing, dragging the garment to her ankles and snatching it away. Since she lacked both bra and panties, B.J.’s new girl was looking about as fine as a woman could.

"You is just incredible," Ginger heard him say. "You make those other two look like alley cats. I bet you’ll be able to earn more than the two of them put together."

Not liking that kind of prophecy, Ginger leaped to her feet and scrambled out of reach. But Blackjack only grinned and started to doff his jacket. Meanwhile, Ginger was using her hands to cover the most noteworthy parts of her nudity.

Now wearing just shirtsleeves, Waters approached Schitz and took her by the wrists. "Chill out, baby doll. You’ve gotta get a lot more friendly from this point on or else I'll give you that ass-burner I promised."

A life in politics had taught Schitz to lie if brute force wasn’t an option. "All r-right, all r-right," Ginger stammered. "I'll be good. Just be nice."

Blackjack grinned. Before long, he figured he’d have this hot number purring like a tabby cat.

"Oh, I'll be nice," he promised. "There's no sweet man sweeter than old B.J." He stepped back, wanting to see if she was going to be good or if she was just shucking him.

The second he released Ginger, she sprang away and snatched up the brass lamp from the coffee table. This she swung viciously, with intent to kill, but Blackjack sprang away, receiving no more than a bruise on his right arm. His temper flaring hot, the pimp dived at the girl and shoved her down on the couch. Then dragged her into the bedroom and tossed her upon the mattress. "You shouldn't have starting getting physical," he informed her. “Bad things happen when a girl hits somebody who isn’t another girl.”

Ginger looked up with murder flashing in her dark eyes. "Go to hell! I'm no whore!"

"If you is no whore now, you is gonna be by tomorrow, Ginger Baby," he said. "You is an uppity class of gal who hasta learn her place in the pecking order."

B.J. sat down beside her and, when she tried to roll away, he grabbed her. In a smooth motion he dragged her across his lap and held her down with one hand. His captive fought wildly, but he was more than strong enough to use her the way he wanted. With his right hand he took a large, brass-handled hairbrush from the nightstand.

"You is gonna learn what it's like being a girl with hot cheeks,” he said. “I never met a ho yet who didn’t start acting mo' respectful once her petty ass got properly burned!" Ginger's incoherent threats stopped coming as soon as the flat of B.J.'s brush started falling, feeling hotter than anything ever applied to that part of her anatomy before.

"Yeow!" Schitz howled. "This is assault! It's a federal crime! The Attorney General is a friend of mine!"

"Don't jive me, baby. A lowdown ho like you never got so lucky as to be screwing with the Attorney General. You has been signed up in a school for manners, and right here, right now, you is gonna learn everything you need to know about life. He raised the hairbrush again and then let it down hard.


Ginger yelled again, but didn’t say anything. She was learning fast.

Blackjack wanted this gift from heaven to get out on the street as soon as possible, so he decided that he was going to give her the full bad girl taming treatment then and there.





Ginger's yelling almost split B.J.'s eardrums, but the pimp always enjoyed this part of the “breaking in” process best. He applied a generous plenitude of educational smacks, aiming sometimes at one of her delectable hemispheres, and sometimes at the other.

By the time that the exhausted girl's vocalizations had degenerated into hoarse groaning, he reluctantly terminated the lesson.

B.J. allowed Ginger to lie moaning across his lap for a couple of minutes. She looked a sight with her nose running and her lips were bubbling with spittle. Her cheeks -- of her face -- were wet with tears. Unexpectedly, the mackman rolled his pupil to the carpet and stood up. "On your feet, love blossom," he said. "It's time for that shower you so much need. And B.J. always keeps his promises."

To Be Continued...


Tuesday, February 7, 2023

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 3, 4 and 5

Posted 02-07-23 


By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 3, The General Narrative continued....

Leigh Spielman swore under her breath, bored and frustrated, while her computer's back-up drive ran. Someday, she told herself, she'd have an office in a building that low-lives couldn't afford. Maybe it would be in Fredericksburg, maybe in Baltimore, just where it was didn't matter much. Anywhere that was outside this disgusting city had to be an improvement. What was the use of being a financial planner in a town where everyone was either on the dole, or had a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands?

Suddenly, the door clicked behind her and Leigh jumped, not expecting anyone. She swung about and there stood a red-blonde woman wearing a short black dress, followed by two derelict-types in shabby old suits.

"Who are you?" Leigh asked suspiciously.

"Did a black streetwalker come into this building?" the female demanded.

"I haven't seen anybody," Spielman replied impatiently. "Check with the people across the hall. They always have some down and out client coming in or leaving."

The redhead glanced back at her companions. "She has an agreeable shape. I think one of you could use it."

"What are to talking about?" Leigh responded with a roughness meant to disguise what was a growing sense of disquietude. "I told you I didn't see your friend. You have no reason to loiter any longer in this office!"

Leigh stood up to show them the door, but a pair of dirty hands grabbed her.

"What are you doing?" Spielman shouted, but a filthy palm clapped itself over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"Throw her across the desk," the redhead directed her companions. "You two can flip to see which one gets her."

Meanwhile, Sheila sat alone in Callahan's chair, trying to imagine herself as Christina Cox in Bloodties. 'How glorious it would be,' she thought, 'to be the owner of anything at all, even a shabby little investigation business like this one.' Going on nineteen, she was still a secretary -- a job outside her range of interests and beneath her skill level. She was here to earn money for college, but how could she do that with an entry-level job paying a miserable pittance?

Soon she'd be nineteen and it seemed like life was passing her by. It also scared her to think that if she was forced to mix with lowbrow males for much longer, she might get desperate enough to marry one of them. If that happened, she'd be locked in as one of the little people forever. She had to remind herself every day not to get involved with some good-looking loser, not even Martin Dewitt or that guy Jake, who filled orders at Subway Sandwich. Callahan, of course, wasn't even in the competition. Like, he must already be in his late thirties. And anyone who hadn't made his fortune by that time never would make it.

In the novels, it seemed so easy for every reasonably pretty girl to marry into money. Those heroines seemed to meet millionaires in every corner shop. But Sheila had never met anyone with a dollar to spare, not since going out into the world alone. How mortifying that was, considering how much her family was respected back in their hometown. Her older brothers and sisters were going places on scholarships. And where was she? Turned down for grants because of her high school record, working one of those "don't let this happen to you"-type jobs, typing for working-class guys, the sort who kept undressing her with their eyes.

Just then Sheila heard someone entering the outside office. She got up quickly, not wanting Dewitt or Callahan to laugh at her for sitting at the boss's desk. Quickly, she crossed to the door and peered through the crack.

Three people were milling about the reception room, all of them grim-faced and vaguely sinister. One was that excitable businesswoman from next door, Leigh Spielman, and another was a redhead in a minidress. The third looked like the worst kind of hobo, and probably smelled like one, too. Warily, the secretary stepped into full view and went to her own desk. The sparingly-dressed female stepped up in front of her.

"We're looking for a black girl wearing a short red dress. Did she come in here?"

"Well, yes," Sheila began, too intimidated to dissemble. "But she went out again with Mr. Callahan. He said something about finding her a place to stay."

Now Spielman butted in, her sourness sounding even more pronounced than usual. "Where did he take her?"

"I-I don't know," stammered Sheila, not liking the gruffness of this conversation. "You'll have to ask D.C. when he comes back." Then, just to put these low-lives on notice, she added, "He's due to return at any minute."

Immediately she could tell that the intruding three didn't like her answer. Suddenly the tramp -- the male tramp -- moved up, reached, and picked Sheila up by the collar. "I think you'll do just fine," he said.

"Let me go! What do you want? Miss Spielman!"

She got no answer from the sour lady and the three crowded her into the inner office and backed her up against Callahan's desk. She was almost unable to bear the smell of the hobo's filthy body.

"She knows something," Leigh Spielman sneered. "She's holding out!"

"M-Ms Spielman?" Sheila cried. "I could understand if you'd brought in the police, or your lawyer, but who are these people?"

Now the trampily dressed redhead came up and pinched Sheila's chin between her fingers. "An excellent choice, Osakond. She's got just the right kind of body. If she doesn't know anything more, we can use her to find out what this Callahan person knows."

The bewhiskered man nodded, apparently liking the idea.

"What are you talking about --?" Sheila asked, breathless and with her heart drumming.

"I was getting tired of this body anyway," the down-and-out declared in a slurred baritone. "It's carrying fleas the size of lady beetles."

Do it fast, soldier," said the redhead. "There's no telling when one of those detectives will pop back in."

"Do what?" Sheila demanded, her tone harsh and fearful. "Ow!" she cried as the hobo grabbed her arms and forced her shoulders down to the cluttered desktop…


By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 4, The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued....

During the drive to my digs at the Hotel Franco, I kept wondering why any baby-o as well endowed as the Lady in Red would fantasize about being Adam Schitz. If she wanted to imagine she was a  guy, why not pick a real man like Napoleon, Elvis Presley, or Jonathan Frid.

The way I saw it, she ought to have thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't Adam Bennett Schitz. That guy had a bad reputation. I’d seen his page on Wikipedia; it read like a love letter sent from the super-rich Left, but it wasn't fooling anybody. After doing a few little bureaucratic jobs, Schitz was elected to Congress. By now he'd been there for twenty-one years screwing up the United States government. He’d been on the House Intelligence Committee until he he'd been kicked off for leaking information to the Fake News. Like most of the crooked pols, he had come into office heavily in debt and was now worth three million dollars. How much more than that he had stashed in the Cayman Islands and Chinese investments, nobody had found out yet.

To survive as a shamus in W.D.C., a man like me has had to do political work sometimes. Unfortunately, I'd hit rock bottom when I agreed to take a job from a rat-fink like Adam Schitz. He'd hired me to find dirt on his opponent, but I couldn't find any. The guy was honest, a real hero. But Schitz didn't like my report and fired me. He even refused to pay my fee. So I took the report to his opponent instead, who used it to refute the things that Schitz was saying in his TV ads. But the Fake News ignored the report and kept up the attack and the opponent lost anyway. But Schitz had the Fake News and Big Tech on his side and the truth never got out to the voters. Schitz won the election and retaliated by getting me black-listed with his Capitol Hill cronies. And I couldn't go and work with the other party, the Stupid Party, since they considered opposition research to be something dirty. In a political town like this one, Callahan and Dewitt were left out in the cold.

But it wasn’t cold today. The temperature was topping ninety by the time the chickadee and me reached Hotel Franco. I led her into the lobby and let her cool her stiletto heels by the front door while I checked my mail.

But I wasn't much interested in my utility bills; I was watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was hitching her hemline down, to cover her thighs, but it just kept coming up again. I could have enjoyed the show all day, but since I was on a mission of mercy refrained from prolonging the fun.

I stuffed the junk mail into my coat pocket. "Nothing but bills and ads," I told the girl.

"Can't we get out of here?" she asked impatiently. "People are staring at me!" I looked where she was looking. The major culprit wasn't the usual sort of grubby offender, the kind holding a paper bag shaped like a Ripple bottle, but at a well-dressed man leaning against the cigarette machine.

I recognized B.J. Waters in a flash. He was a two-bit player from the 'hood, one running a string of pros on this end of town. His initials stood for Benjamin Jerome, but he was better known as "Blackjack." The shirt he had on was so loud that an Irish setter could have heard it singing 'Rock with You" from as far away as Manassas. He was obvious in the way he was eying off my chesty, non-paying client.

"Please, Callahan," she urged, "let's go up to your room! Everybody down here thinks I'm a hooker!"

I smiled mischievously. "If I take you up to my room, they're going to be damned sure you're a hooker!" With those words of wisdom, I reached into my pocket, took my set of twisters, and slapped them down onto the good-time girl's sweaty palm. "Luckily for you, I don't want to stay away from the office for too long. That's the key to my digs; the number is on the paddle. I'll be back about six to tuck you in. Ciao!"

The spandex knockout accepted the keys with a frown. Her expression seemed so say, "Stay away as long as you like." I was glad to be rid of the minx, too. As gorgeous as the mystery woman was, some little angel was warning me that she’d be trouble. Be that as it may, I couldn't resist taking one last glim at those long gams of hers while she was turned to face the elevator doors. I sighed; trouble that gal may be, but hey, trouble is my business.

But, man, there are some days when I really get the business!


By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 5, The General Narrative continued....

The girl who insisted on calling herself Schitz might not have liked Callahan much, but she had reason to miss him plenty once he was out of sight. Giving her hem another nervous tug, Schitz looked right and left and, seeing nobody, she ran to the elevator as quickly as her wobbly high heels allowed. She thought she was home clear when, suddenly, a dark hand stuck itself between the closing elevator doors. They whirred open to invite in a tall, dark stranger.

"Hello, little darlin,'" said Blackjack Waters, sidling in as the doors hissed shut behind him. "I had a sudden hanker to meet with you."

Dismayed, Schitz exclaimed, "You're one of the aliens?"

B.J. looked puzzled. "I'm no alien, love-child. I'm as American as you is.
You can call me B.J., by the way. I just had to warn you about this elevator."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, this lift is a hundred years old. If you accidentally push the two-button at the same time as the five-button, you'll get hung up at mid-floor."

He obligingly demonstrated by punching the buttons; Schitz was almost thrown down by the resultant lurch, but B.J. caught her around the waist.

They were at a dead stop, and the doors didn't open. "What did you do that for, you idiot?" she demanded, her eyes bright with fury.

"Don't worry, baby, I know how to start it again. And even if I didn't, in a little while the custodian'll turn it on from the basement -- if he's not sleeping off his Thunderbird. But this gives us a few minutes of privacy." He regarded her. "Oooooh, sugah. You is just so fine. If I've never seen you on the street, it must because you're new in the 'hood."

"What's it to you?" Schitz challenged, as if she still had Capitol Police around her.

"Hey, girl, I know you came in with Callahan, but that don' cut no ice with me. This is my street and no birdie works it less'n she's beating her feet for ol' B.J. Who's your sweet man, buttercup? I'm gonna to have him wasted for lettin' you cross the sacred line without giving me my cut."

"I don't have a sweet man! What do you think I am?"

"Got no sweet man? You is an independent? That's perfect, 'cause I don't like steppin' on the toes of no other player. Well, this is your lucky day, honey child. You've just found yourself a steady employer. You have to keep on doing what you've been doing, except that yours truly is gonna to be your business manager from now on. I’m as expensive as all hell, but I’m worth it!"

Infuriated, Schitz gripped the pimp's lapels and shook him hard -- or tried to. In fact, she could hardly jiggle the grown man.

"Whew! You need a bath," B.J. said with a sniff. "What say we take one together back at my pad?"

The girl flung herself away from him. "Are you crazy? I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"And I say you are, sweet cheeks," he assured her, backing her against the metal wall. "When you brought your business to my street, you were automatically signing up on my team." Looming over her, he exuded a knockout charisma. It affected even Adam Schitz in a way she couldn't understand. "Lift your lips, darlin'," he said, "'cause you is gonna to get a lip smack to remember. Her teeth baring, she said, "Like hell -- mmummph!" The girl in spandex couldn’t say another word, not with his arms around her and his mouth covering hers.

"You're sweeter than candy," the pimp said breathily. He reached out to touch her face, but she swatted his hand away.

"You're a fighter, I'll give you that," he said. "That's good. A fighting gal can last a long time on the mean street. Come on, Baby-o; kiss me again."

Instead of kissing him, Schitz popped a right hook into the pimp's left cheekbone, but it hurt her knuckles more than it hurt his face.

The tall man rubbed his stung cheek. "All right, Sweet Cheeks, two can play at that game." He grabbed her arm, swung her around, and pressed her against the steel paneling of the elevator. Then, too swiftly for her to realize what he was doing, he took a cord from his pocket and bound her wrists behind her back.

When the man stepped back, she spun about like a cornered wildcat. Blackjack was appreciated the way that her pinioned arms were forced her breasts forward, almost popping them out of her décolleté.

"You've got everything I need, baby mio. What should I sample first?" he teased.

"Let me go! This is against the law!"

B.J. grinned. "I always obey the law, sweetums. Do you? Like, under street law we'z man and wife."

"I won't marry you!" Schitz declared.

"We'z already married, 'cause I say so. Street law stuff, you know. But don't expect me to be faithful, 'cause you ain't the only gal I got. Ever have a wife-in-law before? You got a couple of them now."

"You don't understand!" Schitz babbled indignantly. "I'm not a hooker! I only have on this dress because -- because I lost a bet! I'm a lawyer!"

B.J. smiled. "Don’t worry. You'll soon have a new occupation.” She could feel that hot gaze of his making heat on her cleavage. "Oooh, I do like your doodles, gal. If that’s the preview, I gotta see the whole show."

Before she had time to blink, B.J. had tugged her dress down, laying bare her bra-less beauty. The pimp cupped a full, firm breast in each hand and started kneading them like globs of silly putty. Schitz strained at her wrist bindings, while the mackman lowered his head and branded her bouncing boobies with searing kisses. The more B.J. subjected her to these incredible sensations, the more her nipples were hardening.

"Oh, God!" Schitz bleated as waves of pleasure took her strength away. She slid down along the wall and put her derriere into a jarring contact with the floor. B.J. sank to his knees beside her and she felt his hand checking the temperature between her legs.

He felt the warm wetness of her thong and grinned. This little piece was plum easy to turn on. The pimp continued to fondle Schitz through the thin, moist fabric. After a moment, the stimulation he imposed on her was beginning to have its intended effect. Her orgasmic lurch, accompanied by a moan of sheer pleasure, told him all he needed to know about what kind of fish he'd hooked. The pimp was anticipating all the beautiful music the two of them would soon be making.

Shaking off her erotic daze, Schitz yelled,"Sweet Jesus! Don't!"

"No, kitty, I'm not stoppin," Blackjack told her. "I know you is a bad girl and I'm gonna keep digging till I hit your oil. First thing, we gotta get those panties off. They is only in the way."

"No!" the black girl cried, but without the use of her hands, she had no way to fend him off. Suddenly, Schitz felt his fingers hooking into the waist band of her thong, slipping the garment down to her calves.

"Oh, Lordie," B.J. murmured, "I can't wait to get you home!"

Schitz's rapid breathing had become a staccato. Her teeth gritted as she felt his lips on her warm muff. She tried to force her mind to stop feeling the waves of pleasure, but everything he did she wanted more of. 

"You is lovin' it, pussy cat," Blackjack crooned softly, "I know you is. The sweet man always knows."

In fact, the sensation was so overwhelming that the girl’s body was beading with feverish sweat. Her body began to give off a musky reek and the pimps teasing made her feel something between a pressure and a hunger centered in her loins. If he kept it up, she knew that something was going to give.

Blackjack knew how to drive a woman out of her mind, and decided it was time to make love to her clitoris directly. Schitz went almost insane: yelling, kicking, and straining at her binding. Regardless, Blackjack didn’t east up his "love lesson" at all. He had never met woman who was so easy to make hot. Instinct told him t hat this lady was born to be God's gift to the street, and he would only be doing the Lord’s work by fast-tracking her into her destined role in life.

Schitz's control was giving out. Pleased, B.J. kept at her with his manipulating fingers, wanting to force her to “get it off.” He had broken in plenty of girls before. He knew plenty of bad gals who would have been nice girls if they had never met him. He was going to make this elevator cutie go out of her mind with passion and then he'd put her out on the street to start earning her keep.

Suddenly, Schitz screamed something warm, powerful and magical swept through her nubile young body.

B.J. wasn’t letting the orgasming beauty off the hook. He forced her to come and coming again, skillfully put her into multiples until she was utterly spent, a fully tamed doe with all the fight gone out of her.

He shifted away and Schitz was left sitting on the floor, her knees apart, her eyes half-closed, and with her breath coming in gasps. 

'This is the moment,' B.J. thought. While this euphoric state held her captive, he would get her out of the hotel and into his convertible. Once he his new street wife was stashed in his home behind locked doors, it would be time for Love-Lesson Number Two.

Blackjack, standing up, wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. He glanced over his shoulder; any minute, he knew, the elevator might start again and the doors would open. He thought he should fix her dishabille before there were any witnesses.

B.J. untied Schitz's hands and lifted her to her feet. "Straighten yourself up, woman," he ordered, "you look like a slut. Put on your shoes. You and me have places to go."

The elevator started to move again. Then it stopped and the doors opened. Schitz, still dazed, let the black man draw her after him, her high heels making her walk though the lobby with a wobble. 

B.J. whispered,"You'd better be careful how you move, chickadee if you don't want these bums to see paradise. Don't worry about the panties; just do what I tell you. Once we get home, you'll be dressed up real fine."

B.J. ushered her over to the check-out desk and tossed Callahan's key in front of the grizzle-bearded clerk, telling him, "Inform Mr. Callahan that the lady has enjoyed his hospitality, but it’s time for her to be movin' on up. Bye, now."

The way B.J. was handling her warned Schitz that he was so much stronger than she was. A born coward who couldn't think ahead, Schitz was desperate to get to some place where she could replace her missing underwear.

They were suddenly out the front  door and around the corner to the parking lot. Blackjack lifted the hooker-dressed girl into the bucket seat of his white sports car. The sun-heated leather burned her upper thighs and bottom on contact and she uttered a little cry of protest.

Unexpectedly, B.J. suddenly seemed suddenly out of breath. He went around to the driver's side unsteadily. He sat on the seat for a moment, breathing deep inhales. Almost before Schitz realized he wasn't well, he seemed recovered and  placed his hand on Schitz's sweat-dampened knee. It was a street gesture exerting his absolute claim over her body and soul in a symbolic way.

The street was a jungle and something mystical and primeval was being communicated by that touch. It declared to the entire world that he was the victorious hunter and bringing home the conquered prey.

Schitz, from Uptown, didn't understand the symbolism, but the primitive part of her sensed that something of great moment was happening. In the next moment, the pimpmobile pealed out the driveway and merged with the zooming traffic...

Saturday, January 7, 2023

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 2

Posted 01-07-23 


By Christopher Leeson


Chapter 2, The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued....


Chapter 2

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Leigh Spielman's take-no-prisoners attitude had given me all the inspiration that I needed to finish a scene in my story that had me flummoxed up to now. I pounced on the keyboard, tapping like I was trying to beat the Dutch:

Beth was by her lonesome in the office stuffing documents into her alligator-hide briefcase. She was thinking about the close call with that smart shamus Baxter and from now on she didn’t want stay around anyplace where he might come calling again. Her plan was to duck out on a graveyard flight to a tropical paradise and payoff to some Third World dictator to keep her cozy. After that it would be endless rounds of golden slipper cocktails and strolls along wide, immaculate beach fronts while thinking of new ways to spend her money.

Beore that Nick Baxter had muscled in everything had been going her way. She'd had the D.C. cops floundering and the randy D.A was eating out of her hand. Best of all, the newspapers given her their 'victim award” for the month of July. Every news reader with an I.Q. under 80 was on her side. Only Nick Baxter seemed to know how to put two and two together.

But she wouldn’t feel safe as long as she was in the same country as that gumshoe. As a precaution, Beth opened her right-hand desk drawer and hefted out a .357 Magnum moose-shooter. She packed the thing into her valise along with all those incriminating papers that she still needed to burn. Without the “receipts,” Basil Greenstreet's accountant was going to take the fall, leaving Beth Angler smelling like a rose.

Just then the door behind her flew open with a jarring bang. Beth froze, which nixed any chance she had had of grabbing for her man-stopper. Nick Baxter was standing there with a glacier-blue heater aimed at her head and a half-burned stogie balanced between his clenched jaws.

"I followed your Italian-built bucket all the way from Arlington," he informed the swank dame. "You're one hell of a reckless driver, Miss Angler. What's the hurry? Lamming it, maybe?"

Nick had a stare that would have broken most hardened criminals, but Angler was a chickadee with nerve. Being a trial shyster for a while, she'd been rubbing elbows with America’s worst. That meant that she was a hardened criminal who wasn't going to bend or fold easily. Maybe she hadn’t been planning to be all bad when she'd first left Chicago as a spoiled rich kid. But those big law schools left everyone with Lefty leanings twisted in the head.

"Hit the road, you jerk-off!" she said through gritted teeth.

The gumshoe grinned. "Those skirts who look like Vassar and talk like Hollywood and Vine really turn me on, babe. But you made a bad mistake when you emptied a .357 Magnum into my partner's back."

Beth Angler blanched. Baxter had put that piece into his puzzle, too. If he found the murder weapon that was hidden in her case now, she'd go down for Murder One. "It wasn't me," she jabbered. "It was Greenstreet's accountant!"

Nick's big, ugly face clouded. "Naw, it was you all right and you're going to the sizzle-chair for doing it! The place I’m going to look for evidence is inside that lizard skin you carry around."

She couldn’t help but jump when Nick mentioned briefcase on the desk. That move telegraphed to Nick that he'd slammed the nail on the head. He expected her to make a dive for her shooting iron, but Beth Angler but she didn’t. She actually tossed a sexy, come-on smile his way.

"Can't we make some kind of a deal?" she murmured.

Nick narrowed one peeper. "So what kind of deal are you driving at, honey bun?"

She started unbuttoning her suit jacket. Baxter smoked his cigar smoke while enjoying the show. Beth Angler was an embezzler, a murderer -- and a closet bimbo, too. This situation had possibilities.

"I promised the accountant's mother that I was going to nail you," Nick warned her.

"So nail me, big man."

If I do, what do you expect in return?”

Maybe a break…” she said in a sultry, breathy way.

"You get the next play," he said with a wink. "Handle this right and maybe I'll feel like going easy on you afterwards."

'Or maybe not', he was thinking . . . .

Dewitt interrupted my narration just when I was getting to the good part. "D.C., did you see this article in the paper? Another bum was choked to death last night and dropped into the Potomac. How many does that make?"

"About two dozen," I said, leaning back from my keyboard and yawning. "Some psycho must really have it in for skid-row winos. You know, these rum-bum murders started right after Inauguration Day. Do you suppose -- nah! It's got to be a coincidence."

"They say there's been a rise in hooker killings, too. Same M.O. Bums and hookers. What’s the connection?”

From the outer office came a mutter of voices. "Ma'am, you just can't go barging in!" Sheila was saying.

At first, I thought that Spielman was back for Round Two, but when the door swung open we saw a young black woman trying to squirm around our secretary. "Step aside and let the lady in, Miss Coffin," I said. "We've got time enough for a little neighborhood outreach." Then I added, "Go watch the phones, Sheila; I don't think you'll be need to take notes."

Sheila was glad enough to leave and so left the chocolate bunny behind with us. She had an uncertain expression on her cute-as-can-be face as she wobbled up to my desk. Either her ankles were hurting pretty badly or she wasn't used to high heels. Since she was just then wearing skimpy spandex, that didn’t figure.

"Have a chair, Miss," I offered.

The black girl glanced uneasily around the office before putting the nicest part of her body into that rummage-sale bought wicker chair that was facing my desk. Her hemline immediately rode way up, just like it was designed to do. Unfortunately, I had a row of books on my desktop that blocked my view of her cleavage while she was sitting so low .
Don't call me 'Miss,'" the chippy said. "I had to see you, Mister Callahan. It's a matter of life and death!"

I blinked perplexedly. She wasn’t using the diction of a run-of-the-mill hooker. An educated hooker? Well, why not?

"Where exactly are you from?" I asked.

"This is very -- embarrassing to explain," she began haltingly. "I'm not a really a girl."

Oh, hell! "You're a female impersonator?"

"No! I'm -- I'm actually Congressman Adam Schitz!"

Dewitt and I traded glances. Even so, I had to be tactful. "I think you've been breathing in some bad bindles, ma'am. I've met Congressman Schitz -- and believe me, you aren't him! For one thing, you don’t have his watermelon head and a pencil neck. And the way you’re dressed doesn’t make me think your a Congressman. But I don’t want to get out of line. Maybe skin-tight microminis are the new fashion. It would certainly beat what we’ve been seeing on the street lately.”

"I am Adam Bennett Schitz and I can prove it!" she insisted, leaning forward and putting her hands on my desk. Man, did she do the forward-lean well!

"Two years ago, I hired you to prove my opponent was cheating on his wife,” she said. “You returned a report that said he wasn't, but I don’t accept “no” votes. I got some of my friends in the FBI to call you a Russian asset. The press ate it up and muddied your name so badly that the Republican candidate had to deny that he ever knew you. Nobody bought into that and his numbers fell so low that he dropped out of the race!"

I wasn't impressed. That was news past its expiration date. "It sounds to me like Schitz's been shooting off his mouth around one of his party girls – you, if I’m being too subtle. You need a shrink, lady, not a detective."

"Give me a chance to explain!"

"You've got five minutes, pussycat. I'm a busy man."

"The truth is, we've been invaded by aliens from outer space!" confessed the girl.

I let out a moan.

"They can switch minds with a person if he has sex with them!" she added excitedly.

Dewitt finally stirred. "I get it! This is right out of those X Files reruns. You think you're Schitz and you've just had an alien body-switch. Well, you don't look much like an alien, Miss -- and I'm too polite to spell out what you do look like."

"That's because I wasn't the first person the alien switched with! He'd already stolen the body of this girl. There’s a lot of aliens going around in the bodies of Earth people! They entice people to go down on them and -- and then the switch happens."

"And how did you end up jumping into the sack with an alien, uh -- Congressman?" I asked.

"Somebody I trusted gave me the number of an escort service," the chocolate cookie explained with a pained look.

"Well, all I can say is that you must hang around with some real low-lives, ma'am."

"Don’t say that! I'm a U.S Congressman!"

I decided not to make a joke out of that one-liner. "So, what happened then?" I wasn't buying into this sitcom plot, but I wanted the chippie to finish her silly story and go home.

The busty hustler hugged herself and shivered, but maybe that was because of the cold draft coming from the air conditioner. That red spandex of hers certainly didn't cover much -- God bless it!

At last, she caught her breath and said, "W-When I woke up in the night, I was her."

I could imagine the picture. It was just kinky enough to make a good story. But it didn’t have much zing because she'd already telegraphed the punch line. "Yeah, I thought it had to be something like that. Tell us a little about the aliens, ma'am, since you're the expert."

"They took me prisoner," the Party Polly went on.

Were you already a girl when they did that?”

I’m not a girl!”

I’m a gentleman so I’m not going to ask you to prove that.”

Exasperated, the black beauty soldiered on. "They had Earth bodies, but the was something not right about them --" Her voice trailed off.

"Why? Did their eyes glow?" I asked.

"No, it was just that they were all so randy. They did things to me -- and enjoyed doing them!"

Did you enjoy it, too?”

Certainly not!”

Well, okay. Exactly what all did they do?”

She shivered again. "T-They bound me naked to the head of the bed. One of them was a gorgeous redhead.”

Was that a male redhead or a female one?”

Female! I wouldn’t have let a man touch me!”

So, all this bedroom fun was actually consensual?”

No it wasn’t! But I absolutely wouldn’t have wanted a man to be doing things like that to me!”

"Where did she touch you?" I asked, my mouth going dry.

"She told the others to leave, and then this alien woman took off all her clothes before getting down on her knees at the foot of the bed. . . ."

"Yeah, yeah? She was going down. What happened next?"

"Schitz" scowled. "What happened was like those despicable, degrading scenes that I used to watch on the VCR as a kid. You know what I mean!"

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. I still have a video rental card around somewhere. But we need details. You're going to have to stop beating around the bush, babe -- no pun intended. What did that hot-sounding babe do to you?"

"She got me so excited that I was almost in tears. While my mind hated it, it made this X-rated body feel so godammed happy! It was even better than nose candy! That’s when two of the male aliens came back and one said, 'Okay, Schitz, the fun's over.’ Then the other one asked, ‘Are we going to dump this bum into the Potomac?’”

I sat back. "That's cute, Cuddles. You’re even managing to work in those streetwalker murder cases they’re talking about on the TV every night."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm telling the truth!"

"You absolutely can't be Congressman Schitz, so that makes you either a liar or a nut case."

All my insult did was to incite her to jabber all the faster: "Then the other alien said, `Yeah, why not? How would you like to make the headlines one more time, Congressman?'”

The redhead stood up and said, “No! We’ll keep him as a girl. He’ll at least be of some use that way.”

Then they put me into heels and this tight dress. They even smeared lipstick on my mouth.”

So I see. They didn’t do such a bad job of it.”

And dragged me out to their car," she added. “When we got down to the piers, the aliens stopped in front of a warehouse."

"A whorehouse?" Man, this was a story that I should have been writing myself! I wondered what the best ending should be. I absolutely didn’t want to do a Hollywood-style cop-outs where the Congressman changes back into his crummy old-self at the end of the story. What’s the use of going off on a trip if you’re going to end up at the exact same place that you started out from?

"A warehouse!" she corrected me.

"What warehouse?" Dewitt asked.

Schitz shifted toward my pard. "A Rex Company warehouse along the eastern riverfront," she said. "I think it must be one of their secret bases."

"How did you get away?" I asked.

"A squad car drove up, saw the two guys playing rough with me, and stopped. The police came out to ask what was going on."

"Two D.C. cops doing their job?" I interrupted. "Your story is beginning to sound fishy."

"That's what did happen! The aliens ran for cover. I started yelling for help and the officers picked me up, but I didn't dare tell them the truth."

"Of course not, sweetheart," I nodded tolerantly. "You wanted to save that little suprise just for us."

Her voice hardened. "The aliens said that they've taken over the bodies of a lot of people -- especially people in authority. What if the aliens already control the police -- the whole government even? So I came to you."

I don’t think aliens could do worse than the people who are in charge now,” I said.

Suddenly, her face sank forward into her cupped hands; for the first time I started to feel sorry for the dame, even if she was a nut-filled cookie. Maybe she actually believed her own crazy story. I figured she might need real help, not just bad jokes. I said to Dewitt, "This lady's really scared about something, Martin. Why don't you go check out that warehouse?"

He tossed off his familiar there-you-go-again smirk. "So it’s going to be another freebie for some sob-sister, Callahan?"

"So what's your problem?" I asked testily. "Have you got a high-stakes game of solitaire waiting for you back home? Martin, you'll be putting on an alderman if you don't get some exercise once in a while."

He reluctantly stood up. "All right, but I think it's a waste of time and gasoline. You've always been a pushover for a panhandler, D.C. No wonder Sheila is the only one in this office who ever takes home a paycheck."

I just glowered at him. We always paid Sheila first because the government doesn't care if a owners make squat; it’s always the employee who come first. I knew we'd land in hot water if we ever missed a single payroll.

Then I noticed my pard putting on that black leather jacket of his. "Hey, you aren't going out wearing that thing, are you?"

"What are you ragging about now?"

"You forgot your snap-brimmed hat," I reminded him. "It was your birthday present, remember?"

He threw up his arms. "D.C., nobody wears those snap-brim antiques anymore."

I gave him my senior-partner glim. "That's gratitude for you. Detectives wear fedoras for the same reason that chimney sweeps still wear stovepipe hats. It's tradition."

"I don't see people paying anything for tradition and, anyway, a hat would look wrong with this jacket."

"Is it my fault that you come to work out of uniform?" To spare his feelings, I decided not to add that his blue jeans, jacket, and motorcycle boots would have been more appropriate on a schoolyard dope pusher.

He waved away my advice. "D.C., whenever you’re able to meet an honest payroll, I'll wear a ballerina outfit if that’s traditional."

"I don't swing that way," I told him. "But thanks for warning me that you do."

After that nifty zinger, Martin gave up the bickering and let the door clunk shut behind him. I was left to entertain "Congressman Schitz" all alone. "Until my partner gets back," I told her, "I think you need a good detox -- I mean, a good rest. Can I take you home, or to a motel?"

I detected a tremble in her sigh. "I don't have any money to rent a room, and if I went home I'd have to explain to my wife how I got this way. She might even pretend that she doesn’t believe that I'm really me. I was hoping you could spare me a loan."

"You don’t look like a politician, but you sure think like one. I'll take you to my flop instead. At least you won’t be able to steal me blind; everything I ever owned has already been repossessed."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm not a thief! I'm a member of Congress!"

You’ve got to stop feeding me these obvious straight lines, Sweetie.”

Then, all of a sudden, she started to shake.

"Say, don't take it so hard, lady. You'll be all right."

The girl sank down into her chair again. "It's not just that this whole business is so -- so horrifying. I feel so -- so –"


"I was going to say horny! I keep feeling like I want to have sex? Am I going crazy?"

I eyed her carefully. The idea of taking this hot chick home really did sound like the best possible solution to her problem.

"You're not crazy," I told her. "You're a normal red-blooded American girl. What you need is a dark, quiet room where you can lay down, rest back, and spread your legs."

Pushing up out of my chair, I stepped around the desk, opened the door, and yelled for Sheila. She came over, looking put-upon, as usual.

"Sheila," I said, "I'm going to find this lady a place to stay. I should be back before closing time." Our gal Friday gave back one of those sweetly endearing 'couldn't-care-less' shrugs.

Then the black vision of loveliness said, "We should leave by the back way, Callahan, just in case I was followed. They're aliens and they probably have incredibly effective surveillance equipment."

"Maybe, but I think your equipment is even more incredible," I said.

At that, I took my hat and flogger off the rack. True, a mack was too hot to wear during this heat wave, but trench coats always looks damned good when carried sportingly over a manly shoulder.

I sighed. Street girls always had a way of complicating a man's life, but this one was certainly a temptation. I wondered if I should be taking risks just for the sake of a good time. On the other hand, the day hadn't started out so great and maybe this was fate's way of giving me the kind of a break that I really deserved.




Wednesday, December 7, 2022

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 1

 THE BIG SWITCH -- Chap. 1

By Christopher Leeson

First a word of explanation as to why I’m starting this story instead of continuing with the new chapter of The Twilight of the Gods.

It is not that I don’t want to continue; the opposite is the case. But I’ve found myself very cramped for time. I have to get a mainstream novel that I’ve written and have sold on the basis of the rough draft up to professional hard-copy standards by the start of next June. It is a historical novel with a lot of research needed and that makes for slow polishing, especially since it's my intention to give the text ten edits before sending it out. The first polishing, done when I was trying to juggle my monthly contributions to both The Full TG Show and Big Closet at the same time -- along with every other commitment I was carrying -- resulted on three months passing before I could edit the historical novel even once.

To make more time for myself, I have completely withdrawn from my regular postings at Big Closet for the time being. However, I didn’t want to entirely drop out of  making monthly contributions to The Full TG Show. But the work on
Twilight each month has required at least four days to complete, and that is a lot of time to give away each month when I’m in such a rush.

So my next best option, as I see it, is to set aside Twilight temporarily and start an entirely different story, The Big Switch (and I think The Big Switch is one of my best, though some of my TFTGS readers might have seen older drafts of it elsewhere.) The draft of BS I'm doing now actually needs some additional polishing, but not nearly as much as a true rough draft would. The ongoing plan is now to put about a day of polishing in on Big Switch before putting up a chapter of Big Switch here at TFTGS each month. As usual, I will try to shoot for posting 8-12 edited pages per month.

When my novel work is done, I will want to get back to
Twilight just as soon possible. I apologize, but it could be not that many will care about the change. In the several months that I have been posting Twilight so far, I haven’t gotten even one comment letting me know that anyone at out there is enjoying it. I hope that isn't true, but how can one tell, since there is not evidence to say that it isn't. If the situation changes, I am always open to persuasion.

And, hey, if anyone actually likes
The Big Switch, let me know that, too. Support from readers always makes an author feel good about the work he is doing and it encourages him to do more.

So, now let’s get started on The Big Switch.

Chapter 1

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan

...I jumped over the bleeding stiff and dashed into the dining room. There I saw the French maid trying to get out through a French window, but didn't stop to think about that ironic detail.

I grabbed for her, but she dashed out of reach and tried to stuff something down under the lace of her uniform. "I see it, babe," I said. I cornered the gal and shoved my fingers down the V of her neckline. The fabric tore, but I kept digging under her petticoat until something fluttered out of it and down to the floor. I grabbed the oblong piece of paper.

When the maid tried to snatch it back, I slapped her across the face and pushed her into the corner. I held her there with one hand while I looked at what was written. It was a check made out to Miss Judit Hilmar and signed by 'Dirk Bracken.'

I knew the name; Bracken had been the real name of the comedy-star Dopey Sailor before his career got deep-sixed for sexual improprieties on screen and he'd come East a beaten man. The check was for five thousand smackers. 'Hell, if dusting pays that well,' I thought, 'I ought to change my line.' Anyway, Dopey wasn't even her employer; these palatial digs we were in belonged to a big shot politician named Mitch Turtleman -- who, by the way, must have been a lot older than the corpse in the foyer. In fact, he was probably a lot older than the foyer.

I said: "What's Bracken giving you all this moolah for?"

"It is mine! Mr. Sailor g-gave it to me last night," she stammered. Her accent sounded more Swedish than French.

I asked, "What did you have to do to get this much long bread from a creep like him?"

She didn’t want to answer; her shiny red lips had screwed down tight again. I'd have to channel my cave man fast if I was going to get anything out of this tough broad before the sun came up. So, I grabbed her shoulders and shook. That little white maid cap of hers became partially detached and hung at the side of her beautiful head by one hairpin.

I said: "Now look, Miss Judit Hilmar. If you don't want to get slapped till you're groggy, you'd better sing like a warbler. How would you like a good sock in the jaw for openers?"

"No – no!"

"Okay, then take the easy way out and make conversation. Why were you trying to sneak out through the window?"

“To get away from you!”

A likely story! I waited about two seconds for the babe to come clean, but she still wasn't unbuttoning. To let her know that I was a tough guy she shouldn't mess with, I ran my fingers over her shoulder, pretending that I was working myself up to punch the hell out of her. "It's dirty business to get mixed up with a pervert like Bracken," I said. "Or are you already involved?"

All of a sudden the Aryan cutie pressed herself up against me, throwing her slender arms around my neck.

I sighed. Dames are so predictable; they have all the same moves. The biggest weakness of the Weaker Sex is that they think that men aren’t able to keep their best part inside their pants. That kind of a mistake always makes it easy for a man to get what he wants out of a dame.

She said: "Please Mr. Detective -- I shall do anything you ask, if only you will keep me out of this! I am not afraid for myself. I -- I have a brother who is in this country illegally."

"Why illegally?"

She looked like she'd just bitten into a sour lemon. "It is hard for Europeans to get work permits in the U-S of A."

I unclenched my fist. That much was true; truth has a tranquilizing effect on me, so I backed off and let her babble on.

"If my name comes up, the police will question me and look into my family. They might find out about my brother and deport him. You do not know what life in Sweden is like!"

I doubted Stockholm could be worse than Washington, D.C. And I also doubted that an immigration service like ours would deport even a Typhoid Mary, much less a handsome Swedish boy. Even so, I pretended to sympathize. "I wouldn’t send a junkyard dog into a hellhole like Sweden, but the law is the law. The deal is this: If you help me crack this case, maybe I can do something for you."

Instead of continuing the begging act, she looked at me, funny-like. "If you do not force me to do things I do not want to," she said, "I can do for you things that I would very like to much to do."

"Tell me about it. I know what you foreign dolls have for sale. How about a free sample?"

Her hands were on me in two shakes; warm, soft curves were snuggling up against me. She was offering me a pair of luscious lips.

Well, nobody ever said that Nick Baxter wasn't human. I leaned down and gave her a load of osculation. I don't know what vintage she was, but the taste of her mouth started my blood racing so fast that entering it in the Kentucky Derby would have made me a cool million. . . .


I sat back from the CRT and reached for my cup of java. "Well, Martin, how does it sound to you?"

My partner Dewitt leaned forward and planted his elbows on his desktop. "That's a damned hot scene, D.C! Are you trying to give your readers a hard-on?"

"Yeah! So you like the story, right?"

He cocked his head to one side. "I like it fine, but don't you think it's kind of old-fashioned? Everything you write sounds like it comes out of the 1930's, but you're not doing period fiction. And like I've said before, not even tough guys talk that way anymore."

"I still talk that way!"

"Yeah, but you didn't grow up with Heather Has Two Mommies. You said you learned to read from reprints of Black Mask."

"Hmmp!" I grunted. That wasn't the kind of praise that an aspiring novelist wants to hear. Dewitt was only my junior partner, but since I'd asked for his opinion, I didn't have much choice but to take it on the jaw. "Okay, so I know a few words that have more than four letters in them. What about the plot? Does it grab you?"

"Is it realistic? You're a detective, D.C. Have you ever roughed up even one chick on a real job? I've never had to."

"Me neither," I admitted reluctantly, "not since I left Sears. But I might get lucky. I'm not forty yet, after all."

"And isn't it corny to bring a French maid into the plot?"

"She's Swedish."

"A Swedish French maid, then. My point still stands." Dewitt shook his head. "Tell any American woman who isn't already a hooker that she has to dress like a French maid and she'll be suing you for harassment. Besides, you can't get a white person to do housemaid work anymore, not for any kind of money."

"Not even if she's illegal? If her brother's illegal, maybe she is, too."

"I don't know about that. But Swedes go to decent schools and I can't imagine a smart Euro babe not being able to find something more lucrative. And the international businesses want to hire illegals, since they can give them lower wages than an American would work for. The politicians like illegals, too, because they keep Americans unemployed and in need of government handouts."

"Some women like dressing up as French maids," I argued. "Maybe she's kinky. I could make her really kinky."

His brows knitted. "That's going the cheap thrill route."

"What's wrong with cheap thrills, Martin? It's only escapism! Most of the schmucks who read P.I. novels probably think that every money bags has a bevy of cute little French maids chasing after his cigar butts!"

"Schmucks? Are you calling yourself a schmuck, D.C? You read more of that stuff than anybody I know."

"I've been called worse things than a schmuck," I said with a shrug.

"Like 'late with the rent'?'"

"Don't remind me," I grumbled.

Dewitt pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the window air conditioner. "We might as well get some use out of this AC before the electric company shuts off our current. This heat wave is making me wish for winter."

"Me too; cold weather makes it more comfortable to wear my trench coat," I said, practicing my dry chuckle. “On the other hand, it's a lot of fun strolling around colleges campuses looking at the what the young ladies wearing to keep cool.”

"D.C., we can't go on like we have been without some real dough. All the other agencies are digging up dirt for the Administration. Maybe we should climb on board the gravy train, too."

"You mean sell out? Serve the Cause of Evil? Trade in our honor for a pot of mulligan?"

Martin shook his head. "I don't like getting my hands dirty either, but business bites and your stories aren't selling. If we don't get enough income to defray the outgo, we'll be coming to work one of these days and finding the front door padlocked."

To get him off this gloomy kick, I decided to try a mea culpa. "It's my fault. I ruined our reputation by being too honest. On the other hand, even if things go crash and we have to climb in through our office window, we'll still have our dignity."

"Dignity and two dollars will buy us one cup of coffee that we can share."

"Yeah, it’s true. You can’t even get coffee for a buck in Vegas ever since the good-guy gangsters moved out. With the crooked corporations running things now, a fellow goes broke before he can find the craps table.

Since we had no cases pending, I went back to pecking on my manuscript. I thought my opening paragraph was still too weak, and so performed an extemporaneous revision:

Pennsylvania Avenue runs from Rock Creek to the Anacostia River, through crack-infested 'hoods where even the flatfoots walk in pairs to stave off the Grim Reaper, and streetlights don’t work any better than the politicians do. After sunset, P.A. is a pitch-black cemetery full of prowling ghoul-shapes and skulking specters howling about Ukraine. Religious people say that God made Washington, D.C. to punish the sins of the world. But I think Hell burped it up when the devil was cleaning house and dumping the most mephitic sludge on the banks of the Potomac . . . .

The door creaked and our receptionist, Sheila Coffin, stepped in. She'd hardly ever bothered to knock and she didn't knock this time, either. That was funny, since I’d hired her because she had the best pair of knockers this side of Maryland. I was guessing that she had great gams, too, hidden under those skirts that never climbed above her knees.

Most gees go gaga over blondes, but for me it's always been brunettes with green eyes. That was another reason for hiring Sheila, instead of some middle-aged frump with nothing going for her except good secretarial skills. Oh, Sheila was a frump, too, but one can almost forgive frumpery if the girl has just turned nineteen and is built like a statue by Praxiteles.

As a human specimen, Sheila was great; it was as an office worker that she left a lot to be desired. Naturally she didn't care about the detective business, but what was harder to forgive was her total lack of fashion sense. In a microskirt, stilettos, fishnet hose, and a tight, fuzzy sweater she could have moved the Washington Monument with one bump and grind. Dressing for success could have gone a long way in making up for a multitude of office skills she didn't have. If Sheila had been keen on dressing the way a detective's secretary is supposed to dress, the firm would have been getting a lot more repeat business. The trouble was, that brainstorm was something that I couldn't suggest to a short-tempered third-wave feminist with the E.E.O's complaint number filed in her Rolodex.

"Yes, Miss Coffin?" I asked, trying to keep my glance above her tie-knot. In this demented town, lookism can send a man on a one way trip up the river.

"It's Ms Spielman again. She's –"

I knew exactly where Leigh Spielman was, since she had just stomped in our inner office like a she-buffalo. Leigh was another one of those hot-looking tessies. Unfortunately, they're the type that always looks at working stiffs like Martin and me as if we were the henchmen of Attila the Hun.

"Which one of you turned on that air conditioner?" Leigh Spielman demanded. That gray-eyed glare of hers was enough to turn a man's blood to ice water.

"Me!" admitted Dewitt, not sweating it. I've always admired the Pard's coolness in the face of danger or when squaring off with a geed-up dame. We don’t run into much danger, but geed-up dames are as common as mosquitoes down by the Potomac. In my book, Martin's steely nerves when faced by an angry female made him the kind of man I'd want to take with me into a dark alley.

"Listen, Dewitt," Spielman was saying, "I told you that your air conditioner scrambles my hard drive! Well, it's happened again."

"That's not possible, lady," I disagreed politely. "It doesn't hurt our hard drive, so how can it hurt yours?"

She wasn't listening. "I'll get a restraining order if I have to! I'll go for compensatory damages!"

"That won't help you, Ma'am," I said with a head-shake. "We're flat broke."

I smiled inwardly. That was the winning card in the P.I. game; with our rate of success we could thumb our noses at lawsuit threats.

"I already know that you two are bums, but I'll find some way to get back at you!" she warned.

Still trying to pour oil over troubled waters, I said, "Miss Spielman, you seem to be saying that Martin is scrambling your hard drive. If you stop and think about it, that could be the start of a beautiful relationship."

"Pigs!" she spat. "Are you going to turn off that air conditioner or not?"

"What's the point?" Martin piped up. "Your drive is already scrambled."

Leigh clenched her fists. "The gloves are off from now on, buster. One more incident like this and I'll make a career out of putting the pair of you out of business. Consider yourself on notice!"

Dewitt grinned wistfully. "One more utility bill and we'll be going out of business, anyway, neighbor. But I'll take the matter up with my partner at our next board meeting. Sheila, would you escort Ms Spielman through the front door?"

Sheila sent the intruder a sisterly smile. That was Sheila; she never got upset if someone dropped by to give her bosses a hard time. But Leigh ignored our secretary's heart-felt sympathy and stalked right past her.

Well, the new day had started out as a loser.

Unfortunately, the rest of this day was only going to get worse!