A couple more entries – Enjoy:
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From Dave at 1pointperspective:
Seven Deadly Sin Series – The One Thumbed Sloth
Jimmy “One-Thumb” Valenti didn’t know where the hell his cousin Nicky was, but he knew where he wasn’t. He wasn’t at the freaking club dumping chlorine in the baby pool or putting more toilet paper in the womens’ bathroom. The kid was usually there and busy long before One-Thumb rolled in. Jimmy had no intention of getting out of his office chair and doing any of those jobs; Nicky could just work that much harder when he got there.
He rocked back in the squeaky chair and looked at the paper. He found no joy in the sports section, only betrayal and disappointment. It would take more than ten fingers to get One-Thumb out of the mess he was in. He got carried away after winning a couple of bets early in the basketball playoffs. Now he owed the fat guy $1800 plus the vig. Mr. Light had been more patient than most bookies. Once the Celtics got eliminated, the round man had had enough. Light cornered Jimmy in the snack bar and told him that he better come up with the cash or maybe he’d be kissing his remaining thumb goodbye. Jimmy glanced at the sweating hot dogs as they rolled on the grill. He promised Light the cash.
Jimmy spun slowly in the chair and opened the bottom desk drawer where he kept the .45, but reached for the pint of Old Grandad instead. He twisted the cap off with the flat of his palm, and poured a snort into his coffee. It seemed lately coffee didn’t taste right without some Kentucky in it. He put his feet back on the desk and looked out across the swim club, absently hoping to spot a money-tree back by the fence.
He was just 12 when he reached his hand under a lawn mower and got his nickname. They told him how important the thumb was, but Jimmy knew that he still had a thumb on his other hand, plus a brain. Push the right buttons and people will do the work for you – thumbs are over-rated. He wasn’t much for cutting lawns anyway.
The snack bar register couldn’t have more than five or six hundred in it, even on a good day. He’d already emptied the petty cash box back when the Celtics were still alive.
He couldn’t hit Mom up for another loan, she knew him too well to fall for that. Her house probably had a couple thousand worth of Disney knick-knacks and jewelry. He’d have to take the stuff to Philly to pawn it. Pennies on the freaking dollar. These days even the dumpiest pawn shop had some kind of camera recording every transaction anyway.
Jimmy thought about the gun. Nicky’d said that the bowling alley had big money in the bar register. He could wear a mask and a hoodie from the Lost-N-Found. He’d wear winter gloves so it’d look like he a had two thumbs, then toss the hoodie and gloves down by the railroad tracks afterwards. Maybe he’d just put a couple of bullets in Light’s fat head.
He reached into the back of the drawer for the gun, but found nothing. He rocked forward in his chair and pulled the drawer all the way out, but all he found was a couple of Playboys and a useless box of bullets.
There was no going to the police about a gun that was hot to begin with. He glanced down at his remaining thumb and wondered how much it mattered to him anyway. He rocked back, sipped his coffee and looked back out across the pools.
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Death by Slothfulness
BB Cleaning Business was in its fifth year as Betsy was spewing disgust over the most recent cleaning job at Henry McPherson’s mansion.
“I just can’t understand how someone of Mr. McPherson statute can be such a filthy slob,” cringes Betsy. Betty tries to give Mr. McPherson the benefit of the doubt without much success, for she all too well knew what Betsy was dealing with as she had to clean the kitchen. Betsy hauled three bulging bags out to the garbage can.
“Well that was the first layer,” states Betsy, “now on to the second layer and just maybe I will find the floor.”
“Do want me to call in reinforcements?” asked Betty.
“Well, that might be necessary if I can’t stomach the smell,” groans Betsy as she covers her mouth and gags for the umpteenth time. Filling bag after bag, Betsy plowed through the massive floor in the kitchen. It was strewn with old newspapers from corner to corner. Soup and tuna cans piled shin high in one corner. Leftover food lay in a heap next to the stove, with no cat or dog to eat the remains. They could have been a blessing, maybe, but they also leave their own messes.
“The odor is getting stronger, Betty, have you check the rest of the house for its origin?”asked Betsy.
“Well, I have checked the upper two levels and the south wing. All seems okay,” replies Betty. “Then you best check the west wing and the master bedroom before I gag for the last time and something will come up,” promises Betsy.
“You’re right! It is getting down right disgusting in here,” agrees Betty as she heads to the west wing.
Within minutes, Betsy hears a blood curdling screech. She scurried to her feet as she was hurling cans into the garbage bag and races to the corridor to find Betty.
Betty, exiting the bedroom, gasped for air; pointed to the room. Betsy enters to find the dog and cat dead and Mr. and Mrs. McPherson.
Who is responsible for this slothfulness? Mr. and Mrs. McPherson or the pets?
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