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Peter Rogers's Blog
Artist-in-Residence at Chez Firth

Tuesday (3/1/11) 10:56am - ... wherein Peter indulges in random noir-speak.

Stephen Jackson posted this:

Comment on this status, sharing how you met me.  But I want you to LIE.  That's right, just make it up.  Then perhaps copy this to your status.
So I submitted this:
Jackson?  Yeah, met him years ago, but it might as well have been yesterday.  I'd washed up in San Maravilla, a two-bit, fleabag border town that went from bad to worse and then kept going, 'til it went straight to hell.  The only fella who couldn't see the corruption was the blind bum on the corner of Verde and Main -- and even *he* was on the take.

Let's just say I saw something I shouldn't've, and I wound up on the run from Big Juan and every hired hand, hoodlum, and half-wit that came crawling out of the woodwork.  And San Maravilla?  It was long on woodwork.  The cops?  Ha.  Big Juan had that town locked up so tight he had every cop in his pocket with room left over for a flask of gin and a .45.

But Jackson was the only beat cop within a hundred miles who wasn't crookeder than a saguaro arm.  And sure, he was twice as prickly as one of those cactuses, but he didn't answer to Big Juan, and he got the sunshine boys looking the wrong way long enough that I could hitch a ride from a fast dame driving a fast car all the way to Mexico City.

And sure, that led to trouble -- with the car, with the city, and especially with the dame -- but without Jackson, I'd be lyin' in a ditch in San Maravilla, with a boozy coroner sayin' I'd fallen on a knife twenty times in a row.

Never ran into Jackson again 'til I was hired to find that heiress in L. A.  (Poor kid.)  But that's another story.

Mood: [mood icon] amused · Music: none
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