Johnny Lingo, a transsexual detective. Awakening to the molars of Gotham City chewing the asphalt. The radiator hissed. As her member in the boxer shorts rose, its purple headed boner. Maybelline, her new secretary, was lifting a ‘tenner’ from her wallet.
She stood and drifted toward the vanity. The mirror was a spiderweb of cracks, fracturing her image into a dozen different women, none of whom looked particularly happy. Johnny stared at the reflection. The curves of her breasts, enhanced and heavy, were highlighted by the dim morning light. There, clinging to the swell of her chest, was a smudge of “red tomato aspic” lipstick. A visceral, bloody streak left over from the night before. She looked like a woman who had been loved by something dangerous, or perhaps she was the dangerous thing.
She dressed with a slow, deliberate precision. She skipped the bra, preferring the way the white button-down shirt draped over her frame, hiding and revealing in equal measure. The room carried the olfactory signature of her life: stale tobacco and the cloying, fermented stench of Richard’s Wild Irish Rose Wine.
Imagining Maybelline at her desk. He grabbed his hat, stepped out into the hallway, and felt the cold draft of the building settle into his bones. The office was waiting. The debt collectors were waiting. And somewhere in the gray haze of the morning, Maybelline was already planning the next ten dollars she would steal from his heart. Just a few hours ago, Maybelline, was true, playing, “knick knack paddy whack” on Johnny’s cock. Taking short hand strokes.
*****
Johnny Lingo, transsexual detective, had a way of wearing a linen suit, with creases that could cut a pimple. Chewing Beeman’s Clove chewing gum, She sauntered in to her desk, on Detective Row, of Gotham’s City, PD.
“You’re late, Lingo,” Maybelline said, not looking up from the typewriter. The clack-clack-clack of the Remington sounded like a firing squad. She was wearing a dress that clung to her hips. “The only thing more outdated than your filing system is your taste in skirts, Maybelline. You are damn near, exposing your business to the whole precinct.”
“Someone just wacked the Bishop and skinned his weasel of a penis. Leaving the Bishop’s nuts in the chalice. That a cup, for all you uneducated mutha fuckers. Also his balls weren’t blue and he was wearing falsies.”
*****
The first thing that hit the floor was the dignity; the second was the chalice. The body lay on the Persian rug of the cathedral’s vestry, a gold-plated vessel of the Holy Spirit now serving as a bowl for two shriveled, oyster like testicle nodules of flesh. The Bishop had been stripped of his dignity and his anatomy with sure like precision that suggested the killer had either been a doctor or a very dedicated butcher.
Detective Johnny Lingo stepped over a pool of drying blood, her heels clicking against the marble with a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. She didn’t look at the body. She looked at the crease of her own trousers. A ripple had formed near the left knee, a failure of linen that felt, in that moment, like a personal tragedy.
“Skinning a man’s junk is a lot of effort for a Sunday morning,” Johnny remarked, her voice a low, honeyed rasp. She popped a piece of Beeman’s Clove gum, the scent of spice masking the metallic tang of the roo. “I wish I were stoned.” She leaned over the corpse, her breasts grazing the edge of the altar. The movement caused her shirt to gape, offering the forensics tech, a sweating man named Miller, a panoramic view of her nipples, which were currently hard as pebbles from the cathedral’s draft. Miller didn’t even look at the evidence; he just stared up at Johnny with a look of desperate, hungry longing. Johnny noticed the gaze and gave him a slow, deliberate wink, a calculated piece of performance art that left Miller momentarily forgetting how to breathe. “Focus, Miller. Unless you want to volunteer your own equipment for the chalice.”
She shifted her weight, feeling the familiar, heavy throb between her legs. The crime scene was a stimulant; the gore, the gold, and the sheer audacity of the mutilation had her member twitching against the fabric of her trousers. It was a perverse kind of arousal, the sort that only hit her when things got messy. She imagined the killer’s hands…steady, precise, and cold…and felt a sudden, sharp heat bloom in her groin. She shifted her hips, fighting the urge to lean against the altar and give herself a discreet rub. It was a professional hazard; Johnny Lingo didn’t just solve crimes, she felt them in her imaginary clit.
“You’re leaking, Miller,” Johnny purred, glancing down at the technician. The man wasn’t just sweating; he was practically vibrating, his eyes glued to the gap in her shirt and the lace of her panties peeked through. Miller looked like he wanted to devour her right there on the consecrated floor. “Careful. If you keep staring like that, the Bishop’s going to get jealous, and he’s already lost enough for one morning.” She let out a small, husky laugh and deliberately arched her back, letting the linen stretch tight across her chest. The tension in the room was thick enough to carve, a cocktail of death and desperate, unspent lust.
Johnny felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat as she shifted her stance, her member pressing firmly against the coarse fabric of her pants. It was a peculiar biological betrayal; the sight of the mutilated genitals in the chalice had triggered something primal and hungry in her. She wondered if the killer had enjoyed the tactile sensation of the skin sliding off the bone, and the thought sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. She shifted her hips with a slow, rhythmic grind, a subtle dance that had Miller leaning in closer, his breath smelling of cheap coffee and sheer panic. He was one more wink away from a heart attack, and Johnny was more than happy to be the cause.
“Stop breathing like a beached whale, Miller,” she whispered, leaning in so her breasts brushed his shoulder. “You’re making the dead man nervous.” She reached down, ostensibly to check the rim of the chalice, but the movement was a calculated glide that accentuated the curve of her waist and the fullness of her chest. She could feel the technician’s eyes tracing the line of her throat down to where her shirt strained against her nipples. It was a game of chicken, and Miller was losing badly. Johnny felt a mischievous thrill; she liked the power of it, the way she could turn a grisly crime scene into a private bedroom just by shifting an inch to the left.
“Would you like to cum cum for Jesus?”
