Category: Beautiful Babes

Historic Filipinotown

Jonny watched the Packard fishtail down the alley, exhaust coughing like a dying bullfrog, the blonde bombshell behind the wheel shrieking at her sister/daughter/niece/second cousin in that high-strung way that made every vertebra in Jonny’s spine beg for mercy. She’d been nothing but trouble from the moment she waltzed into the agency flashing those baby-blue peepers and waving a retainer check big enough to pave over her neuroses. But it was Jonny’s ex-partner on the force—a tall drink of nitroglycerin whose slow burn around him could’ve been detected by airport security—who made the next move. She raised her service piece for a polite little “stop or I’ll shoot” communiqué… only the communique went rogue, zipped through the dawn haze, and rearranged the dame’s golden noggin into something resembling a seven-layer dip left too long on a picnic table.

When the smoke cleared and the three of them gathered round the wrecked beauty, Jonny felt a jig bubbling inside him like champagne in a thin glass. She’d been a headache, sure, but sweet saints of the city, what a dish. He’d even bragged—loudly and to anyone within earshot—about the time he’d done the horizontal hula with her. Now, with her skull looking like a Jackson Pollock study in red, he couldn’t exactly break into a victory Charleston in front of gawking bystanders clutching their shopping bags and moral expectations. Jonny’s face needed to broadcast “tragic remorse,” but his soul was performing a conga line, and that was a tricky two-step to pull off without coaching.

Luckily, Boris knew his partner’s heart was made of equal parts confetti and ratchet straps, and he’d taken precautions. From the shadows stepped a lone trumpet player—Boris’ doing—blowing a low, mournful note that told Jonny exactly what emotion he ought to paste across his mug. With the horn’s wail guiding him, Jonny mustered up a look of deep, operatic angst while privately debating whether to stream some trashy reality show or the latest Bill Burr standup special on Netflix that night. Boris padded close, laid a steadying paw on his partner’s shoulder, and whispered the words that deepened Jonny’s fake grief just enough to fool the crowd and maybe, just maybe, fool himself.

“Forget it, Jonny… it’s Historic Filipinotown.”

Another Notch in her Bedpost

Boris the pug stood under the flickering streetlamp, his trench coat collar turned up against the chill and his flat little muzzle buried in the evening edition. The headline screamed “KILLER SEDUCTRESS STILL AT LARGE,” and the dago-print ink was still wet enough to smudge on his paw pads. He’d been tracking the story for days—some doll-faced angel of death drifting through the city’s dingiest gin joints, batting her eyelashes at the kind of mugs nature had already punished, then capping them between the peepers the moment they thought they’d hit the jackpot. According to tonight’s sheet, she’d just punched two more one-way tickets to the Great Beyond and slipped clean through the fingers of the boys in blue. Boris felt his tail twitch. A sultry murderess with a taste for hopeless saps? Yeah… that was exactly Jonny’s brand of trouble.

The pug snapped the paper shut and tossed a glance down the boulevard, knowing instinctively his partner was out there somewhere making eyes at the wrong woman. Jonny had a history of tumbling headfirst into a dame’s dimples and asking questions only after the funeral arrangements. Boris could almost smell disaster creeping on the breeze—sweet perfume laced with gunpowder and heartbreak. He broke into a trot, muttering under his breath. If this killer cupcake was half as good at playing the love-and-lead routine as the papers made her sound, Jonny was already on her dance card. And Boris needed to reach him before she decided to end the song with a bang.

Meanwhile, across town inside Jonny’s favorite watering hole—a joint where the barstools leaned like retired prizefighters and the jukebox coughed up sad saxophones—fate was already rolling snake eyes. An angelic devil in high heels sauntered in, all curves, confidence, and the kind of smile priests warn you about. Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Jonny took one look and felt his heart hiccup; she was the most luscious dame he’d clapped eyes on… at least since yesterday afternoon. As he nursed his virgin piña colada and rehearsed a dozen suave greetings he’d never say out loud, she marched straight up to him and purred, “My name’s Brigid. Let’s go back to my place.” Jonny thanked the heavens for his generous slathering of Hai Karate aftershave—liquid courage for the romantically doomed—and in less time than it takes a bartender to blink, he was following her out into the night, utterly unaware he was strolling hand-in-hand with the headline Boris was racing to outrun.

Sleuth School

The Van Nuys Boarding School for Hot Virgin Girls, ages 18 to 22 had been desperate to add a little grit to their spotless campus. So when they started a detective course, they hired the only duo in the Valley whose reputations were bigger than their caseloads: Jonny M. and his pug partner Boris. The moment Jonny walked into the lecture hall in his trench coat and henna-dyed beard, every student sat up straighter. Gidget the All-American surfer, Judi the wholesome blonde triple-threat, Wednesday the gloomy goth who never blinked… they all watched Jonny with a starry-eyed intensity that could melt the varnish off a file cabinet. It wasn’t detective work they were interested in—it was Jonny. Three times their age and dumb as a post, but with a bulge in his wrinkled slacks that was all they could think about.

Boris noticed the way the class hung on Jonny’s every word, sighing at the way he flicked ash from an unlit cigarette or shuffled evidence folders with a weary hero’s grace. The girls couldn’t concentrate worth a nickel, and the syllabus was going down faster than a getaway car on Sepulveda. So Boris, being the brains of the agency and the only one immune to Jonny’s accidental charisma, marched himself into the filing room and dug up a case cold enough to freeze the whole classroom’s hormones where they sat. The unsolved murder of Robert Vestal—a butchered body, a trail of dead-end clues, and a mystery that had gnawed at the agency for months.

Jonny remembered the case like a bad scar: every alley, every witness, every lead that crumbled like cheap chalk. But Boris slapped the file down on the desk and announced to the class that this would be their final exam. Suddenly the room’s dreamy haze sharpened into something electric. The girls straightened in their seats, pencils poised, eyes alert. For the first time they weren’t imagining Jonny as the hero of their perverse daydreams—they were imagining themselves as heroes alongside him. And with Jonny’s grit, Boris’s brains, and a classroom full of would-be investigators hungry to prove themselves, the Robert Vestal case was about to get hotter than it had ever been. They were hunting for a killer waiting to be caught… assuming he didn’t catch the hunters first.

Devil in the Dark

The day broke like any other on the cracked sidewalks of Van Nuys, with Jonny M. up before the sun, pan-searing a pound of Japanese A5 Wagyu for Boris’ breakfast like it was a ritual carved into stone. The aroma drifted through their shabby apartment like a promise life rarely kept. Boris sat at the table in his tailored dog-sized robe, paws folded patiently, looking like a pug monk awaiting enlightenment—if enlightenment came medium-rare. Jonny fetched the mail while the beef rested, thinking only about coffee and the rock-star sparkle of his girlfriend Linda. But stuffed between the bills and ads was a note that froze his blood. A threat, aimed straight at Linda… and at Pussy, Boris’ tomcat dollface. Someone out there wanted vengeance, and they were done playing games.

By the time the Wagyu hit Boris’ bowl, the two detectives were hunched over the letter like archeologists brushing dirt off a curse. The note was unsigned, but the streets whispered names whether they wanted to or not. Johnny Rocco, big boss of the Valley mob, who still held a grudge after Jonny and Boris shut down his numbers racket one summer so hot the sidewalks sweated. Big Tim, Rocco’s muscleman, whose fists were smarter than his brain by a narrow margin. Bro Joe, Jonny’s older and uglier brother whose success as a junior ranger superstar couldn’t dim his jealousy of Jonny’s spotlight that made Cain look like a pacifist. Even “Labin”—the notorious lesbian duo given the moniker by the tabloids—still steamed after Jonny politely turned down their invitation to an “experimental three-way” that would’ve made a sailor blush.

The list of enemies stretched longer than a Van Nuys bar tab on payday, but one thing was clear: whoever wrote that note was aiming for the heart, and they had no qualms pulling the trigger. Jonny folded the paper with the kind of care you give a live grenade. Boris dabbed his jowls with a napkin, eyes sharp, breakfast forgotten. Love was their weak spot, sure—but it was also the reason they fought harder than any hired gun or jealous brother ever could. If someone wanted a war, they’d get one. And Jonny M. and Boris, detective legends and lovers of the dames who’d stolen their hearts, were already lacing up their boots for battle.

Rainy Day Romance

The rain came down like a busted fire hydrant on Ventura Boulevard, turning the night into a shimmering smear of headlights and neon. Jonny M. and Boris had been nursing lukewarm coffee on their fifth hour of stakeout when the sky cracked open and dumped a month’s worth of water on Van Nuys. They sprinted for the nearest shelter—the crooked awning of the Meet Cute Boutique, its pink lettering flickering like a dying heartbeat. By the time they skidded to a stop, Jonny smelled less like a hardboiled detective and more like a wet dog named Boris, and Boris smelled like something that would make a wet dog file a complaint.

Out of the watery haze stepped a vision with long black hair plastered down her back, glasses fogged to milky ovals, and a white tank top and denim shorts soaked so thoroughly they left no secrets to the imagination. She laughed—an easy, musical sound that didn’t belong in a neighborhood where most laughter came in the form of a threat. She introduced herself as Chloé, talking fast and bright, telling Jonny and Boris—though mostly Jonny—about her wild life, her dreams, her disasters, her scrapes with luck both good and bad. Jonny listened like a man hypnotized, nodding along like every word she said was a gospel he’d been waiting to hear. By the time the storm tapered off into a lonely drizzle, he was halfway to picking out baby names.

But Boris… he wasn’t sold. Something tugged at the back of his mind, a splinter of recognition he couldn’t dig out. That night he shook himself dry, curled into his trench-coat nest, and tried to sleep. Instead he bolted awake in a cold sweat, heart pounding like a tom-tom drum in a cheap jazz club. He suddenly knew where he had seen that smiling face framed by long black hair: on a wanted poster thumbtacked to the bulletin board at the station. Chloé. Wanted for murder. And Jonny, poor fool, had fallen headfirst into her story—without once noticing the blood on the last page.

Operating Room Nurse

Happy Operating Room Nurse Day!

Jonny M. didn’t so much arrive at the Van Nuys Hospital emergency room as collapse into it, slumped on a gurney with a head injury that looked like it had been delivered by a choir of sledgehammers. The docs on duty froze like amateurs at a nightclub raid. Only one creature in the Valley had the paws steady enough, the heart cold enough, and the brilliance fierce enough to crack open a skull and make sense of what was inside: Boris the pug, Jonny’s trusted partner in crime-solving and, on nights like this, the only neurosurgeon worth his weight in dog biscuits. With a grim nod and a surgeon’s cap perched between his ears, Boris barked his orders and assembled a surgical team worthy of a miracle.

Boris chose each member of that team with the care of a jewel thief picking which diamonds to pocket. But the operating-room nurse? That poor sucker had to be whichever body was on shift. Tonight it was Jennifer Brooks — the blonde knockout in a white mini-skirt nurse’s uniform who had walked out of her dime-a-dance past and into a profession that still didn’t trust her. The staff whispered about her behind clipboards and coffee cups, but fate didn’t give a hoot about reputations. It had tossed her into the eye of a storm, and Boris needed hands, skilled or not. With no better option, he thrust her into the center of the action.

For the first hour, the surgery glided along like a well-rehearsed ballet, if ballets came with more scalpels and less grace. Boris worked with uncanny precision, his tiny paws moving like lightning. But Van Nuys Hospital had its quirks, and one of them slithered straight out of a wall crevice — a desert rattler, coiled anger and venom. Before anyone could shout, it struck at the nearest warm target under the drape, sinking its fangs into Jonny’s exposed and defenseless grotesquely misshapen wang. The room froze. Even the heart monitor seemed to hold its breath. In this hospital, such incidents were bizarrely routine, but this time the dose of venom was catastrophic.

The team stared at each other, pale and panicked, until the truth dropped like a brick through a skylight. Only one person present had the right training — the real-world, desperate, back-alley experience to drain a tainted taint the old-fashioned, messy way. Jennifer Brooks. She had done things in her former life to survive the nights, things the hospital board would never put in a handbook, but those same nights had taught her how to save a man on the brink. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw set, and in that moment she wasn’t a dismissed dancer or a forgotten blonde — she was the last line between Jonny M. and the long, dark ride home. And she wasn’t about to let him take it.

Bump in the Night

This novel was based on a true story when Hack was sleeping on Jonny and Boris’ couch, only to be awakened from a resounding crash that came from their bedroom. He went to check it out to find them arguing about whether Boris had fallen to the floor after he jumped out of Jonny’s hands when he was trying to help him down so he could pee, or whether Jonny has pushed him. The incident was forgotten the next day, save for this manuscript that Hack had cranked out after the pair went back to sleep.

The night was black as spilled ink, and the only sound in the room was the lazy rattle of the ceiling fan until Boris the pug started up his usual whimper. Jonny M., the eternal wreck of a man, stirred under his threadbare blanket, cursing softly at the ceiling. “You again?” he muttered, voice thick as the whiskey fumes clinging to his pillow. The little mutt needed to pee — he always did around this cursed hour. With a sigh that could have curdled milk, Jonny reached down, his hands trembling like a man holding dynamite with a short fuse. He scooped Boris up, the way he’d done a thousand nights before, trying not to think about how the dog had more control over his life than any dame ever did.

But this time was different. The pug squirmed, slick and stubborn, twisting out of Jonny’s grasp like a greased eel. Before Jonny could catch him, Boris slipped, hit the floor with a sound that made Jonny’s stomach twist. Thud. The kind of sound you don’t forget. “For crying out loud, Boris!” Jonny barked, flipping on the lamp. The light stabbed through the shadows, catching the little dog lying there like he’d been clipped by a freight train. Jonny knelt down, heart pounding, and snarled, “That’s what you get for jumping, you dumb mutt.” But the pug’s glazed eyes blinked once, twice — and then narrowed in accusation.

“You pushed me,” Boris said, voice rough as gravel dragged across the truth. Jonny froze, his blood turning to cold soup. A talking pug was trouble enough, but a talking pug calling you a killer — that was another kind of nightmare. “Don’t play innocent, Jonny boy,” Boris growled, struggling to his stubby feet. “You been looking for an easy out ever since Linda started asking questions.” Jonny’s head snapped toward the bed — Linda, her black curls like a halo of deceit, was still there, breathing steadily. Asleep. Or maybe pretending. The city was full of lies, and the biggest one might’ve been lying right next to him.

The Trim Machine.

Jonny M. was the kind of guy who made women flinch without knowing why. Something about the way he smiled—too wide, too needy, like a man selling counterfeit charm in a cheap suit. His best and only friend was Boris, a squat little pug with the brain of a physicist and the patience of a saint. Jonny lived off instant coffee and failed pickup lines while Boris tinkered in their dingy Van Nuys garage with glowing tubes, copper coils, and theories that would’ve made Einstein sweat. Nobody thought much of the pair—one too dumb, the other too furry—but that night, when Boris’s machine began to hum like a choir of dying angels, the air split open like a cheap dime novel cliché—and sucked them both in.

When Jonny came to, the world had changed. The smog of Van Nuys was gone, replaced by a city skyline that gleamed like chrome and sin. His reflection in a mirrored tower made him gasp—his skin smooth, jawline sharp, eyes glinting like he knew what he was doing. The first woman he met nearly fainted when he smiled; the second one followed him down the street without a word. Jonny M., the guy who couldn’t score a phone number if he’d mugged Ma Bell herself, had become a walking fantasy. Boris, puffing and panting beside him, adjusted his tiny lab coat and said in his gravelly voice, “Looks like the wormhole did some editing.”

Jonny took to this new world like a rat to whiskey. Nightclubs welcomed him with open arms and low-cut dresses, and the air smelled of perfume and bad intentions. But beneath the glamour, Boris knew something was off—the women’s laughter echoed a beat too long, their eyes shimmered like mirrors, and every corner of the city hummed with that same low frequency as the wormhole machine. Jonny didn’t care; he was too busy basking in a life he’d never earned. But as the pug scientist watched his friend drown in charm and illusion, he began to suspect the truth: this wasn’t paradise—it was the punchline to a cosmic joke, and Jonny M. was still the fool in the middle of it.