Category: Beautiful Babes

The Pug of the Baskervilles

Jonny and Boris pushed through the warped oak door of the Portly Pug, boots and paws dragging half the road in with them, the stink of travel still hanging off their coats like bad decisions. Sir Henry was nowhere to be seen, which told Jonny everything he needed to know about the night ahead. He went straight to the bar, elbows down, eyes up. “Room for the evening,” he said, voice flat as a dead river. “For me and my pug. Indoor plumbing if you’ve got the luxury.” The barkeep looked Boris up and down like he was appraising spoiled meat and snorted. “You’re welcome enough, sir,” he said, polishing a glass that would never be clean, “but that animal’ll have to sleep in the next county—assuming he makes it that far.” It was usually Jonny who got turned away on sight, but Boris didn’t blink. He calmly laid down more cash than the place had seen since the last war. “And what does that buy us?” the pug asked. The barkeep barely glanced at it. “Two pints,” he said. “Before you move on.”

They took their ales to the darkest corner, where the light went to die and the locals watched them like a slow fuse burning. Boris slid on his brass knuckles under the table, smooth and quiet, preparing for the kind of hospitality that left bruises. That’s when a voice cut through the tension like a razor through fog. “Don’t mind them,” it said. “They’re just superstitious.” They turned to see Lisa the barmaid, the only soft thing in the room, looking at Jonny like he was the answer to a question she’d been asking all her life. “They grew up on stories,” she said. “Tales of a monster. So when your little friend walked in, they thought the devil had finally clocked in for a pint.” Jonny frowned. Boris cocked an ear. “What monster?” the pug asked. Lisa blinked, genuinely surprised. “Why,” she said, lowering her voice, “the legendary pug of the Baskervilles.”

Death on the L.A. River

Christmas Eve in the City of the Angels came in hot and mean, ninety-five degrees and not a cloud dumb enough to offer mercy. The sun baked the concrete scar of the L.A. River basin until it shimmered like a bad alibi, a waterless waterway where careers went to rot. Officer Jane Law walked her beat through the heat haze, boots crunching grit and regret, every step a reminder of why she’d been exiled to this bone-dry purgatory. She’d followed a money trail too clean to be coincidence, too dirty to be legal, and it had led straight to the department’s polished brass shaking hands with mob grease. That kind of curiosity didn’t get you medals—it got you forgotten. She knew the only way out was something spectacular, the kind of mess nobody could ignore. That’s when she saw it a hundred yards ahead: a body sprawled like yesterday’s news, a knife standing proud in his chest, waiting for some lucky flatfoot to make sense of how Christmas had come early for one poor bastard.

By the book, she’d call it in and let the forensics boys do what they did best—muddy the water, lose the evidence, ship the stiff to the wrong slab so any future collar would walk on a technicality. But Jane wasn’t interested in losing this one. If she was going to climb out of the riverbed, she needed the only scientific mind in town sharp enough to read a corpse like a confession: Boris the pug. And Boris didn’t come alone. He came with Jonny M.—the one man who’d ever cracked her armor, whose touch could still turn her ice-cold blood into something reckless and alive. Jane scanned the empty stretch of concrete, heat waves dancing like ghosts, and knew there was no other play. She fished out her phone, dialed the operator, and swallowed hard before saying the last words she ever thought she’d say: “Connect me with the Jonny & Boris Detective Agency.”

When I’m 64

The monthly meeting of the Jonny Pals came to order the way all bad ideas do—too late and with a hangover. Smoke hung in the room like a guilty conscience while Bro Joe banged a chipped coffee mug against the folding table and cleared his throat like he was calling witnesses to the stand. “It’s December,” he said, squinting under the flickering light, “and that means Jonny’s birthday is coming up.” The legendary Junior Ranger leaned back in his chair and sneered. “How old’s the moron gonna be this year? 35? 36?” Rosie De Candia, the recording secretary, thumbed through her almanac like it was a police blotter and froze. Her eyes went wide. “64,” she said. The room went quiet. “That can’t be right. Have you seen the way that guy eats? I had 28 in the Death Pool and nearly choked when he blew past that. Anybody got him older than 64?”

They took a poll, the kind that ends friendships, and the verdict was unanimous: Jonny had outlived every reasonable expectation. “Well, shit,” Bro Joe muttered, letting his eyes drift where they weren’t welcome, toward the gorgeous Davida Bourland, who stared straight through him like he was already dead—something that had become fashionable after the Washington Post ran that unforgettable list of his accumulated STDs five years back. “This changes things,” he said. “I was banking on Jonny checking out so I could inherit his fortune and square up with the mob.” He spat on the floor and shrugged. “Turns out Boris has the money, and he hates my guts. So instead of cursing Jonny’s longevity like a bad rash, we’re gonna celebrate it.” He cracked a crooked grin. “This year, we throw a party to end all parties. If he won’t die, we might as well drink to it.”

Murder in the Doritory

Before Boris could answer, there was a sharp rap on the dorm room door. He and Jonny quickly threw on their wigs and long nightgowns and gave each other the thumbs up that they could safely pass for their female alter egos “Jonna” and “Boreen’” The pug opened the door to find Chloé, the bespectacled brunette who had bonded with Jonna, shivering at the door wrapped in only a small bath towel.

“With all the murders going on in the dormitory,” she said to Boris, “I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. Is it alright if I sleep with Jonna?” Then she turned to Jonny. “But I forgot to bring my nightie from the murder room, so I’ll have to cuddle up to you in the nude. Is that okay?”

Boris shot Jonny a concerned look. This would be crossing a serious ethical line, but by refusing her they might lose her hard-earned trust. But before the pug could say anything, his partner was already in bed, raising a corner of the blanket that beckoned the scantily clad beauty to join her confidante.

“Hop in,” said Jonna with a puzzling wolf-like grin.