Category: Cadaver

Career Opportuntitties

Hack noticed a lot of AI-generated parodies of the iconic scene from the 1991 teen flick Career Opportunities in which Jennifer Connelly seductively rides a coin-operated rocking horse (which is the only memorable thing about the stupid movie), so he wrote this ripoff novel around it. It’s surprisingly much better than the movie.

Jonny & Boris Meet Hack Werker

Nobody in Van Nuys was surprised when Robert Vestal was found dead on his living room floor one lazy Monday morning.

The discovery was made by his housekeeper, who had been working for Vestal long enough to know two things about the man: first, he was rich, and second, he was widely hated. Vestal had spent a lifetime double-crossing every two-bit hood in town and breaking the hearts of every floozy who had ever been foolish enough to trust him. By the time he finally caught a bullet, most people in the city figured it was simply the bill coming due.

What was surprising was what happened afterward.

Jonny and Boris of the Jonny & Boris Detective Agency soon learned that Vestal had anticipated his own violent end. In a final gesture that was equal parts arrogance and gallows humor, the crooked financier had set aside a tidy sum in his will for the two detectives—on the condition that they bring his “inevitable murderer, whoever it turns out to be,” to justice.

It sounded simple enough.

The trouble was that everyone in Van Nuys had a motive.

Vestal had cheated gamblers, swindled businessmen, blackmailed politicians, and jilted more women than a traveling magician. Half the town had wanted him dead, and the other half would have happily held his coat while someone else did the job.

Somewhere in that crowd was the killer.

But only one of them had pulled the trigger.

“I don’t have a clue,” Boris admitted, which was a rare confession for the sharp-witted pug detective. “Everyone in this berg hated Vestal’s guts, including you and me. How are we supposed to narrow down the list of suspects?”

Jonny leaned back in his chair and stared gloomily at the ceiling.

“This whole thing reminds me of one of those terrible detective novels,” he muttered. “You know the kind. Written by that awful pulp fiction writer. I forget his name…”

“Hack Werker?” suggested Boris, who was the more well-read of the two partners.

“That’s him!” Jonny snapped. “He writes those idiotic mysteries where you don’t know who the killer is until the last five pages. Then suddenly it turns out to be some minor character who wasn’t even introduced until the end of the book.”

Boris nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, those are pretty bad.”

Jonny sighed.

“I’ll bet HE could figure out the ending to this ridiculous plot.”

For a moment the office fell silent.

Jonny looked at Boris.

Boris looked at Jonny.

Then, as if by some mysterious act of detective inspiration, identical light bulbs seemed to flick on above both their heads.

“Hack Werker lives in an old van parked behind the Shakey’s Pizza Parlor on Laurel Canyon Boulevard,” Boris said, already reaching for his fedora.

Jonny raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a long shot.”

Boris settled the hat firmly between his ears and headed for the door.

“Partner,” he said, “this case is ridiculous enough to call for desperate measures.”

He paused at the doorway and grinned.

“Besides,” the pug added, “I’ve got a powerful craving for greasy pizza and mojo potatoes.”

And with that, the two detectives set off to consult the one man in Van Nuys who might know how their strange mystery was supposed to end.

The Bonus

The crowd already knew how the cards were stacked. Still, the applause hit like a freight train when Johnny Rocco — the silk-suited emperor of Van Nuys — cracked open the envelope and read the name inside.

“Big Tim.”

Flashbulbs popped. Cigars glowed. Somewhere in the back, a trumpet wailed like it had a gambling problem.

The giant Neanderthal lumbered to the stage, all shoulders and menace, and accepted a solid gold bust of his own ugly mug like it was a communion wafer. Rocco draped an arm around him, smiling the kind of smile that never reached his eyes.

“N’yeah, see?” Rocco purred into the mic. “You’ve earned yourself a little reward. Any dame in Van Nuys. Name it.”

It was a tradition — a greasy ritual that had followed every Mobster of the Year for two decades. Usually, the winner picked some unlucky trollop who was working off her father’s gambling debt at one of the mob’s brothels. Easy. Predictable. Disposable.

But Big Tim didn’t play by anyone’s script.

He reached into his coat and held up an album cover — “Hasten Down the Wind.” His thick finger jabbed at the woman on the sleeve.

“Her,” he grunted.

The room went colder than a morgue drawer.

Linda.

Jonny M.’s girl. Off-limits. Untouchable. The kind of name that made wiseguys suddenly interested in their shoes.

Rocco’s grin froze, but he kept his voice smooth as aged bourbon. “You got taste, kid. Real class. But Linda’s a closed book. How about a sweet little nineteen-year-old redhead workin’ off her ma’s bar tab down at the Erwin Street cathouse?”

Tim’s eyes turned reptilian — the kind of stare usually only saw in National Geographic specials on Nile crocodiles. He shoved the album cover inches from Rocco’s nose.

“HER.”

Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked. Half the room calculated the distance to the exits, expecting the air to fill with hot lead any second.

But Rocco didn’t flinch. He studied the cover like a man reading tomorrow’s headlines, then let out a slow, wicked chuckle that slithered through the crowd.

“Well,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “looks like it’s gonna be her.”

He leaned closer, eyes glittering with bad ideas.

“Now let’s figure out how we make that happen.”