Category: Celebrity Cameo

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.

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.