Category: Romance

Revenge of the Monday

Sunday bled out slow and sour at Casa de Jonny, like cheap liquor seeping into an expensive rug. Jonny, Linda, Boris, and Pussy lounged in obscene comfort while Pinion the butler performed the last rites of Christmas—stripping the tree bare, needles biting through his tuxedo trousers, sap clinging to him like a bad memory. He dragged the dead pine half a mile downhill to the dumpster, its branches clawing the pavement in protest, before returning to serve Champagne, catnip, and pug food with hands that still smelled of resin and defeat. Inside, the air was warm and golden, heavy with luxury and self-satisfaction. Outside, something watched. Pinion felt it in his spine, a cold finger tracing tomorrow’s date.

They ate like royalty on the edge of a cliff. Lobster tails flew, laughter cracked, bubbles hissed in crystal flutes as Boris snorted happily and Pussy rolled in narcotic bliss. Pinion’s unease earned him nothing but mockery. “There’s nothing out there, Pinion, you idiot,” Jonny sneered, beauty and cruelty sharing the same smile. “Go get us another bottle of Moët & Chandon Imperial Vintage 1946 from the wine cellar.” As the butler turned away, dignity straightened but fear stayed hunched, he caught it again—a hideous green blob skittering behind a cypress, moving wrong, like a thought that shouldn’t exist. He nodded and obeyed, because that’s what servants do when the world pretends it’s safe.

The cellar steps groaned beneath Pinion’s shoes, each one a countdown tick he could almost hear. He knew then what Jonny didn’t: looks, brains and excessively large penises don’t stop Mondays. They arrive anyway, wet and hungry, dragging the week behind them like a corpse. The green thing outside wasn’t just flesh—it was inevitability, slime wrapped around the calendar. Pinion tightened his grip on the bottle and squared his shoulders in the dark, alone with the wine and the truth. If anyone was going to slow the dread creeping toward Casa de Jonny, it wouldn’t be the laughing gods upstairs. It would be the butler with pine needles in his cuffs, standing between Sunday and the thing that came next.

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.