She gave me that stare. The one where she

She gave me that stare. The one where she knows that she's in control. The one where I become completely vulnerable. The one where I give up on protesting. She'll get it anyway.

I choked back my emotions and tried to defy her eagle-eyes. It was no use; she knew my crushed soul. I caved and handed her the remote. Ice Truckers switched to Downton Abby.

I went to the kitchen to rustle up a beer & some nachos but got a Crystal Light & a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich instead. Then I tucked in to some knitting. I could feel her gaze

, judging me as I dropped a stitch. If I had my Corona, I could've knit better. I looked back over at her, secretly envious of the doiley she was crotcheting. I hate her. She

made me regret getting expelled from finishing school. I decided to level the odds the only way I knew how. Excusing myself from the crochet circle, I called in a favor

out centerfold pictures of William H. Macy. The Somber Assassin would pick his scalp as he studied the contours of Macy's thick but dehydrated flesh.

This was not what the detective had expected when he opened the shoe box. This was almost to good. He knew it had to be a false trace of crumbs.

He tapped at the walls of the Gingerbread House, they crumbled. Plaster of Paris painted orange! This house was a sham, a mere confection! The Detective opened his noted book &

jotted a personal note. "In re: construction plans for mountain getaway. Scratch PoP as structural material. Nouveau, yes, but fragile. Go with log as originally, more reliable."