I'm not sure when I got a partner, but I'm sure of when I lost my partner. It's written down in my writer's notebook app.
Ugh, fashion week and now this? Murdered partner. Genderfucked Hitler Interactive Exhibit at MOMA. GOOD BLOOG POST? 8:28 PM. Saturday.
K.M. Agincourt was dead and I would never have a chance to be his friend on Facebook. Before all his blood came out he was tanned, liked to play softball and he always wore bowling shirts. I remember him because he also wore these weird jeans that would get folds around the knees sometimes. What was that about? He tried to tell me something once while I was writing a Yelp review of that Sherpa restaurant on my phone. Something about being a cop or being a Navy SEAL.
Oh, I remember, it was when Navy SEALs killed Osama Bin Laden. God, that was at least 500 years ago already.
Oh, well, no more interruptions, because K.M. was lying in a pool of blood at the feet of a rhinestone jeweled statue of what the fuhrer might look like after hormone treatments. Huge tits. With the crowd of fashion weekers it was only a matter of time before somebody happened upon my partner. An Afro-Israeli designer known for his trademark of high-glam ox yokes for women found the body. X-Benedict called the police. The police called me to the crime scene.
There were no clues. No leads. No witnesses. My partner was shot in the head with a single bullet from a Luger. A gay Luger? No, just a regular one, the gay Luger was still in its case, I noticed as 3D cameras projected a zwinky of my frowning face onto the piled bodies of a concentration camp stereogram.
"Don't leave town," warned Sergeant Majors. I took a picture of him for my lame shirts tumblr and departed. On my way out I noticed they had ten kinds of chai in the vending machines so I stopped to nurse my saffron addiction.
"Allo American. You are the crime man and I need your help to detective," said a man behind me. He had a Peter Lorre sort of voice that came prowling out of the Celluloid Closet. I couldn't place the accent.
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