Tag Archives: liver

191. Ain’t worth shit

“Ain’t worth shit,” the pawnbroker tells me, ogling the ring with disdain.

It’s a big blow. I need the money.

“My grandmother bequeathed it to me,” I plead.

“Then she bequeathed you a piece of junk. See this? Lead. And this? Glass. Worthless.”

He bounces the ring across the counter and gives me an annoyed look.

“Got anything else?”

I search my pockets , desperately trying to find something worthwhile but all I come up with is lint. The pawnbroker is already diverting his attention elsewhere, when I play my trump card.

“How about my liver?”

I’ve got his attention now.

“Don’t be daft,” he snarks.

So I show him the morning paper. The headline reads: ‘Liver donors at an all-time low’. The pawnbroker is clearly intrigued now.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I need the money. How much would my liver fetch?”

The pawnbroker gives me the up and down.

“One minute.”

He scurries off to the back room to make a call. I catch parts of it, but most of his conversation remains muffled. All I can definitely make out is that he is taking my offer seriously.

“I can offer you seven thousand,” he says when he returns, and that’s all he says.

“I’m 27 and haven’t drunk a drop of alcohol in my life,” I raise.

“Seven thousand. It’s that or nothing,” he calls my bluff.

He leaves me no choice. We shake hands.

“So when does the surgeon arrive?” I ask. “I was hoping to take a punt at the 3:15 at Chepstow.”

“You’re in luck,” the pawnbroker tells me, digging up a steak knife from under the counter. “He’s already in.”

 

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Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

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179. One dead body, two dozen suspects

One dead body, two dozen suspects and nearly all of them had a seemingly solid alibi. That was the daunting task facing detective Wanda Dinklage on a typically gloomy Friday afternoon in Anchorage, Alaska.

The victim was Gerald Ottenburgh, renowned for showing up at restaurants, ordering the pricy five course menu, eating it and then leaving before the bill hit the table. He was the most hated person in the local restaurateur business and therefore it was no big surprise to find him in a pool of his own blood, a meat cleaver adorning his chest.

Detective Dinklage had questioned every restaurant owner in the greater Anchorage area. Raymond Blancneige, the explosive Michelin-starred chef at Pure, but also fish-and-chips honcho Simon Codd and Zhara Wong, the Asian fusion cook who had taken Alaska by storm. But the detective was most suspicious about Calvin Pront, who had a known temper and had only last week been the victim of an Ottenburgh visit.

“Here,” the chef said, ignoring detective Dinklage’s questions on her visit to the restaurant and shoving a plate her way. “Tell me what you think.”

Detective Dinklage had a bite. It tasted divine. Better than anything she’d ever eaten, actually.

“Amazing”, was all she could utter, before taking another spoonful. “What is it?”

At the morgue, the coroner picked up the phone to tell detective Dinklage that Gerald Ottenburgh’s body no longer contained a liver.

 

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Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

Available at the Createspace Store, at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk or any other Amazon store in your territory.  E-book is also available.

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