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   Chapter 12 No.12

Dead Man’s Hammer By Christina Engela Characters: 6160

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:02

"As you say, Mister Farrow" She said. "It's none of my business."

"You know, " He said, still undeterred, "I still don't know your name. Or your beautiful face."

The beautiful face beneath the mask, which in a sense was really only another mask, smiled seductively.

"That's the only reason you're still breathing, Mister Farrow." The voice purred.

Yes, and he would like very much to keep it that way. Survival instinct was tugging furiously at his sleeve.

"You're not exactly what I expected." He said, straining to make conversation with what he was still trying to classify somewhat unsuccessfully as an employee. Of sorts. Or perhaps an equal? A kindred spirit perhaps? She leaned in closer to him, in order to be heard more distinctly over the moderate noise in the room.

"Were you expecting someone taller, perhaps a blond – perhaps a waif wearing tight black latex, who would come flouncing up to you, holding a handgun with a loooong, delicate looking silencer on the end, and who would introduce herself by saying: 'Good evening, Mister Farrow – my name is Evelyn Smith and I will be your assassin this evening'?"

"You are indeed a fascinating woman, Ms. – uh, Smith." He chuckled, utterly enchanted in the way that some people find themselves wondering what snake venom tasted like and if it went well with sherry or port. Ms. Smith gave no reply, she just sipped her wine. Silence can also be an answer.

Farrow, growing slightly uncomfortable and fidgety, finally realized that although he could probably charm or buy his way into the undergarments of any woman there (and probably some of the men as well), with her he stood no chance whatsoever. It came as a hard lesson to him that he might, perhaps, be completely out of his league – and out of his depth, with her. He hadn't become a billionaire by the seat

ough. She just didn't care.

Sleep stalked her, and she drifted off once or twice while sitting in an armchair in the lounge. The local TV net news channels had picked up on the story and were drawing the most they could get out of it. Gary Beck this, Beck the Badfeller that. She supposed her phone answering service was jammed up with interview requests from newshounds clamoring to speak to the love interest of Deanna's best. It sickened her to her core. She changed channels. Wall-to-wall weather 24-7. Yippee. The economics channel had a feature on the local farms and the red-horned wildebeest industry. The funny faced, rectangular cattle had been designed and bred in a genetics lab to be the ultimate livestock. They were supposed to be good for meat and skins (if you didn't mind 90 degree steaks). The milk breed was called milk cartons because of their peculiarly rectangular shape, which made packing the creatures into the back of a truck much easier. What they weren't good at was balance. They were slightly top heavy on their four thin little legs, and often fell over. And yes, they had cute little red horns. She'd never seen so much crap in one place before – and that was just in the field on the screen.

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