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Matt Everrest and the Case of the Shrunken Head


Experimental Member
Aug 14, 2005
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Pittsburg (California, United States)
It was hot in the City and the electricity in my office was on the fritz again. That meant both my desk fan and the ceiling fan were dead as a doornail turning my inner office into a hot box. If I could have been anywhere else I would have been. Unfortunately, I had to meet a client. But, at least they were a paying client and I needed the dough. So, I sat in my office sweating through both my undershirt and dress shirt hoping the job would be short, sweet, and pay like the dickens. I might have considered opening the window in my office and the door to the outer office to create a cross breeze if the sound of Gracie on the phone wasn't like nails on a chalkboard.

Don't get me wrong, Gracie is the best secretary in the world. She was the only person I could stand that could both file and was willing to work for almost nothing. The reason for her charity was well known to me. Her late husband, Duncan, had been my commanding officer during the War. When we were ambushed near the end of the war, I saved his life, but the grenade intended for him hit took out a nearby wall instead. The wall collapsed on top of my lower body pinning me in place. I passed out. When I awoke I had found that we’d been shipped state-side to recover. My recovery was long and hard, but he helped me every step of the way including my 'personal' issue that was a result of my injury.

When he died of prostate cancer two years later, he left everything to Gracie with the request that she 'look after me'. Now by everything, I mean: a sizable fortune, a mansion in Monterrey, a winery up in Napa, and a house here in San Francisco. The house in the city’s foyer could include my whole apartment and the still have room to spare. All in all Gracie was well off for a 26 year old, but for being so young she really acted like a mother hen in regards to me. She was always telling me how to eat, how to dress, and most especially who to date. Since the dating issue was related to my ‘personal’ issue and since I had specifically asked her not to interfere. I believe she continued so she could take perverse pleasure in my embarrassment. But since one of her ‘dating’ contacts sent over the client I was to meet, I couldn't exactly get angry.

My concentration was broken when I heard Gracie hang up the phone. I heard the clacking footsteps of two people then a light series of knocks at the door. The set of knocks Gracie used were our secret system and told me that I should stay seated when the she opened the door for the client. This usually meant that I needed access to my .38 Special that was in a hidden holder under my desk. Needing my gun when meeting a client never boded well in the past. The last time I needed it meeting a client, I had to do a job for Nicky ‘the Nose’ and Sal ‘the Butcher’. That job ended with three state witnesses becoming more well acquainted with the local aquatic wildlife wearing some stylish concrete footwear, after I pieced together the whereabouts of their safe-house. Then the door opened and I about fell out of my chair.

The client was definitely no Nicky ‘the Nose’. In fact she was more of a bustier Rita Hayworth than a Nicky ‘the Nose’ and I mean busty. It seemed as if her bosom wanted out of her blouse badly enough to grow its way out. As she strode across the distance between us it seemed that with every step her blouse would come undone and provide me the view of the life time. And then if on queue my ‘personal’ problem reared its head. At once, I knew exactly why Gracie had suggested I stay seated with our knock code. She is well aware of my ‘personal’ issue and how embarrassing meeting a new client, this client, would have been if I had stood to greet her. Noticing my hesitance to stand, she took a seat across from me and crossed her ankles as Gracie gave me a knowing smile and closed the door.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” she started.

“You’re welcome Ms...”

“Grace. Lauren Grace,” she said extending her hand to me. I ignored it as I was still getting a handle on my ‘personal’ issue and was afraid of standing. She withdrew her hand and glanced to her lap. I thought I seen a smile on her face, but couldn’t be sure.

“And what can I do for you, Ms. Grace?”

“Its my husband,” she continued. It took her a while to speak again. Over the last couple of cases I have learned the benefit of remaining silent. Its quite an amazing thing to remain silent and just read the body language of a person. Sometimes they will say more by not speaking. Right now her body was telling my one thing and her face another. Her body was almost screaming that it needed to be freed of its constricting clothing. Her face revealed that she was extremely embarrassed about telling me her problem with her husband. In my experience, when women are embarrassed by their husbands it is usually because of something stupid their husbands have done. Being a man, I’m amazed sometimes at the idiocy of my own gender. “He’s … um … smaller than he used to be and I want you to find out why.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t that a job for a doctor and not a P.I.?”

“It would be if the doctors weren’t stumped.”

“Again I ask, why do you need a P.I. to figure out why your husband is shorter now than he was?”

“Not shorter. Smaller.” I must have looked perplexed because she quickly continued. “His manhood is smaller.” The confused look on my face caused her to get up in a fluster and go to stand by one of the windows. I waited patiently for her to continue.


Sexy Member
Jun 18, 2005
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Hmmmm, story number 8, the previous 7 you have not finished. I'm not even going to bother reading this because all the other stories you write. You loose interest, stop writing and then start a new story.