Hustlers Of Mink

“Shunting fallacy is your goal, pal. Suckle the mild tobacco-flavored kid gloves that were just fingering your wife, and are now currently feeding you.”

“But detective… I’m a naive, young, hard-bodied coed! I don’t have a wife.”

“Shut up. You’ll have as I tell you to have. Nature is the only law here. That’s why I currently have… an erection.”

“Oh my god! It’s so inessential to the plot of this blog post!”

“That’s right. It’s also really big.”

“Like… like the bear that’s chasing us through the woods right now, because we have been having this conversation while sprinting through the Adirondacks and the author has been too lazy to write details, so he’s just using exposition to fill the reader in?”

“That’s fucking right, honey.”

“Honey?! What, did Ian Mackaye write your dialogue?”

“You mean Ian McKellan.”

“No, the guy who wrote the James Bond books.”

“Ian Fleming. You mean Ian Fleming.”

“Yeah! Ian Fleming. Casino Royale, etc.”

“Yeah, he’s great. Really simple, but still kind of Hard-Boiled,  you know? Like, if Mickey Spillane were to be British, debonair, and possessed of some charm.”

“I don’t know what’s really all that charming about Ian Fleming, though. He basically was the originator of modern self-insertion.”

“I see Bond more as a tragic figure, actually. Talk about desperation: he loses his wife, drowns his sorrow in drink, and is unable to forge any authentic emotional bonds with real, available women? The only true joy and happiness he feels is through violence and danger. Sounds like pretty dire tragedy through-an’-through ta’ me.”

“Wait, which one are you, again? The detective, or the love interest?”

“Fuck off, now. I’m a chimneysweep.”