by Lotta Smith
Archangel said. “I’m going to revise your contract because you’ve just earned a 20% base salary raise.”
“Did I?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Yup, Sherlock, congratulations,” he patted my back. “Anyway, you did a semi-descent job to nail the killer. I’m sure that burn hurts more than any other penalty such as death.” With a suppressed grin, he added somewhat teasingly but I didn’t miss the hidden sincerity. “I’m proud of you.”
Instead of muttering “Gosh, I should have asked for a 50% raise rather than a 20%,” I clung onto him in a bear hug. “Mr. Archangel, it was a pure, dumb luck and you know what, I should have been dead if it was not your B&E. Thank you again for coming!” I said in a muffled voice.
“OK, you can hug me for two more seconds. One, two. Now, time’s up.” He said, but I clung to him for several more seconds. Just the heat and the feel of him, and the subtle scent of Higher Energy reminded me I was alive. And feeling the aliveness flashed back the very possibility I could have been dead already.
“Let’s go,” Archangel said.
As I ripped myself off from him with a good amount of restraint, he shook the left leg as if to shed off the kinks. But as soon as he stepped on it, he lost the balance.
“Damn it,” he groaned, trying to maintain the balance.
I scurried myself on his way to prevent him from falling. “Mr. Archangel, you’re hurt!”
“I’m good. It’s just the foot happens to be asleep.” He tried to keep walking, but as soon as the left leg touched the ground, he gasped.
Slipping myself underneath his arm, I helped him to the car and opened the passenger side door. “Have a seat. You need to sit down.”
“Thanks,” he groaned as he sat down on the passenger seat. “Okay, let’s go home.”
“Hey, let me take a look at your leg,” keeping the car door open, I crouched.
“I don’t think so,” he tried to pull back but I took off the boot and the sock anyway. “Yow!” he cringed. “Easy, that hurt!”
“Oh-oh.” I muttered.
“What oh-oh?” I could hear him grimacing without looking up.
“I think it’s broken.” I mentioned, looking at his swollen ankle and then up at his face.
“You’re joking.” He gnawed on his lower lip. “And that’s not even funny. Where’s the punchline?”
“Seriously, look at your ankle. I can’t believe you’ve been walking on this for hours.”
Indeed, it was unbelievable that such a huge ankle had been kept within the limited space of a boot. The whole foot was swollen with a baseball-sized knot forming on the outer side of the ankle. Besides that, his leg was turning reddish purple.
“It’s broken,” I said again.
“Hey, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Archangel insisted. “So I might have twisted it a teensy bit in a funny way. But hey, it’s just a sprain and walking it off is the best rehab for that.” Gasping through gritted teeth, he deliberately avoided seeing the battered leg. Now reflecting the interior light, he was getting even paler.
“It’s as bad as it looks, if nothing else, it might be worse than it looks. You can’t just walk it off. Seriously, you need to see a doctor immediately.” I declared. “I’ve never seen such clear textile patterns printed on a leg. Remember, Karen was telling you to watch your step? She also told you don’t want a broken leg, gosh, she saw it all coming in her vision. You know, that the girl sees visions, right?”
“Come on, so Karen sees visions and she was right about the killer but that doesn’t mean her visions are 100% accurate. And it’s not like I have a heart attack or anything serious. Besides that, did you know the hospital’s full of sick people with lots of germs and cooties? I don’t want to catch anything contagious.”
“Hello? You had no problem visiting a hospital in London.” I pointed out, sprinkling the towel handkerchief with the bottled water. “A broken leg is a serious injury.”
“Visiting a London hospital was just work and…ouch!” He sucked in air when I put the cold compress on his swollen ankle.
“Can you wiggle your toes?” I asked.
“Of course.” He took a deep breath.
“Your toes are not wiggling.”
“You missed it. Just look carefully.” The toes moved, only slightly.
“Oh, that’s more like a twitch,” I commented.
“Seriously, it’s just a sprain. An icepack will do an overnight magic and the next morning, my leg will be good as new. After all, it shouldn’t be broken. Look, I was walking without problems. If it’s really broken, I wouldn’t be able to walk on it, right?” he was talking as if he was trying to convince himself, not me.
“For your information, you were not walking very well. If it makes a difference.” I pointed out.
It was amusing that someone who’s capable of tracking a killer without information such as residential address can be so blind when his own health is concerned.
“Come on, I’ve never broken a single bone. Not even once.”
“There’s a first time for everything, so why don’t we check it out with technology like X-ray?” I suggested. “Then we’d know who guessed it right.”
“I’m beginning to think being concerned about you might have been the stupidest mistake that I’ve ever committed.” He muttered under his breath.
“So you admit you care for me. That’s sweet. Thank you,” I said, settled myself on the driver’s seat, took the ancient phone out of the purse, and speed-dialed one of the ex-faux-dads who was the professor of orthopedics at a prestigious medical school. He picked up my call on the second ring.
“Hello, this is Kelly, your ex-faux-daughter. How have you been? Oh, that’s great. Mom’s just fine. Yes, happily remarried to a count of Scotland. Of course, I’ll send her your love, sure. By the way, I need a very good orthopedic surgeon who specializes foot-and-ankle injuries in the D.C. vicinity, immediately. No, I’m totally unhurt and well but my employer needs immediate medical attention. Thank you so much for asking. Right now, we’re in Lake Ridge, Virginia but he’s based in McLean. Yes, swollen with a baseball-sized knot, and very painful. An ice bag? Oh yes, I’ll buy that and ice the leg on the way. Yes, I’ll keep him comfortable. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
By the time I had arranged a rendezvous with a hotshot foot-and-ankle specialist at a medical center close to Archangel’s home, he was audibly cursing. Still, as I started the car he was leaning on my shoulder, letting me hold his weight.
“Trust me, it’ll turn out nothing serious. And with making such a big fuss and all, you’ll make a fool of us.” He muttered.
“Speaking of a trust, I completely trusted that you’ll come and prevent the killer from killing me all the while I was there. Maybe it’s your turn to trust me.” I mentioned.
He snorted, but didn’t complain further and I took it as a good sign.
Chapter 42
EXCLUSIVE! – Kelly Kinki Strikes AGAIN, Whacks a Serial Killer with her Godzilla Breath (as in, literally)
By Sebastian McDonnel
The Daily Holler
Washington D.C.—America’s got Kim Kardashian, but mind you, don’t forget we’ve got a K.K. of our own by the name of Kelly Kinki. The fire-breathing, short-tempered former wife of Britain’s most notorious swindler Warren Barnadoff Estevez, with nicknames such as Vicious B**** and Dragon Lady, and the only daughter of Lady Yoko—the countess of Scottsdaleshire—who’s got heavier punches than that of Mike Tyson’s. Yes, that’s the Kelly.
Before KimK had even started cameo roles on Paris Hilton’s Simple Life across the Pond, our K.K. was already rocking the world (at least, she shocked the whole Great Britain) with her rapid-fire f-bombs and signature dragon breath.
Just recently, Kelly has re-emerged from a long hiatus and finally, she’s back in action! This time, she is armed with hand sanitizer and extremely dangerous. So, beware. Don’t even think about crossing her path. As we already know, she can be pretty fierc
e.
For the past several weeks, Washington D.C. metro and its neighboring areas were terrified by Eyeball Snatcher the serial killer, who had allegedly murdered at least 3 women and a fetus by poking the eyeballs out of the victims while they were still alive. It is assumed that there were more casualties.
FBI had initially concluded Frederick Reynolds—an American musician who was previously found dead in his own studio with a suicide note and the murder weapon—to be the culprit. But on Wednesday night, FBI suddenly released a statement that Alan Hamilton, a 37-year-old antique shop owner of Lake Ridge, Virginia, was arrested for eyeball snatching murders, killing Reynolds, and kidnapping two women including our Kelly.
In the statement, Hamilton had allegedly murdered three women; including a dancer, a travel & lifestyle writer, a pregnant local coroner, and her fetus. Then he went on poisoning Yves to death and slipped a prearranged suicide note to frame the musician for all his crimes, attempting to manipulate the investigation process. He had almost succeeded except for one mistake: capturing our Dragon Lady to poke her eyeballs out. A big mistake.
As soon as the FBI had declared the closure of Eyeball Snatcher cases, Hamilton went on to snatch Kelly to poke the eyeballs out of her, just like he did to other victims.
Meanwhile being a captive in Hamilton’s basement, Kelly breathed fire, in a desperate attempt to avoid losing her eyeballs and getting killed. And she breathed fire a la Godzilla manner. She used hand sanitizer liquid and candles to do the trick, and torched the notorious Eyeball Snatcher like a petroleum-soaked toilet paper.
Hamilton, who was wearing fleece at the time of Kelly’s Godzilla moment had sustained second to third degree burns over 40% of his body surface area. He is currently hospitalized in ICU of an undisclosed hospital. In plain English, he is placed under maximum security and we honestly hope so, for the sake of the Americans.
Five pairs of eyeballs were recovered from Hamilton’s place. Forensic tests showed that four pairs of them were taken from the murdered women and the fetus, and another came from Hamilton’s own estranged mother who died in London. Hamilton is also under investigation for the “accidental” death of his adoptive parents in Florida 15 years ago and several missing children and cases and “accidents” that had occurred in Virginia 20 years ago.
Karen Andrews, a local student and another abductee was found safe and unharmed at Hamilton’s place. She was admitted to Georgetown University Hospital for checkup but is expected to be released soon with a full health clearance.
Yesterday, Michael Archangel—a Virginia private investigator and Kelly’s employer, who had earlier kicked and smashed our camera to bits—was photographed hobbling out of his McLean home on crutches sporting a cast on his leg.
Detailed information regarding his injury has not been disclosed yet, but according to Emily Farrel, an FBI spokesperson, the P.I. sustained an injury while helping the FBI raid the place as a consultant. Farrel denied the alleged cancellation of consulting contract with Archangel as “false and ungrounded.”
Neither Kelly nor Archangel returned our emails for more detail regarding the case, incident, and the current situation.
Here is life lesson de jour: 1. What goes around comes around, 2. Never, ever make Kelly angry, and 3. Wearing fleece while cooking may be hazardous for your health.
* * *
It was a lovely afternoon. The weather was sunny without even a sign of a cloud, the temperature was just right, and in the garden, azaleas were blooming.
One week had passed and so had post burning-Eyeball-Snatcher-to-near-death frenzy. Except for the same old ugly photo of yours truly (imported from England) that kept on popping on the corner of every internet page, tabloid, 12 o’clock news, and late night talk shows to be handled as the current butt of jokes, my life had pretty much returned to normal, and I was mostly happy about it.
Still, there were times when you had to play it hard. Especially when a certain gutless, cojoneless, shameless FBI Advisory Special Agent had appeared at my workplace (and temporary residence) doorstep without notice.
“How may I help you?” I asked in an icy tone to Richard Henderson, who was standing in the foyer, looking uncomfortable.
“Hello, Ms. K. Well, I thought I’d just drop by, meet Archangel and…” He said in a half-confused, half-scared tone.
“And?” I pressed without a slightest hint of a smile. I wasn’t going to let him in so easily.
“And meet you, of course!” he chuckled awkwardly, but I gave him a blank stare.
“Do you have an appointment? If you don’t have an appointment, I have to check with his schedule,” I continued in the same icy tone until Archangel interjected.
“Hey, cut him some slack, Kelly. He’s worked hard to revoke the cancellation of our contract with the feds so from outside, it appears like the cancellation had never happened in the first place. That requires helluva lot of paperwork.” Archangel called from his office. “Let him in.”
I gave out an audible sigh.
“Kelly, you are very subtle,” Archangel commented when I led Henderson into the office.
“It’s Japanese thing. I’m half Japanese and subtlety happens to be my specialty. Anyway, I was just trying to make a point.” I replied.
“I believe I’ve got your point, and I’m glad you’re doing great, Ms. K.” Henderson muttered.
“Of course, I’m good. No thanks to you.” I replied in a sing-song tone.
“Don’t forget he’s worked hard to pay you a generous cash bonus.” Archangel mentioned.
“In exchange for my signed non-disclosure agreement, buying my silence. I didn’t like their attitude and you know what? I could have made much more myself if I had accepted John Oliver’s invitation to appear in his show.” I fumed, flipping my hands for emphasis
As soon as the FBI got a hold of Alan Hamilton, the real Eyeball Snatcher, they had boldly offered Archangel to cut the deal to pretend that previously sidelining him was all for the show. They wanted to mislead general public into believing that the FBI had deliberately released the statement that the investigation of Eyeball Snatching Murders was over, so that the real culprit would come out from hiding and commit a critical mistake that gets him busted. In feds’ speaking, it was just another cutthroat strategy. But in my opinion, that was just another pathetic excuse—to save their as… I mean, face.
“I might have gotten a book deal, probably a reality TV show, and scored millions. Mr. Archangel, you could have been the costar of Keeping up with Kelly Kinki.”
Of course, I was half-joking. That said, I was half-serious.
Frowning and lips tightly shut, Henderson rolled his eyes. Presumably, he was trying his best not to blurt out whatever was in his mind. I felt like I had understood the reason that his wife had left for a deli cook.
Archangel shrugged. “Kelly, you declined John’s offer to join his TV show, saying that I had a doctor’s appointment on that day and you couldn’t make it to New York City. That was so sweet of you. Made me almost weep with gratitude.”
“On top of all that, my car is still missing in action and the feds say they can’t pay for that damage on the account that Eyeball Snatcher didn’t steal the car. That’s outrageous,” I continued. “The car was stolen while I was being snatched for Pete’s sake.”
Even though the Lake Ridge neighborhood where Rhapsody in Pink was located was relatively safe, my purple Pimp car had just disappeared, probably now sold to some rich pimp, drug dealer, or gangsta in some third world country.
“That was a freebie and I heard you saying you don’t want to get caught dead in that hideous purple Caddy,” Archangel chimed in.
“Still, that Pimp car definitely had a sentimental value, not to mention it came in handy when I’m in heavy traffic and/or hitting the mall on Black Friday,” I pouted. “People didn’t want to mess with me in that car, they thought the driver might be a gangsta or something. Also, it stood out like a sore thumb and I could always loc
ate my car without breaking a sweat in the parking lot.”
But the truth was I didn’t miss that gangsta car so badly. Actually, a part of me appreciated the car thief. Whoever had stolen my car had sort of helped me out with getting rid of the hideous vehicle. In addition, it turned out that my car insurance policy came with a brilliant auto-theft coverage. I was still having a hard time imagining someone, anyone with an iota of sanity, had bothered to steal that purple Caddy. Anyway, I was planning to buy a new car or lease something fabulous as soon as the car insurance policy paid off. Currently, I was torn between purchasing and leasing.
Archangel shrugged and waved at Henderson. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Henderson acknowledged. “You look different.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe it’s the boot. Gives me extra mojo.”
Sitting at the desk, Archangel pointed at his left leg propped up on an ottoman (with fluffy pillows under the leg) by the desk. A bulky black boot with lots of Velcros was peeking from his Levi’s pant cuff. Colorful balloons saying things like “Get Well Soon!” and “I Told Ya to Watch Your Step!” were strapped to one of the armrests of his chair. With a knowing grin, Karen brought those balloons yesterday.
“That’s not what I meant.” Henderson replied.
Recently, Archangel had undergone a makeover (which was, actually, a makeunder). Today, he was wearing loose-fitting stonewashed Levi’s, Washington Redskins sweatshirt, and a snakeskin cowboy boot (on the good leg.) His hair had been cut short in a conservatively messy ‘do, and barely covered the nape of his neck. When he ditched high heels due to the leg injury, he ditched heavy makeup as well.