Hey everyone! I've been a bit busy lately, and I lost internet for a little while, so I'm afraid I didn't have time to continue the absolute thrashing that Wiki has been giving me, but I wanted to mention that I just won an online writing contest through www.writing.com (my screen name is Blompkin)!

YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

I'd like to thank Raymond Chandler, who drank himself to death so that we might have awesome detective stories!

Anyway, here's my first place winning story. It was for a 'twist ending' contest, where every story had to have a twist ending. I hope you like it!

Black, White, and Dead All Over


Laura's world was monochrome. Soon it would be gone.

It was night outside, but that meant nothing to the city. The city had virtually eliminated the night with a never ending supply of neon that flushed out the darkness. The only purpose the endless, hanging fluorescent monstrosities had was to inform the world around them that just inside were Beautiful Girls, cheap drinks, and/or the greatest show on Earth.

There would be no girls within those towering blocks of steel and wood. Those hard eyed, stern faced, half naked, and incredibly accommodating women all stopped being girls a long time back. That was just fine with me. I liked my women to have shattered lives. It saves a lot of time and trouble. Sure, you couldn't believe a word those women said, but it was an honest form dishonesty. You know they're lying, and you don't care.

The shows would only be as good as the ticket price required, as anything more would be a waste. A normal Joe or Jane didn't need the best show ever anyway. They just needed to be moderately entertained before their next shift.

There would be drinks of course, a seed of honesty in an ocean of lies that warms even the hardest hearts with its sweet, mind destroying waves of tranquility. It's almost enough to make a hard drinking detective tear up a little.

None of this mattered in Laura's apartment, of course. Laura's world was monochrome. The rug was an off-white, leaning slightly into grey, save for near the door, where some stupid detective forgot to wipe his feet. It was nothing a high priced cleaning lady couldn't handle, and with Laura, everything was high priced. I expected nothing less from the daughter of a senator.

The shelves and furniture were a more pure, immaculate white, save for the tables, which were all an equally pitch black. The appliances tended to be dark, a welcome contrast to the grey tiling in the kitchen and traditional white icebox. I don't know where Laura managed to find a black bathtub, but she had managed it.

There was no place for unnecessary color within Laura's world, not even lipstick or eyeshadow. The only color she allowed herself was the emerald green of her own eyes, which she used no makeup to bury or hide. I understood this. I understood this all too well. What I didn't understand, was why that perfectly sterile world held a place for me.

If life had taught me anything, it was that everyone wanted something. Laura could be no exception. Everything I had was up for sale, I made no attempt to hide it. All it would take was the slightest movement of an inked pen over a rectangular piece of paper and Laura could own me lock, stock and barrel for the rest of my life.

So why was I sitting on her couch, staring directly into those emerald eyes? Why was my brown jacket and hat hanging on the hook by the door, instead of still upon me as I sat in a bar, chatting up a shattered, honestly dishonest woman? Why did Laura's pale fingertips slowly encircle my arm? Why were her pale, full lips slowly moving closer towards me? What could she possibly want that her father's checks couldn't buy?

I didn't care.

Laura's face was sweet, like a child's, but serious like a woman's. I allowed my calloused hand to encircle her palm and I discovered her skin to be smooth, but her muscles to be firm. Her choice of clothes suggested she was in mourning, but her small smile told me she was pleased.

It was at that moment that I first realized that everything within Laura's life was opposed to itself. Happiness and sorrow. Love and hate. Pure and dark. Success and failure. Black and white. Her and me.

She slipped completely into my arms. My thin, tanned lips were a stark contrast to hers as they pressed against each other. Cupped in her arms, it would have taken a maniac, kicking the door in, to have gotten me to let go.

In fact, that's exactly what it took.

The front door was a mere fifteen feet behind us when a slam of a boot shattered the premium lock of her apartment. The chain held strong though, literally saving both our lives.

The part of my mind that refused to believe in miracles and happy endings had me on my feet in a flash, ready for violence...somehow vindicated by the violence. My other hand pushed against Laura, trying to get her to stay low, but she was adamant, and with surprising strength she pushed herself to her feet. Why? I will never know.

I fumbled for my pistol as the intruder elbowed the door off its chain, scattering metal links over the front stoop. As the entryway swung wide, I could tell it was McGrady. He was even carrying his lucky Tommy-gun, with the thirty-four tiny stars upon the side. I was determined to keep it from becoming thirty-six.

Everyone who had ever heard about McGrady could have easily recognized him on sight, thanks to the news reports of the giant scar going down the center of his face. I didn’t need any news report to recognize him though, not when I was the one who gave him the scar.

For a moment, I blamed myself for bringing a sadistic lunatic such as McGrady into Laura's perfect world, but somehow, inexplicably, his rage and fury were directed at my monochrome angel, not me. That had to change.

"McGrady!"

The better of his two eyes shifted towards me and widened. I hadn't been expected. For all I know, McGrady didn't even know I was working for Laura. What had brought him there? Why was he alone, unwilling to share the kill with any cronies? To find out, I'd have to spare his life.

That was much too high a price.

The tommy gun whipped towards me, but the arm holding my pistol was already extended. The blast shattered the silence, and the small slug of metal spun through the air. The shot caught his shoulder, whipping his gun arm high and to the right, sending a volley of bullets tearing through the unoccupied half of Laura's apartment, shattering everything in their path.

Why didn't Laura run? Dive? Duck? Anything except stand there? I didn't have time to ask. The cleaning woman would have her work cut out for her, as now drops of blood were dripping to the floor from McGrady's wound. Somehow, the maniac didn't seem to care. McGrady was fueled by the same dark, primal drive that allowed small wolverines to kill bears. Luckily for us, those instincts did nothing for his aim.

Before he fully regained control of his gun, I put another slug in his torso, this time in the center of something vital. Besides throwing him off balance, the bullets seemed to have virtually no effect on McGrady. A piece of metal ripping into his body merely meant he had to re-adjust his aim.

Seemingly immune to pain, McGrady placed both hands on his favorite cop killer, and raked it straight across the center of the room. I dove forward with the drive that allowed rabbits to escape from wolves, and fired once as I sailed through the air. I aimed the bullet upwards, directly at the scar, and that is exactly where McGrady received it.

Almost a year ago, a bullet of mine had ripped directly up his face, tearing and splitting as it flew. This time the bullet caused considerably less visible damage. All it left was a small round hole.

Even the fiercest beast can't survive without a mind. McGrady' made a last sideways stumble straight into the wall. At first I thought he'd just lean there, but it wasn't long before he slowly slid to the floor, leaving a long red streak all the way down to the floor.

I hardly noticed. It didn't matter. The damage was done.

McGrady's final spray of bullets had cleaved straight across Laura's chest.

I dove to her side, feebly examining the numerous bullets that littered her torso. Her breaths were short and silent. Besides a slight clutching at my arm, she did nothing more before going limp.

Her emerald eyes gazed up into mine and a final, single tear ran down the length of her porcelain cheek.

What could I do?

What was there left to do, now that my angel, my last glimpse of light in a world of darkness had been taken from me?

I did the only thing I could.

I selected 'Continue'.

If she dies again, I'm switching the game to easy.