=========== Booya, Baby =========== My name's McMahon. Shane McMahon, and I'm a private Dick. I work out of a rundown office on the smog filled streets of New Orleans, and although I couldn't call it a good job, I like it just fine. I'm my own boss, I run my own hours, and there's always lots of green to be had in a place like this. I can spit out my window and hit someone who needs help, or someone who's causing trouble. Either way, it's money in the bank for me. I got everything it takes to be a good private eye. I'm good with a gun, I can hold my booze, and I look pretty damn good in a trench coat and fedora. At least, that's what my last five secretaries have told me - I have a habit of going through them pretty quickly. My last one left because her bum of a boyfriend cruised back into town, their getting hitched down by the lights and the water. I wasn't invited to the ceremony. Not that I would of gone anyway. The office is a dump, I need to hire someone new, fast. The garbage can is over-flowing, there's dust everywhere, and something crawled in and died at the bottom of my coffee cup. I'll put a want ad in the paper tomorrow. Right now, I think I'm happy with just staring out the window - watching the city breathe. It's not such a bad place, once you get past the murders and five dollar hookers - I've lived here all my life and can't imagine calling any other place home. Maybe New Orleans has me in bondage. When the door opens, I look up without really moving. The brim of my hat only allows me to see my visitors legs, but...what legs. Long, curvaceous, draped in dark pantyhose that stretch up, up, up. I let my gaze travel, take in the mink, and the silk, and the expensive duds that scream of wealth and good upbringing. Ms. Manners was probably her mother, Father Money Bags her old man. She's a looker all right, I wouldn't trust her to hold my wallet, but that doesn't mean I can't play nice. "I'm betting you aren't here for the secretarial position." Long, gloved hands play with a purse that matches her shoes as she slinks, not walks, into my office, stares down at me behind the black fishnet of her hat. "I need your services, Mr. McMahon." I just bet you do. "I'm not cheap." "I'm willing to pay." Her voice is steel and satin, and I can't help but get a little undone by the gray pools of her eyes, the blood red of her lips. Geez, all the beautiful broads flock to my freakin' office - I'm gonna end up in the hospital some day. "Good." I kick my feet off my desk, gesture to the seat in front of my desk and offer her a cigarette that she declines. Probably not her brand. I light one for myself and take a long puff, gesture behind the curl of smoke. "So talk, lady, I'm a busy man." My empty office and silent phone seem to laugh at me. "Yes, so I see. My husband has been murdered, Mr. McMahon. I need to know who did it." She's demure, her eyes innocent. She's already a suspect. I ask the same question I ask everyone that's ever walked in here, "Why me?" "Because I heard you were the best. And because the police can't help me." "That sounds about right. Okay then, I'll take your case. I pay by the day, and you cover expenses." "It's a deal." She gets up and offers me her hand, I shake the dainty thing and she turns on her heal to leave, her hips shaking to music I can't hear. Booya, baby. So suddenly, I have a case and I have a way to pay the rent for this month. Life isn't so bad. I TOLD you it was cheesy --------------------------- ONElist Sponsor ---------------------------- Get EXPERT CONTENT at ONElist! Join PROS&PUNDITS. For details go to: Click Here ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Shane McMahon Angst, Ravishment, and Torture Association for Sadistic Scribblers - a non-profit, dolphin-safe, environmentally friendly, pesticide-free, non-toxic organization, bringing you the very best in Shane fic since last Tuesday around midnight.