The cult section of the literary world

Flash Fiction Friday: Four Flashes of Newmar

by Garrett Cook

An Author is a Beagle As a Flying Ace

Julie Newmar walks into my office. She doesn’t know that I know who she is. Because she’s wearing her costume.

“Can I help you?” I ask, though I’m afraid I can’t.

“There’s been a murder,” she tells me.

“It’ll cost you,” I tell her, though it’s a lie.

She stands up, and improvises an awkward, but sensual dance. Outside it’s raining, but I’m not concerned. Julie Newmar is dancing.

“I’ll take the case,” I tell her and it brings me to Morocco. There’s a hot tip at The Blue Parrot. Turns out I’m a cartoon dog with a vivid imagination.

A Girl in a Girl Mask Three Sizes Too Small

Julie Newmar walks into my office. But I know that this time it isn’t her. Because her girl mask is three sizes too small.

“Aha!” I shout, pointing my gun in the face of Kali.

Kali pulls off her Kali mask and underneath it is Julie Newmar.

“Aha!” she says, pointing a gun in my face.

She pulls off my detective mask and underneath is Jackie Gleason.

She cries. Rips open her Catwoman suit. Rips open the skin underneath. I take a bite from her chocolate heart. I cry. Julie Newmar is a woman like other women.

“Baby, you’re the greatest!”

Apotheosis J

I am chasing Julie Newmar through the jungle. This is a new thing for us. I am caught by feral businessmen.

“Actualize yourself!” they scream.

“Branding is important!”

“Leverage!”

“Build your business development!”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” I shout.

They begin to cry. They pound the ground with their tiny business fists.

“We don’t know!” they weep.

“Gold ticket inner circle audience!” one ventures.

Gold chains appear on my neck. I spit jargon at the speed of light. They eat each other. I don’t want them to. I want them to. Wherever she is, Julie Newmar is sopping.


The Manchurian Can’t-i-date

Julie Newmar is running for president. She has an assassination fetish. I’m curare’d up and standing on a building. She is giving a speech on how assassins are pussies. A man dressed like me has a question. Turns out it’s me. Which is odd because I’m standing on that building.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she says, looking up at that building.

I am confused. Do I kill her? Do I marry her? Do I fuck her? This game is hard.

The crowd disperses. Julie Newmar clutches her neck. She falls down.

“Avenge me,” she says. “Marry me.”

We do.

—-

Author of Murderland part 1:h8, Murderland 2:Life During Wartime, Archelon Ranch and Jimmy Plush, Teddy Bear Detective. Find out more about me: http://thegarrettcook.blogspot.com

One response

  1. Pingback: Five More Julie Newmar Stories | Chainsaw Noir

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