LordPeter List Literary Contest

A gang of tired women were slurping liqueurs in the dimly lit saloon. A space that was little, had been cleared in the middle, for dancing a jazz-time tune. All 'round the bar, dozed sad, lonely faces, but one stood out from the dames. She was kinda young. She was plucky. A posh sort of gal, and Harry-ette was her name.

Now, out on the floor, which was shiny with wax, and giving off too bright a glare, there capered and frolicked, with Victorian coyness, a rather pee-cu-li-ar pair. The man looked a guy with a quite jaded eye, and scarcely the strength of a mouse. Yet he twirled and he dipped, and he danced like a whiz. (His style was admired by some man-hungry hussies, all dolled up in fine fashions that no longer is.)

There was none that could place his young partner's face, though their eyes searched her pink frock for a clue. So the gals drank to his health, and they lusted in stealth, as the young thing in his arms smiled -- as on cue. Now, the band it was somethin'! Their ballad was thumpin'. That writer gal sat mesmerized.

She saw satins and bustles, and feathers and frou-frous, but she knew they were all just disguise. And that clever gal wiriter, her eyes going brighter, pondered the game, and its rules, and the plan. As the fair-haired French dancer twirled his petunia'd prancer, the lounge door flew open, and into that smoky dive there stumbled The Man!

His red eyes looked stewed. He was haggard and nude! He'd been out on the trail with his pack, when he'd heard of his Doris and her dancin' and whorin'. So he'd turn his team back toward the town. He'd gone through hell in a blizzard, lost his clothes, froze his gizzard! He'd had to claw his way back to that lounge.

And as the trumpet stopped bleating, Doris considered retreating, but too late, for the game, it was up. That's when the buff stranger, blazed a look full of danger at Doris and her froggy-faced pup. Dorry's eyes and the stranger's told old tales of lovin', and cheatin', and fightin', and play. He cried, "Men ain't no fools. When the women break rules, the dirty claim jumper has just GOT to pay."

Then from no-one-knows-where, this guy, who was BARE, pulled a pistol aimed at the "frog's" heart. Through the tears in his eye, he fired at the guy. But Dory moved and the shot missed its mark, and she dropped with a sigh. She was protectin' her man. But which one and why? I tell you, Friend, that crowd it grew silent, when the scene turned so vi'lent. And that's when the stuff hit the fan! Ê On that floor made fer dancin', dying Dorry lay pantin' her last breath as she stared at a man.

Though the nekkid young stranger, knew he was trapped and in danger, he couldn't escape Dorry's eyes. And when her pink gown turned red, why he jabbed that gun to his head, squeezed a shot off, and fell dead. Now, that's the truth. I'm not lyin' , I was there. Saw them dyin.' And now you fine folks know the sad facts about Dorry's demise.

-- "Placet"

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