Free Eat'em by Chase Webster Page A

Eat’em said, “he’d give her a perfect, yes.”
    I nodded, “Yeah, she looks pretty close to me.”
    “Well, you both have low standards.”
    “Alright,” I said, “explain it to me then. What’s wrong with her?”
    Eat’em sighed and pointed out her flaws. “Her tresses are fake, yes. Her expression is fake, yes. Her mammaries are fake, yes. Fake. Fake. Fake. She conceals herself in blush and dye, she’s ominous, she’s small, and the picture is distorted to make her look even smaller, yes. Obviously, she’s a one.”
    I minimized the window, showing Eat’em Dixie’s profile. In it she sat half cross-legged on a carpet, with her head rested against her lifted right knee. She wore a pair of jeans and an oriental inspired shirt. Her hair was cut much shorter than she wore it now, still with her trademark violet locks. She looked relaxed, and natural, like someone caught in mid-conversation.
    “How about her,” I asked.
    “Ew…” Eat’em shook his head. “I won’t answer that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because,” he said, “your heartbeat went up.”
    “No it didn’t.”
    “Did so.”
    “It didn’t.”
    “Yes it did,” Eat’em grunted. “She popped up and you got all flustered, yes. ‘Oooo she’s so appealing.’ ‘Oooo she’s a Virgo.’ ‘Oooo she smells like detergent.’”
    “Stop,” I said.
    Heat rushed into my cheeks. It hadn’t occurred to me and I felt completely foolish. Stupid.
    “See,” Eat’em stretched and thumped my chest. “It did.”
    I clicked the search bar. “I’m such an idiot.”
    “Agreed.”
    I typed ‘planetarium’ and hit enter. The page loaded with just more than a dozen results. Scrolling down, I checked each profile hoping to see the blonde.
    No blonde.
    “Damn it!” I rubbed my eyes. My head hurt from staring at the laptop screen the whole day. “I’ve got to put this down for a while.”
    “Yes, put it down. Social networking is for the anti-social, yes?,” Eat’em shut my laptop and stood on it as I slid it onto the cluttered coffee table. “Keystrokes are a sign of the solipsistic lonely sort. Self-imposed solitary confinement, yes! You can’t rip all them ones and twos from the screen, Jacob. Do you know what else you can’t rip from the screen?”
    “What?” I leaned back and followed a crack along the ceiling with my eyes. I couldn’t remember seeing it before. Pretty much, I felt like the worst detective ever.
    “Rip it!” Eat’em clapped for my attention.
    “Rip what?” I asked, still fixated on the narrow crack.
    “NO!” Eat’em said, “RIP IT! One for me. One for you. Yes? You’re tired. I’m thirsty. Let’s get your wallet and go procure us some rip its!”
    “I should have guessed,” I said. Then the epiphany crashed into my skull like a kid using bowling balls for skipping rocks. I spent all afternoon skimming the surface for the girl, when I could have plunged into the depths a day ago. “The wallet!”
    I raced over to my backup and emptied the contents on the floor. There it was. A brown leather wallet, could it belong to the number one Deftones fan? I fumbled through the contents; a frequent meal card for a sandwich shop, credit cards, a couple dollars… and finally… a driver’s license:
    Louise Parsons
    Sex: Male  Height: 6’5”  Weight: 235 lbs
    His address.
    “I like what you’re thinking,” Eat’em said as he climbed onto my shoulder and tapped the ID with the tip of his tail.
    “Find him, find the girl,” I said.
    “Yes,” the demon said, “that too. I was thinking more along the lines of having him pay for the rip its.”

 
    Chapter 13
    “Of course I suspected him right away,” Lieutenant Bellecroix scrapes a fingernail along the side of the pulpit. A nervous habit, perhaps. I imagine he was the type to carve his initials into every desk he sat at. “You can’t take one look at the kid without being suspicious.”
    “Objection!” Mike and Eat’em sound off