Free The Walrus of Death: A Short Story by Steeven R. Orr Page A

you were coming and I’m afraid I’m in no state to entertain.”
    I made preparations to run a pot of coffee; adding the water, the filter, and the grounds before setting it to brew.
    “You know who I am?” he said, then took another long drag off the cigarette.
    “Yeah, I know who you are.”
    I wouldn’t be much of a private investigator if I didn’t.
    In the criminal underworld he is known simply as the Walrus. He’s three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle packed into a seven foot frame. He’s a genetic mistake, created in a lab by a group of scientists with an off-the-wall idea, unlimited funding, and a little too much time on their hands. The Walrus is literally a man in every sense of the word, but with the head and skin of a walrus. He’s a heavy hitter. A freelancer who rents himself out to the highest bidder, and there’s not much he won’t do if’n the price is right, and there he sat at the very same table in which I had been hoping to eat a bowl of Fruity Rings.
    “Good,” he said. “That will save some time. I know who you are too, Norman Oklahoma.”
    “I’m honored,” I said. “It’s every little boy’s dream to catch the eye of a tall drink of water such as yourself.”
    The Walrus let out a deep laugh that rattled the dishes in the cabinets.
    “I’ve been told you were funny,” he said. “Now I see for myself that it’s true.”
    I only sighed. I needed a cup of coffee. I shouldn’t have to be expected to deal with something like this before my first cup of coffee. I hunted around inside the cabinets for a mug. There wasn’t a clean one anywhere; they were all in the sink waiting for me to wash them. I sighed again and grabbed one up out of the sink and rinsed it out.
    “You and I must talk, Mr. Oklahoma,” he said.
    “Please, call me Norman,” I said. “And talk already, I’m all a-quiver in anticipation.”
    “Surely you know why I’m here.”
    “I think I do, but I don’t know what to tell you, big guy. I’m afraid I already have all the cookies I need.”
    “Mr. Lemonzeo sent me.”
    Abner ‘Bud’ Lemonzeo. A local thug who had used a combination of violence and an Associate’s Degree in Business Management from a local junior college to make himself into the Midwest’s largest dealer of black market goods since . . . well, the Midwest has never really had a dealer of black market goods. Lemonzeo discovered a niche, and filled it.
    “Bud’s out, then,” I said.
    “Time off for good behavior.”
    “What’s that got to do with me?”
    “Mr. Lemonzeo sent me to kill you.”
    “Just like that?” I said, taking hold of the coffee pot. It was only about half full as the machine gurgled and spat.
    “Just like that,” the Walrus said, smiling as he stubbed his cigarette out on my kitchen table.
    “Well,” I said. “That’s not very nice.”
    “Nice doesn’t even enter into it,” he said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
    “Is the witty back and forth part of what Bud’s paying for?”
    “Not at all,” he said. “I’m throwing that in for free.”
    “Are you stupid?” I said.
    “I’m sorry?” that threw him.
    “Are you stupid?”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “You break in here and tell me that you’re going to kill me. Wouldn’t it have been smarter to kill me while I slept? I don’t know, I’m starting to think that Bud might have been better off if he’d hired a ninja or something.”
    “A ninja,” he said in a matter of fact tone.
    “A ninja wouldn’t have tried to intimidate me, as you’re clearly attempting to do. I mean, why warn me? Sounds like a waste of time and the element of surprise to me. Does Bud know what he’s paying for? Maybe you have one of them feedback cards I could fill out?”
    “Fine,” the Walrus said. “I tried to have my fun, but I see I can’t play games with you.” The table creaked and the floor groaned as the Walrus pulled himself to his feet.
    Now, I ain’t known for being one