She blinked at me, then realized I was panicking. Honestly, it was like admitting to murder before being interrogated.
“Ms. Davidson,” she began, but I decided to trip her up, to throw her off the trail of blood I’d left like an injured animal.
“I don’t speak English.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés funny-as-hell charley-davidson

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And you went out,” he said, his tone pleased.
I said through the bubbles of toothpaste, “Had to. I got a case.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
After rinsing, I headed back that way, still looking over the file. “That’s a negatory. But I’d like to keep that option open. You know, if I get in trouble.”
“So, you’ll be telling me all about it by tomorrow afternoon. Have you talked to your dad?

Darynda Jones

Mots clés charley-davidson uncle-bob

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I know how you feel. I’ve been analyzed to death as well. Not, like, professionally, though I did date a psych major who said I had attention issues. Or at least that’s what I think he said. I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, where was I?

Darynda Jones

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Does Uncle Bob have anything?"

"I heard he has an STD."

"I mean on the women."

"Oh, I have no idea if they have any STDs.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés humour charley-davidson

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I started to put my phone back in my bag when Ozzy yelled out, his accent so thick, I was only half certain he said, "Where the foock are ya goin'?"

Uncle Bob jumped. I must've turned on my GPS.

"You have to tahn the foock around. You're in the middle of foockin' nowhere."

"What the hell is that?" Uncle Bob asked, almost swerving off the road.

"Sorry, it's Ozzy." I grabbed my phone and turned down the volume. "He's so demanding." I pushed a few buttons to turn off the app, then put the phone to my ear. "Sweet, buttermilk pancakes, Ozzy, you have to stop calling me. You're a married man!" I pretended to hang up, then rolled my eyes. "Rock stars.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés humour charley-davidson gps uncle-bob

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Okay, I'll strip. I'll tap dance. I'll sing 'La Cucaracha' in C minor.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés charley-davidson reyes-farrow

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suddenly I’m that chick from Fatal Attraction. Next thing you know, I’ll be boiling rabbits.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés humor charley-davidson charley-davidson-humor

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Charlie lying in a heap of hair and body parts at the bottom of a very solid set of stairs

“The yard work?
“I know, Grandma, but—”
The fucking yard work?
I’d mow her lawn, for fuck’s sake. This was honestly about yard work?

Darynda Jones

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Gemma Davidson,” she answered, her voice as groggy as I felt.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Who is this?”
“Elvis.”
“What time is it?”
“Hammer time?”
“Charley.”
“Did you text me? Did your car break down?”
“No and no. Why are you doing this to me?” She was funny.
“Check your cell.”
I heard a loud, sleepy sigh, some rustling of sheets, then, “It won’t come on.”
“Not at all?”
“No. What did you do to it?”
“I ate it for breakfast. Check the battery compartment.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Um, behind the battery door.”
“Are you punking me?” I heard her fumbling with the phone.
“Gem, if I was going to punk you, I wouldn't simply turn off your phone. I would pour honey in your hair while you slept. Or, you know, something like that.”
“That was you?” she asked, appalled.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés humour charley-davidson darynda-jones gemma-davidson third-grave-dead-ahead

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Wait. Somehow the word chicken struck a chord. I played with it in my mind. Rolled it over my tongue. Then came to a conclusion; It was me. I was a chicken butt.

Darynda Jones

Mots clés humor

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