October 11, 2015.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #7:

"That's a real honey of a story," Polhous tells the dame, lighting another cigarette, flicking the spent match into the wastebin, "I might believe it, too, you'd taken another year in acting school."

She screams again, "Please help me!"

He rubs a smudge from his shoe with a rough thumb, and examines the damage while he talks: "Sorry, kid, you're a real knockout, but your tale ain't. You're laying it on too strong, too much sound and fury, for there to be anything behind it. A little advice: you can't turn a dime into a dollar by throwing an ing-bing."

The dame doesn't respond, too busy choking on her own blood. The killer stands from her corpse, grinning, splattered crimson from head to toe.

He turns to Polhous, who lazily lifts the iron from his desk and puts pills in the killer till he's dead.

"Huh," he muses, ashing onto the corpse. "I guess she was telling the truth."

His secretary Janet enters with a piece of paper for him to sign. She looks around at the carnage. "Who's the stiffs?"

"She's a potential client, but she got zotzed before she shelled out the clams. He's the one what did it."

Janet glares at Polhous as he signs the papers. "You're a real cutie-pie, you know that? One of these days you're going to need to keep a client vertical till they've signed the check, or we're going to be out on the street."

"Love you, Janet."

She doesn't look back as the door closes behind her. "A real cutie-pie."