Tales of the Storage Space, Part 101

The Storage Space felt…hollow, then chided itself.  Of course it felt hollow.  That was patently obvious.  It was, after all, a building.

Karen…

Gone…

The Storage Space would have felt utterly heartbroken, if only a building could…

“So there!”

Who was that woman?  Not Karen, surely.  The voice seemed a little deep, maybe not even a woman.

“More than god-awful.  Fifi, you’re a…  You’re a…”

Definitely a man speaking this time.  Though so slight of frame.  And with shoes that looked like rainbows.

“Really!”

The maybe-a-woman again, this Fifi who had pink hair…though rather of an anemic, not very well-done pink.  And enough make-up on to ascend the stage.  But the Storage Space didn’t care about whatever these two were doing in Unit 3, leaving all the garments they’d removed from each other to spill into the hall.  What the Storage Space cared about was…

“If all my boyfriend could do was fuss about his pregnant daughter going to the hospital, I really couldn’t be expected to wait any longer.  So I took action.  With you, Sebastian.  Really!”

Fifi of the pink hair yet again.  How dreadfully tiresome.  The Storage Space tuned Fifi and Sebastian out.  All it cared about was…

Karen…

Should it have let her know that she’d been wrong when she’d assumed that the love-of-her-life Frank had succeeded in killing Martin after she passed out?  That it had really been Martin that had killed Frank?

“Clumsy, Hank, clumsy.”

Yet another bottle clattered down the stairs to the reception area Sebastian and Fifi had deserted.  The eternally drunk Hank tripped and tumbled down the stairs after it, still mumbling to himself.

“What’s this?” Hank asked himself, picking something else up off the floor before standing and wobbling back upstairs with his bottle.  “A data stick?”

Tales of the Storage Space, Part 100

Pat was thinking about his sexual preferences…or rather “their” sexual preferences, if “they” was going to stay in character as the sick perv “they” was pretending to be.  What else had that real “transgender” from the night before said?  Didn’t matter.  Especially when the she he was with now…no, the she “they” was with now…moaned and moved a bit, exposing even more of her thigh.

For a moment Pat wished more than anything that it was possible to reach farther and shove aside what little was still covering the booty on the opposite bed.  But there were other things to worry about.  Like how to convince the cops that “they” was…or was it “were”?…the victim in the violence the night before, not the perpetrator.

Still, handcuffed to a hospital bed and all, a smile was in order.  She of the luscious thighs…Karen was the name she’d given…had told enough about where priceless treasures were hidden behind the walls of a storage space facility that money shouldn’t be so hard to get in the future.

Which brought back the memory of the horror that was the night before.

It had started innocently enough.  Pat…a self-respecting, God-fearing heterosexual…had just trailed his mark a bit longer than usual, not sure whether it was a man or woman he was about to mug.  Which made it hard to plan accordingly.  Then he’d spotted the ideal alternative down a cross street…a young, rich-looking boy, his clothing alone worth a fortune…and switched to tailing him.  But when Pat made his move, he made two horrible discoveries:  1) the rich boy was some kind of martial-arts expert, and (2) the first mark he’d abandoned had then trailed Pat and was determined to protect the rich boy.

Pat’s body ached just thinking about it.  The rich boy was bad.  The abandoned first mark…who turned out to be a “transgender,” inspired by social consciousness to protect all other people…was even worse because “they” were all fired up by righteous indignation.  Finally the rich boy abandoned the battlefield, leaving poor Pat to listen to the transgender’s endless lecture on everything from the moral bankruptcy of mugging people to far more details than any self-respecting male would ever want to hear about transgender-ality.  What a relief when Pat recovered enough from the transgender’s kind ministrations to beat “them” into unconsciousness and snatch some of “their,” he gathered from the lecture, typically transgender articles of clothing.

A nurse heading toward him…”them” now…snapped Pat back into the present.  The bitch pulled the sheet all the way over Karen’s thigh on the way.  But at least there was still cause to smile over the results of Pat’s interrogation of Karen.  Mugging was now out; ripping storage space walls apart to find treasure was now in.

The nurse, tending Pat’s wounds, turned out to be a brute.  First they handcuff the victim of a rich boy’s hate crime to “their” hospital bed, then this? “they” thought, working on “their” indignation.