I am writing a longer piece of fiction. Here’s a sample:

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In the Beginning Was the Body

Francesco Purtangela – better known to his friends as Cricket – awoke one fine morning, hungover and with the reek of el Diablo in his mouth, surrounded by what can only be described as an army of midgets dressed in beige light summer linen suits, aquamarine shirts, egg-yolk yellow ties, brown leather shoes – of the finest Italian leather – and straw hats with red-white-and-blue bands around their circumferences. A feeling that can only be described as Unheimlich rose from the pit of Francesco’s stomach and escaped through his mouth in a half-suppressed burp. The midgets all chuckled curtly in unison, holding their gaze steadily on Francesco Purtangela – better known to his friends as Cricket.

“Someone must have been telling lies,” ejaculated one of the bande miniature pithily with a slight trace of a French accent in his English words, “for you do not look like a cricket at all. You look more like a praying mantis waiting to be devoured after the act of insectual copulation.”

The midgets haw-haw-hawed and ho-ho-hoed in unison as Francesco wiped the sleep from his eyes, and then used his left hand to scratch behind his left ear. Feeling a viscous liquid there, he brought his left hand forward so that it might meet his line of sight, up until that point directed at the only vocal individual of the bande standing around him. There was … blood? … on his hand. He smelled it. He licked it. It was blood.

“It’s blood,” said the midget.

Francesco stared blankly.

“I did it again?” he asked.

“You did it again.”

A naked female body lay in the bed next to Francesco. Reddish hair, blonde pubis, large breasts were the first thing Francesco noted. Blue eyes, staring at him. The white sheets of Francesco’s bed were stained almost purple, and Francesco felt light-headed.

“Take it easy, big boy; we’ll take care of it. Fellas, allons-y,” the head midget vocalized, and turning to Francesco, he added: “Cricket, snap out of it. Go take a shower. Brush your teeth, for Christ’s sake. Get dressed. Breakfast. Whatever. Just get out of the way.”

Francesco nodded and, moving slowly, he grasped – as if for dear life – an empty tumbler from his bed-side table and walked off. The room smelled of sex and exhaled and sweated-out liquor. The vocal midget rolled his eyes, took off his beige linen jacket, rolled the sleeves of his aquamarine shirt up, and proceeded to give instructions, while the rest of the bande proceeded to dispose of the body. “Let’s go, les sablés, you know where the kitchen is, you know the drill. Let’s cut this baby up. And please, would someone do me a gargantuan favour and open up a god-damned window?”

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