A Johnathan Darkmoore Mystery

I gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle like it belonged to a stoolie who was suddenly having second thoughts. "I get the feeling I'm gonna need this," I said to no one in particular. "All of it." I took a long draught. The picture was The Big Sleep, 1978. That's the version that goes down in Jolly Olde instead of seedy-ass L.A. "Fifty pounds per day plus expenses." That don't sound right coming from nobody. And the dick they got shuffling through the center of all this lame, what's his story? He's got the wisenheimer, tough-guy lingo down pat, but spit outta his trap it sounds like directions to the arts & crafts store. It's a fucking joke, and not the funny kind; more like the kind where you find your best girl face down in the blood she puked up with sixteen holes in her back and you look up at the sky and say "Good one, God." Here's the corker though: you can't just write this flick off, because it is lousy with killer ass. Almost all of the peripherals are nice (great getaway sticks on the bookstore dame), but the two nutjob sisters are the real prize: the older one has a mug you'd pay to forget and hair that closes on Saturday night, but she slinks around so much and so well I'd stick her anyway, and like it. The younger one, on the other hand, is a genuine looker, plus her tits like to get out of the house and they do it every chance they get. Eventually they even invite her bush. After a peep show like that there was no way I was gonna badmouth this little photoplay; anything with hotness of that caliber on full display automatically rocks, no ifs ands or buts.