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There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.*

“‘Okay Moondoggie,’ I said to myself. ‘You’re a tough guy. You’ve been sapped twice, choked, beaten silly with a gun, shot in the arm until you’re crazy as a couple of waltzing mice. Now let’s see you do something really tough - like putting your pants on.’”

*Raymond Chandler, Red Wind, 1938
**Murder, My Sweet, 1944

3 Responses to “Post-Friday Beast Blogging: The Feline Noir Edition”

That is way more cat stomach than ever I want to see. My foot itches.

The kitty condo itself was not so much. It was smaller than Buckingham Palace, rather gray for California, and probably had fewer windows than the Chrysler Building.

Farewell My Lovely

I first heard Personville called Pussyville by a red-haired tabby named Rusty in the Big Ship in Butte. He also called his fur his foo. Later, I heard cats that could manage their r’s give it the same pronunciation. I still didn’t see anything in it but the meaningless sort of humor that used to make fish-canary the feline’s word for dictionary. A few years later I went to Pussyville and learned better.

Dashitall Hammett- Fur(R)ed Harvest

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