Corpus Delicti


I don’t know if it was the sound of the door closing that rustled me out of my slumber, the overwhelming odor of cleaning products or the amount of ugly that had just penetrated my twenty foot ugly-free zone. Either way, I was now staring at the ugliest person ever to walk on two feet. She

looked like a Aye-Aye who had gotten into with mommy’s make-up. I tried my best to look away, but it was futile, as I kept finding myself looking back at her to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Now, I know I’m no Tom Brady or Hugh Jackman and I’m not trying to be a dick, but how could anyone be this ugly? I mean, her body was great, but the ugly sitting on top of it could be felt by worms two feet underground. No shit.

I felt like crying, really. And as I was trying to find something to cover myself with, she was saying something to me about her car and Carol’s Pub, as she placed my freshly dry cleaned suit over the back of the other, matching lounge chair. Then, as suddenly as the ugly appeared, it walked (on two feet) right out the door.

Needless to say, I had no idea where I was or how I got there, but I had to get out of there asap, lest she might come back and do to me again whatever she did to me last night. Unfortunately, my body felt like it had just completed a triathlon and a tough man contest the night before, and oh, did I mention that I was completely naked? That said, fear took over and I stood up to survey my surroundings. It was a something out of a German interior design magazine, and after looking out of the living room window, I determined that I was somewhere within a few blocks of the Hancock, about 15-20 stories high.

Not having any answers to the obvious questions I had, I felt that at least taking a quick shower would ease my mind. But, I didn’t feel “dirty”. I mean, I didn’t feel like one normally should after waking up naked in a strange place. So, I scratched and smelled a few vital body parts and all I could smell was nothing. But I should have at least smelled like booze. This may sound weird, but now I was getting worried. Was there an attempt to clean up evidence? Those Europeans are known to get freaky, right? That was a woman, right?

As I was snooping around to see if I could find some mail or maybe some clues of some sort, I came across a bedroom, which had a full-length mirror. No bruises, check. No scratches, check. No needle marks, check. No new tattoos, check. Asshole intact and no signs of activity, check. Then I thought it might be a good idea to find my cell phone and check out my call log, but before that thought was completed I thought about cell phone cameras, then I thought that maybe I should check this place for cameras and brace myself for viral fame. No obvious cameras, check. After a few more minutes, I found my watch, wallet, keys and my laptop bag on the kitchen table, neatly organized, with my Cole Hahn’s looking like they had a fresh polish, sitting on the table, on top of this week’s Chicago Reader… Weird added to existing weird.

Time was critical, so I got dressed and made my way to the door, when I heard a woman’s voice coming from the hallway. No, no, no, no! Hmph, there’s no way I was going to sneak out of there using a back door that didn’t exist and I’m not Peter Parker, so I had to man-up and escape by using the elevator and possibly find myself face-to-face with the Great Ugly. My heart rate had skyrocketed high enough to fuel five Olympians and I gave some serious thought to hiding under a bed, but then the idea of claiming to be married or gay sounded like a good idea.

Luckily, after realizing that the door had a peephole, I saw that the voice was coming from a housekeeper and I made it to the elevator and out of the building without incident. Once outside, I quickly scanned the sidewalk for people quickly looking away from a woman, but everything seemed normal, as much as normal could on this morning.  At this point, I knew how criminals feel when they have to judge whether to calmly walk or run down the street immediately after committing a dastardly deed. Trust me, it’s a tough choice.

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