Michaels the detective (aka a surefire best seller)
"Damn it all!" Richard said aloud. He brought his cut finger to his mouth and sucked on it furiously. It tasted salty, but there was something comforting about sucking on a cut finger. The offensive knife lay on the counter next to the onion. Richard pulled his finger out of his mouth to see if the bleeding had stopped. It hadn’t. The blood dripped continuously.
I hate being a hemophiliac, he thought to himself. It always makes things so complicated. Richard thought for a moment, trying to remember a list of things which helped to stop bleeding. Was onion juice one of them? He couldn’t remember but he was already starting to feel woozy.
"Oh, what the hell? I’ll try it," he said. He grapped the onion and rubbed it on his wound. It stung bad. He realized that he probably had to have more of the juice on the wound. Luckily, it was a green onion. He bunched it up as tightly as he could in his right hand and squeezed with all his might. A couple drops of onion juice fell onto his waiting finger. Richard howled in pain and waited for the bleeding to stop. It didn’t. The blood continued to pool on the counter. Richard held onto the counter with his right hand to keep from falling over as he racked his brain for other things that might help.
Flour! Flour would help! It thickened when wet! He quickly found his jar of flour and buried his finger in it. He watched the flour turn red. Still the bleeding would not stop! He pulled his finger out of the jar quickly, overturning it on the counter in the process.
Perhaps boiling oil would help to cook the blood and make it solid, he hoped. He poured some oil in a pan and turned it on high. Soon the oil began to bubble. Richard looked at it fearfully. There was no turning back now. He closed his eyes and plunged the hand into the pan.
"AAAAAARGH!" he shouted as he heard and felt his whole hand sizzle.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
"That’s enough of that b.s., Michaels," the captain said sternly. The other cops standing around the body laughed loudly.
"Did a spaceship fly out of his butt just as he died, detective?" one of the men asked Michaels mockingly. They all laughed and moved away. That stupid rookie detective thought he knew all the answers.
In the near empty kitchen, Michaels dipped his finger into the pan of now cool oil and then pulled it out. He sniffed it. Then, he tasted it. It tasted like blood.
