A Waif In the Alley. Be careful of those casual pickups. Adult. (standard:romance, 7566 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1238/877	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Jerry, a police detective, has three days off work. Walking home from a bar, he pees on a girl lying in an alley. He takes her home with him and falls for her. Later, he finds she’s a serial killer.

I'm a police officer, cop to you degenerates. Having a three-day break
from work, I went out for a few brews at the local drink dispensary. I 
was walking home from the “Clink of Copper Saloon”. Hearing those same 
drinks telling me, “Your lease is up, I'm coming out, ready or not,” I 
stopped to relieve myself in an alley. As I whipped it out and started 
a purification process, I heard a clanking sound in front of me. 

“Hey! Hold it right there, buddy.” A bundle of trash moved and
elongated. “Pick another spot, huh?” 

As the object rose, it transected a stray beam of light, showing a
pretty female face framed by long jet-black hair. Thick bushy eyebrows 
over a pert button nose with a set of slanted catlike eyes completed 
the picture. 

“You know, if I had been asleep...? You bastard. You DID pee on me. Son
... Son of a bitch. I ... I'll kill you,” an angrily strident but sexy 
voice berated me as I stood, hands on my fly with both spirit and 
spirits flowing down a leg. 

Surprise and public drunkenness slowed my reflexes. I turned in time to
block her knee with a thigh but missed a fist flying toward my cheek. 
Unbalanced, I stumbled across the slippery surface of the alley, 
banging my head into the opposite wall. 

As a dark fury flew at me, I could only think to raise extended arms in
supplication, even while losing control and feeling a noxious stream 
hide inside the fly, going directly down one pants leg, the sweet smell 
of urine reaching already stinging nostrils. 

“Please, I'm sorry,” I whined for the first time in many years. “Please
don't hit me.” 

“A girl can't even lie down for a few minutes without some idiot giving
her a yellow shower,” the apparition continued to berate me. At least 
she was standing still -- in my face but standing still. “I should call 
a cop. Jeez, you smell.” Unexpectedly, she giggled. 

Unlike her, in the shadows, I was standing in the glow of a streetlight
and must have looked pathetic -- still in the process of wetting a leg. 
When nature kicks-off, it stops for no man. At least not without a 
conscious effort, which I was still too surprised to initiate. 

“You better get on home, buster. I'll really kick your ass the next
time.” She smirked, looking me up and down in derision, then went back 
to her former shadowy shelter, sinking out of sight ten feet from her 
last location, as though not completely trusting me. 

I had also been looking her up and down, but in appreciation masked by
embarrassment. After all, what did I have to lose in the embarrassment 
context? 

Getting myself together, and zippered, I moved cautiously in her
direction, alert for any perceived movement. “Uh, excuse me, ma'am, I 
... I ... wond....” 

“What the hell you wonder, asshole? No. I'm not a hooker,” she screamed
at me; at least from a sitting position that time. “And if I had a 
home, or any money, I'd go there. Now leave me alone or I'll call that 
cop.” 

I thought I even heard a soft whimper but must have been mistaken. It
would hardly have been in context. 

“Now don't get me wrong ... I have an extra bedroom at my house. My wife
left me last year,” I urged her gently. “It even has strong locks on 
the inside of her door,” I explained. “My ex-wife is a security freak.” 


I stood, looking into the semi-darkness for a full minute or so with no
answer. Then, shrugging, I turned to leave. “Sorry, again. Good night,” 
I muttered, condescendingly, and walked away. 

“I could use a couple of dollars, if you can spare it,” she stammered at
my back, halting me, "for taxi fare to a friend's home?" 


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