Giant snakes, Hell-hounds, intergalactic police -- when
can sexy shifters find time for love?
~~*~~
“Really?”
A long, forked tongue slithered out
of the sewer pipe and retreated back between a squared-off, light brown snout.
“I got ssssscared.”
Detective Ralph Littlejohn put hands
on hips and glanced toward his partner, the eminently biteable Detective Petra
Kline. She pinched her lips together, shaking her head to send her silky brown
bob swinging around her pretty face. Detective Kline hated snakes.
Hated. Them.
No way was she going to help him get
the big shifter out of the drainpipe.
The pipe creaked, groaned, and the
tongue slipped out again on a mighty sigh. Brent Bailey was well and truly
stuck.
“What do you want me to do?” Littlejohn
asked him. “I can’t exactly requisition the jaws of life for you.”
A suspicious snorting sound emanated
from the area -- far, far away -- where Petra stood, half behind a large oak
tree. “We could buy a case of spray oil and try to grease him up.”
Littlejohn glared at her. “That’s
not helpful.”
“No. It’sssss not. Besssssidesssss,
I’m allergic to olive oil.”
More snorting came from behind the
tree. “I could try calling Blood.”
“I tried them earlier… before. They
aren’t anssssswering their phonesssss.”
“Not as dumb as they look,”
Littlejohn muttered.
“I heard that,” Bailey hissed.
Littlejohn shook his head. He stared
at the stuck snake for a minute longer and then looked at the gravel road
covering the pipe. Short of digging the whole thing up, Littlejohn didn’t have
the faintest idea how to get Bailey free. “Can’t you shift back?”
“I tried. I’m too ssssstresssssed.”
“Not half as stressed as I am,”
Littlejohn murmured.
“I heard that too.”
“Hmph.” He glanced at Petra again.
“You’ve really got nothing for me here? Not a single idea?”
“Call Matt and Cliff. Maybe the
three of you could shift, lift your legs, and pee on him to lubricate him.”
“Ssssso not helpful,” Bailey hissed.
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