The Corpse Wore Pasties by Jonny Porkpie

was getting more obvious. Oh, that was because she had taken off her robe. It was black, like I said before, black leather. “—murder at the, Victoria and—” She was also wearing black boots, I noticed. With high heels. High, high, sharp heels. “—police were, think I’m the—” Strange, I hadn’t noticed her boots before. Why was I noticing them now? Oh! Because I was on the floor. That’s funny —why was I on the floor? I guess it didn’t matter. Those boots mattered, though. They were black, like I said, and very tall, and black and shiny—oh, wait, no they weren’t, they were black and blurry. Come to think of it, everything was black. What was I talking about? Oh, yes. Dreamland.
    I opened my eyes. Or did I? I still couldn’t see anything.Huh. Weird. I blinked a few times, as a test. Yep, my eyes were as wide open as a pervert’s fly just before he gets himself kicked out of a burlesque show. But my eyelashes were hitting something rough each time I blinked. My guess was that the something rough was the thing preventing me from seeing.
    I reached for it and—and nothing. I couldn’t reach for it. My arm wouldn’t move. Something was holding it in place. I tried the other arm. Nope. Tried to move my legs. No luck there, either.
    This was somewhat disconcerting.
    I wasn’t dead, at least. I knew that for a fact, because I could feel a draft. Although I can’t say that I was at all optimistic about where I was feeling it.
    “Oh, Jonny, Jonny, Jonny,” said a voice. I knew that voice. That was Jillian’s voice. I heard a door close. I heard a lock lock. I heard high heels click-clack across the hardwood floor, getting louder as they came in my direction.
    Something brushed against my cheek.
    I felt fingernails on the back of my head.
    Suddenly, the world exploded into light.
    Jillian dangled the blindfold in front of me as my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, “A client dropped in just before you arrived. I had to finish him off before we could...chat.”
    “No worries,” I said. “I’ve just been—”
    “If you say ‘hanging around,’ Jonny, I swear to god I will whip you.”
    It was an idle threat, and I knew it. She wasn’t going to whip me. She didn’t even have a whip. That thing in her hand was a riding crop.
    “—here,” I finished. I figured it was a good idea to play it safe, at least until Jillian’s intentions were clearer. It’s not every day you wake up shackled to a friend’s wall.
    “Mmm-hm. So. Jonny. Jonny, Jonny, Jonny.” Jillian caressed my cheek with the riding crop, then ran it down my body to—well, let’s just say the areas further down my body. She continued: “You came here to accuse me of murder, didn’t you?”
    I chuckled. I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. No. No, that isn’t it at all. What I came here to do was ask you some questions. Questions about Victoria’s death, yes, but to accuse you of murder? I’m in no position to do any such a thing.” Certainly not at the moment. “Just asking questions, is all.”
    “So ask ’em.”
    I glanced down.
    “Like this?”
    Jillian shrugged and lowered herself onto the divan. She began untying those boots I had noticed earlier, when I was passing out on the floor. It wasn’t going to be quick—each boot started just below her knee and went all the way down, and had the laces to prove it.
    “I should mention, Jillian,” I said, “that in the grand scheme of things, this looks a little suspicious.”
    “What does?”
    “Me. Wall. Shackles. Lack of pants, shirt, shoes, socks, or indeed any other clothing-related accoutrements.”
    “Does it?” Jillian seemed unconcerned. She continued her work with the bootlaces. At least she had put down the riding crop.
    “Well, I mean, look at it,” I said. “I arrive here, you offer me a cup of tea—”
    “Tea!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for reminding me. I didn’t get to have any