Lucky Stiff Read Online Free PDF

had the time or the motivation to go out and do much in the way of clothes shopping. It’s an activity I hate because finding stuff to fit a buxom, six-foot-tall, short-waisted woman, with arms that come frighteningly close to knuckle-dragger length, and legs that are not only long but full-bodied, is an exercise in frustration. Most of the pants and slacks I try on end up being capri length, not much fun in the winter.
    As I contemplate the contents of my closet, I realize I have no idea what constitutes proper casino attire, not that I really care. What matters most is finding something that looks a bit sexy without making my butt look bigger than my house. After all, just because I can’t have Hurley doesn’t mean I can’t tempt him.
    The first outfit I try involves a pair of red slacks and a favorite black sweater I like because the sleeves are actually long enough for my arms. The red-and-black combo seems like a smart choice for a casino, where card suits and roulette wheels bear the same colors. But when I put my boots on and glance in the mirror at my backside, it looks like a baboon’s ass. I peel off the red slacks and settle on a pair of blue jeans, instead. I have just enough time to put on a bit of makeup when I hear a knock on the door.
    Hurley is standing on my porch, bearing three wrapped gifts. It triggers a moment of panic because I only have one present for him. “You shouldn’t have,” I say, eyeing the packages.
    “It’s not as good as it looks,” he says, coming inside. “Only one of these is for you. I also got something for Hoover and, against my better judgment, for that other beast of yours.”
    I’m touched. Hurley doesn’t like cats, and his introduction to Rubbish was nothing short of a disaster. Not only had Rubbish stalked and killed an entire box of tampons, leaving the bodies all over my living-room floor, he then climbed Hurley’s pant leg and tried to play a game of bocce ball with the Hurley family jewels.
    “I have a little something for you, too,” I say, closing the door.
    Hurley hands me two of the packages, one bearing a tag with my name on it and the other with a tag that says simply, For the beast. He then goes over to Hoover, gives him a scratch on the head, and gets down on the floor with him.
    “Here you go, boy,” he says, offering the third gift to Hoover, who sniffs it as if he’s a K-9 dog and the package is filled with drugs. Hurley gives him a prompt by ripping one corner of the paper wrapping and then teasing Hoover with it in a game of keep-away. It takes less than a minute for the two of them to decimate the wrapping, exposing a large, beef-basted rawhide bone. Hoover snatches it up and dashes off to one corner of the living room, where he settles down, nestles the bone between his front paws, and starts gnawing.
    “I think he likes it,” Hurley says, looking pleased.
    “I’d say so. That was very sweet of you.”
    “I’ll let you open up the one for Rubbish,” he says, looking around the room warily. “Where is he, anyway?”
    “Last I saw him, he was curled up on my pillow in the bedroom. I can get him if you want.”
    “No, that’s okay,” Hurley says quickly.
    I set down the gift with my name and rip open the one for the beast. Inside is a package of catnip-filled mice toys. “He’ll like these,” I say. “And maybe it will distract him from my tree.”
    My Christmas tree—a small Charlie Brown–looking thing—is standing in one corner of the living room. Only the top half of it is decorated, as Rubbish made it his goal in life to bat everything within reach of his paws off the branches. I learned that decorating with breakable ornaments and those icicle tinsel things is not a smart idea when you have a cat. I’ve been cleaning up shards of glass for days now; and when I last emptied the litter box, I found little cat turds embedded with shiny tinsel.
    I walk over to the tree and grab the only wrapped gift remaining beneath it.