Smells Like Sex

The manager looked like he'd spent the night in a running microwave. He squeezed a small tube and applied its slimy contents to the goatee of angry rash running up his nostrils.

"You look like a Mars bar," he commented on their chocolate-and-mustard uniforms. Mr. Holliday sneezed again and clasped his hands tighter in his lap. The bouquet of fire-tipped joss sticks on the manager's desk had clouded the office with heavy smoke. Curses. "Better than rotting meat I always say," he replied coolly.

Junior—his rookie associate—sat beside him scraping the hard-plastic arm-rest with a confounding focus. Mr. Holliday glanced at the other occupant of the room, a grumpy-looking auntie with the same blotched face as the manager who sat to their side and listened attentively.

"Anyway, thanks for coming. I'm glad the volunteer corps finally took this seriously," the manager said, wearing a thin smile and tossing the tube on his cluttered desk. "The tenants are terrified. That's why the owner's association president is here today," he said, pointing to the grumpy auntie.

"How many infected to date?" Mr. Holliday asked.

The manager clawed at a sheet of paper on his desk and ran a finger down its chicken scratch longhand. "Fifty by last count. This foreign virus had everyone on edge, to be honest. They think the rash is connected somehow."

"Evil has befallen this place," the grumpy auntie interrupted, clutching her purse wallet tighter to the tummy folds. She threw a knowing glance at the manager who nodded somberly. "Yes, this is the result of our sins."

"What sins are those?" Junior said, suddenly interested in happenings on Planet Earth.

The manager toyed with an egg-shaped glass paperweight. "All these women parading half-naked around town. It's a travesty," he said turning to the auntie.

Mr. Holliday did not react. "We'll investigate. Any idea where this started?"

The manager sucked in his lips and stared at the ceiling. "That's the mystery, you see. Best I've been able to figure out is it spreads faster on work days."

"All right, let us know if you find anything new." Mr. Holliday drew a hand wipe from his pocket and wiped the palms, "Remember, people want this place locked down. Can't have the entire city walking about like mutant tomatoes."

He stood up to leave and Junior followed suit while pushing down on his mustard beret. "Must you look?" Junior asked innocently.

The manager puzzled at the question. "At what?"

"The half-naked women."

"Don't you?"

"Yes, but I'm not an old perv," Junior said, flashing a chipped tooth smile.

"Time to go, son." Mr. Holliday gripped Junior's arm and strode toward the glass door. "Do you have to blurt out everything that pops into your mind?"

"Well, I certainly don't want suppressed thoughts to weigh me down," Junior replied, wrestling with his belt and half-squatting to reposition the family jewels.

"What's weighing you down is going in, not coming out," Mr. Holliday said, patting Junior's bulging belly.

"Are you calling me fat?"

"Son, your waist enters the room before you do. What do you think?"

Junior pouted. "I'm a growing boy."

"What's so interesting about the arm-rest, anyway?" Mr. Holliday asked, marching out the office veranda and into the afternoon sun.

"Funny, really. It smelled like sex."