Sean Patrick Little

“Ladies and gentlemen!” A loud, brash male voice rose above the din in the bar; it was bellowing and unmistakable. “May I have your attention, please!”
Abe’s stomach tightened into a ball. After more than twenty years of listening to absurd nonsequiturs being bandied about during lulls in the office by the same voice, Abe knew who was speaking in an instant. His longtime business partner, CS Duffy, clad in his standard black Carhartt hooded sweatshirt and faded blue jeans, a Milwaukee Brewers cap on his head, was standing on a chair holding up his private investigator’s license folio as if it was some sort of officious piece of federal ID. “My name is Dr. Herbert Manfred Marx. I am with the CDC. We have an emergency situation.”
The bar quieted nearly to silence. Abe started to move toward his partner. He had no idea what Duff was planning to say or do, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.
Duff looked around the room, taking the time to make eye contact with the dozens of concerned speed daters. “The CDC has isolated a new form of sexually transmitted disease. We are calling it Mega-Herpes Complex IX. It is highly contagious and may result in your genitals exploding off your bodies in much the same way some lizards eject their own tails to confuse pursuing predators.”
There were a few gasps from some of the women in the room and a round of confused murmurs.
Duff continued unfazed. He unfurled a large, unflattering photocopy of an old photograph of Abe’s face. “We believe we have tracked Patient Zero to this location. If you see this man, for the love of God, do not sleep with him!”
Abe walked up to Duff, grabbed his sleeve, and yanked him off the chair.
Duff landed heavily. “Hey, Patient Zero! Good to see you.”
― Sean Patrick Little, Where Art Thou?

“Another channel said it was the fault of our own government, a lab experiment gone bad. The right-wing channels blamed liberals. The left-wing channels blamed conservatives.”
― Sean Patrick Little, All We Have