The New York Times is sponsoring a Pulp Fiction Contest, as outlined in the article below:
Here is my very lame entry:
Ed Goldberg
The Man in the Moon’s cynical smirk was obliterated by the dark clouds lying low in the sky, making the night as black and thick as the sludge in the Gowanus. I was peering out of my grit streaked third floor window waxing philosophical on life, love and where to go for dinner. The yellow cone of light from the street lamp cast its halo on a man shuffling down the opposite side of the street. His features were concealed but from the hesitating gait and the peering into windows, I knew he brought trouble. The shrill ring of the phone jolted me from my reverie. Her sensuous voice, all velvety smooth despite an underlying hysteria, summoned me uptown immediately. I gulped the last finger of bourbon, pocketed my trusty .38 and grabbed my rumpled fedora. Little did I know how long and dark this night was going to be.
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