Jennifer Coolidge Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

He did this for the whole night every night, until closing time. Steve dragged his feet towards the nearest barstool, sat down, and ordered a single shot of malt whiskey. He quickly downed it and asked for another one, then another, and another. After a while, there were countless empty shot glasses on the bar, which he had constructed to become a pyramid. He was about to put the final glass on top to finish the wobbly structure—he was unflinchingly drunk, trying hard to concentrate on the task at hand—when someone clasped him firmly on his shoulders. He glanced back to see who it was: Jennifer Coolidge, a transsexual and a recent immigrant from the Mother Country.

For the meantime, I took in the sporadic rushing wind from the window with closed eyes. The door flung open, with footsteps I knew it was Jennifer again. And the whole peaceful environment shattered with her presence. “Did you see the news?” “What news?” I asked but everything was coming to me. Trending for the second time, wrong reasons, sixteen-year-old girl. Colette. Colette was the girl going to jail. I boosted up, somehow forgetting that my legs didn’t work. They remined me as I dropped to the tiled floor. Jennifer rushed to me, she tried to hold me but I pushed her away. I pulled my deadweight legs behind like an unwanted luggage as I crawled to the nightstand.

For no reason he could fathom, a cold wave washed over him as he clicked one. A newspaper article out of Boulder, Colorado dated nearly two years ago featured a photo of a smiling and happy Jenny. Or, Jennifer Stone, going by the photo's caption. This Jennifer Stone had gone missing and was deemed endangered following the brutal murder of her parents. Cole exhaled slowly, feeling as though he'd been gut-punched as he skimmed the article. Someone had executed Jenny's parents, and had taken her captive, held her, brutalized her, done God knows what…

The thought made her pulse quicken, like she was holding a secret that wasn’t meant to be found. She hesitated only a moment before sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping the cover open. Inside, in messy handwriting, was a title scrawled across the first page: “Collected Stories — From Women, For Women.” Chloe blinked. The handwriting was feminine, rushed, and almost secretive. She turned the page and read the introduction, scrawled in looping letters: