By Alfred Hitchcock
Alfred Hitchcock provides Twelve tales They Wouldn't permit Me Do on television
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Additional resources for Alfred Hitchcock Presents Twelve Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV
Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who’s been missing for a week. Street talk was she’d gone straight, quit the life. Street talk was wrong. Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw. The twine doesn’t budge. Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth. Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her.
The door frame had trim that matched the interior. The porch was clean. I knelt on the welcome mat and examined the strike panel and the lock mechanisms. Both were solid, normal. I stood, brushed some sawdust from my knee, and went back into the house. The windows seemed normal, untampered with. There was broken glass on the floor by the window where the uniforms had entered. Other than being shattered, it also appeared normal. The front door was unlocked; after breaching the residence through the window, the uniforms had opened the door to let the rest of the crew inside.
I pocketed the five extra shells, the bag of gray granules, a Glock 21 with two extra clips of . 45 rounds, and a six inch butterfly knife. Then I hung an iron crowbar on an extra strap sewn into the lining of my coat, and headed out to greet the morning. Chinatown smelled like a combination of soy sauce and garbage. It was worse in the summer, when stenches seemed to settle in and stick to your clothes. Though not yet seven in the morning, the temperature already hovered in the low 90s. The sun made my face hurt.
Alfred Hitchcock Presents Twelve Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV by Alfred Hitchcock