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Koala Noir
by Tom Patton

The day was gray like the fur of a Northern Queensland Koala. It had been raining all evening, which in no way would harm a Koala due to the layer of raincoat-like oil their fur enjoys.

I was in my office, but I wasn't alone; a magnum of Bourbon was keeping me company. I drank about as much of the stuff a day as a Koala eats Eucalyptus.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door the shook me from my Koala-like reverie.

Her body was lush, and curvaceous, like a sleeping tree-marsupial's rump, and her eyes were large and dark and luminous, like a Koala's.

“Are you Mr. Mike Sickle?” she asked, cocking her head in exactly the way that a Koala does whenever its interest is piqued in something.

“That's me, babe,” I growled the bourbon-laden gurgle not unlike the mating call of a Koala.

“I have a problem,” she said, “one that's as big as the threat posed to the Urban Koala due to the destruction of gum tree-habitats.”

“That is a big problem,” I said. “Tell me more. I'm all fuzzy ears.”

“ I think my husband might be cheating on me; he's wandered away from me in exactly the way a male Koala moves on after mating.”

“The bastard. You want pictures for the divorce?” I fanned out a spread of photos I'd taken of various sleeping Koalas in their native environment.

“No. I want revenge.” She paused curiously. “You know, I can't think of any way to relate that sentence to anything about Koalas at all.”

“That's unfortunate,” I said, “Like when a Koala falls out of the tree.” 

“Do you wanna just go to the zoo instead?” she asked.

“Hell yes.”

We left, clinging, arm-in-arm.