“We caught the Abominable Snowman!” A college kid said.

“Are you the ski patrol?”

“Here—put these handcuffs on. And don’t ask questions!”

“Have you seen a sexy woman ski through here?” Gregson asked.

“Didn’t I tell you not to ask questions! Do you want to murder her too?”

“Think about it… where’s her body? It’s like it melted into the snow,” Gregson said.

“The Snowman has been killing women for years—I’m sure you have a way. Besides, we don’t have to solve the mystery. We just have to keep you from killing. You’re covered in blood!”

“I slipped in it! The real killer is out there! Hey, that shotgun isn’t loaded,” Gregson said.

“How do you know?”

“First off, it’s white—the kind used at shotgun weddings. That’s a prank gun found at the party store. When you pull the trigger, a flag shoots out that says, knocked up.”

The college kid pulled the trigger, and the flag came out. “How did you know?”

“I’m a detective—Private Investigator, Retired. Call me Gregson.”

“Wow! A real detective!”

“Before you boys get too excited, perhaps, we should catch the real killer.”

Gregson skied down the mountain without slowing down. After being clothes-lined by low-hanging trees, and skiing into a snow drift, he got to the bunny slopes. An attractive blonde kept falling on her perfect toosh. She stared at Gregson. He had something most women want. Creativity—only found in the balls. Gregson knew he was a man because of it. All men have their standard for what makes them men—but there is no fooling a woman. She knows it when she sees it—her attraction bypasses her brain. All theories of masculinity die, when one works. And Gregson was the aphrodisiac for the opposite sex.

Pastor Steve was waiting at the bottom, with no Liz in sight.

There was blood on his tight snowsuit.

“Where is she?” Gregson demanded.


“The girl you murdered.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Gregson looked at his front. It could’ve been spaghetti.

“Honey!” Liz walked over. She had blood on her white-beater. It looked like she had just taken a shower. Steam was pouring off her, and her hair was turning frosty. So was, her perfect chest. “I brought you coco! Hi Gregson!”

“Whose blood is that on you?”

“I’m a bit embarrassed. Hubby and I made-out halfway down the mountain, and I gave him a bloody nose.”

Steve smiled at Gregson through bloody teeth—he wasn’t the Snowman—he had the bloody nose to prove it.

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