In the Latest Crime Drama Diego Luna's Insider Tips Verge on the Clockwise Modern

Suppose, sweetheart, you try telling the facts about this case one by one from the very beginning. Yes, Mr. Spade, death by titillation, corpse wore nothing but a Bogart smile, found in the realm of female fashion. There, bold dramatic jewels crown the ultimate trophy woman. Sophia. She's still moist after sex in the sun without cortisone cream. Bourbon dribbles down her horizon and she slurps it up. She works the camera until a blue gust blows her contacts out. How does she undulate along the red carpet in laced white jeans and gypsy flounce? Tough job for a man like me, so easily infected by flirtation, being surrounded by gorgeous babes. Eye problems surface when I stare at her swirling fashion and still cannot fathom. I cannot read my fine print, so I write bigger and bigger. Oh, the woman in the mirror lathers her wrinkles in suds of botulinum toxin type A. Sophia dangles me on silver threads as I waltz along the arc of her oblique glances. And the other suspect, Gina, a chunky British vamp, purrs there's nothing like shopping. She claims her boyfriend has eyes only for her, fixation kidnaps all thought. She's a good girl gone bad, early Diva tendencies, at four she played a rabbit, fluffy tail, nirvana smile. Agents swarm when she picks up an older man in a fuchsia shirt and green tie. The cheaper the crook the gaudier the outfit, angel, let's hope they don't hang her by that sweet neck. You yawn, precious, as you massage the jewel on your navel into that man's tummy. You've lost the weight you worked so hard to put on, mi amor.