Ryan, she admonished me, "you don't know I'm here on business."
She sat down on the barstool next to me. She was a woman of average height and striking, dark beauty, wearing a crisp business jacket and skirt, hose, and pumps.
Her dark, straight hair was trimmed in a neat cut that ended at the nape of her neck and was parted off of the dark skin of her forehead, emphasizing the lazy appeal of her dark eyes.
"Marilyn," I chided her, "you wouldn't be in this place if you weren't. Did you have a good time in Branson?"
Marilyn Soglin was a reporter for the Ohio Arcane, a yellow magazine that covered all sorts of supernatural and paranormal events throughout the Midwest.
Usually, the events they covered weren't much better than: "Monkey Man Seen With Elvis's Love Child," or "JFKs Mutant Ghost Abducts Shapeshifting Girl Scout."
