aWa's world

Hop hop hop un peu de culture en ce moche vendredi...

J'ai lu récemment Lean Mean Thirteen, de Janet Evanovich.
Ce bouquin fait partie d'une série qui raconte les aventures de Stephanie Plum, chasseuse de primes experte en boulettes en tous genres.

Avec sa collègue Lula, ex-dame de joie, elle poursuit le méchant vilain, pour souvent finir le nez dans la poussière.
Mais de Morelli, son mec, ou de Ranger, un homme en noir ultra-sexy, il y en aura toujours un pour la relever...
Je ne parle même pas de sa famille... Sa mère qui sort son fer à repasser à la moindre contrariété, et sa grand-mère dont le passe-temps favori est d'assister aux veillées mortuaires de la ville, avec un flingue dans son sac à main...

Vous l'aurez compris, je trouve cette série joyeusement délirante.
Il ne se passe pas 3 pages sans que je me trouve à ricaner...

Petite précision, je les lis en anglais, je ne sais pas ce que vaut la version française...

Voici 2 extraits, pour vous donner un petit aperçu...

The first one, ou les discussions hautement philosophiques de Stephanie et Lula...

'So what's going on with you and Tank?' I asked Lula. 'Is it serious?'
'Yeah, but only for about twelve minutes at a time.'
'Twelve minutes is good.'
'We've been working up to it. And then, if you add all the twelve minutes together, you get a whole hour. You want an hour with Morelli, you just get him watching one of them Lethal Weapon movies.'

I wasn't sure I wanted an hour. My egg timer was set on twenty-two minutes. Eighteen, if Morelli was on his game. An hour sounded like a lot of work.
And if it was divided up into five twelve-minute sessions, I suspected I'd need mechanical devices.
Although there was no doubt in my mind Morelli could manage it.

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The second one, ou les aventures invraisemblables de Stephanie...

'I'm counting to three, Dave. If you aren't hauling ass by three, I'm going to shoot you in the nuts.'
'What is it with my nuts? Why's everybody picking on my nuts?'
'One,' Joyce said.
'You're getting on my nerves.'
'Two.'
'Screw this,' Dave said.

He grabbed the barrel of the gun, the gun discharged, and Joyce shot off the top of his pinkie finger.
Dead silence. We were all surprised.
Dave looked at his shortened pinkie, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he crashed face first on the floor.

'Shit, Joyce,' I said to her. 'There's blood all over the hall and Dillon just did the floors.'
Joyce put her boot to Dave and rolled him onto his back. 'Was his nose always flat like that?'
'No. And he didn't used to have blood coming out of it either. He broke it when he fell on his face.'
Joyce took his hand and shoved it into his pants so he wouldn't get any more blood on the floor.

Bonne journée à tous ...