I felt no satisfaction in winding up the dirty job. The guilty didn't get away but the victims never get back their peace of mind. Innocence lost can never been recovered. I don't know why I don't find a better line of work.
She walked into my office looking like a million bucks. Counterfeit. Why do these dames always think they are in some dime store novel when they came in? She was another in a string of cases wanting me to follow a husband around. My name is Frank. I clean houses.
The city was damp as the inside of a tomato. A rotten one. Misty as a rude sneeze. Soon it would awaken for another breakfast of lonely pain. As rainwater pooled on the P.I.’s soggy snap-brim all he could think was, “Would an umbrella be so fatal to my image?”
The fat man’s story taught me how far a slug could take you. From my knuckles? Back of the alley. Bottom of a bottle? To the county lockup. From the barrel of my friends Smith and Wesson? Down to the county morgue…
I've worked for him for years now. He took me for granted, he made me follow his rules. He abused my creativity. I was fed up with that. He generated a new prompt (him)self. He wanted it darker - he got it in black'n'white. And blood. His own this time.
Deep within the dark wells of Washtenaw county lies a darker treasure. An endless supply of uranium that is essential for a nation built on nuclear power. Unless, the galactic martians have a say in who deserves such power. Herein lies the death of a nation built on destructive power.
Something was screwy, Vic thought. To his right, rows of cars parked right on the sidewalk; to his left, milling pedestrians blurrier than D.T.’s; and the road itself so empty he could walk right down the center? Baloney.
“Must be one of A.I. Schlock’s jobs,” he growled. “That dirty rat…”
Walking the mean streets of the Windy City. I am naked beneath my trench coat. A gust of wind blows up the hem and I notice that the weak rubber bands on my faux pant legs have allowed them to drop to my ankles. I should have duct taped them.
It was all my brother's fault. If he would have listened to the Fat Man's Missus, I wouldn't have to do this. Don't get me wrong, I like taking over a bit of his territory. Seems cheap, getting it through the broad instead of my tricks. My name? Snow Miser.
There she was, the end of my case, just another body lying in the middle of the street. She had lied to me, she was just trying to get me to kill her husband, and now she ends up the one dead, her life being washed away in red runoff.
Moshe Katz walked out of the hotel on New York’s East Side, his .38 still warm in his pocket. It took Katz years to track him down. This morning, the Ex-Gestapo officer who had murdered his uncle at Treblinka met his fate. Katz hoped the old Rabbi was granted peace.
I felt no satisfaction in winding up the dirty job. The guilty didn't get away but the victims never get back their peace of mind. Innocence lost can never been recovered. I don't know why I don't find a better line of work.
She walked into my office looking like a million bucks. Counterfeit. Why do these dames always think they are in some dime store novel when they came in? She was another in a string of cases wanting me to follow a husband around. My name is Frank. I clean houses.
The city was damp as the inside of a tomato. A rotten one. Misty as a rude sneeze. Soon it would awaken for another breakfast of lonely pain. As rainwater pooled on the P.I.’s soggy snap-brim all he could think was, “Would an umbrella be so fatal to my image?”
The fat man’s story taught me how far a slug could take you. From my knuckles? Back of the alley. Bottom of a bottle? To the county lockup. From the barrel of my friends Smith and Wesson? Down to the county morgue…
I've worked for him for years now. He took me for granted, he made me follow his rules. He abused my creativity. I was fed up with that. He generated a new prompt (him)self. He wanted it darker - he got it in black'n'white. And blood. His own this time.
They talk about mean streets.
But the streets don’t give a damn.
Case in point; it wasn’t Moretti’s thugs that ran me over on Mulberry Street.
It was some moke delivering bread, lighting a cigarette instead of watching the road.
So I started the case with a broken arm. Again.
Deep within the dark wells of Washtenaw county lies a darker treasure. An endless supply of uranium that is essential for a nation built on nuclear power. Unless, the galactic martians have a say in who deserves such power. Herein lies the death of a nation built on destructive power.
A lost cat in a city. It should have been a straightforward case. Easy money.
And then I found poor Shadow. He'd been run over.
Now, I had to break the bad news to my clients. The weather matched my mood, raining on me as I walked through the streets.
My self importance knows no bounds.
I strode down the middle of the slick city street, murder and mayhem on my mind.
Cars honked like annoyed geese, impeding my thoughts, just as I was getting close to solving the case.
“Hey! Detective Oblivious! Get outta the middle of the road!”
Something was screwy, Vic thought. To his right, rows of cars parked right on the sidewalk; to his left, milling pedestrians blurrier than D.T.’s; and the road itself so empty he could walk right down the center? Baloney.
“Must be one of A.I. Schlock’s jobs,” he growled. “That dirty rat…”
The Tommy Gun got their attention, destroying my hearing and the bank's fancy
clock. The brunette teller I'd been making eyes at vaulted over the counter,
tentacles destroying her dress as I pumped a full drum into her. Stepping over
the creature, I handed my bill to the grateful manager.
The Tommy Gun got their attention, destroying my hearing and the bank's fancy
clock. The brunette teller I'd been making eyes at vaulted over the counter,
tentacles destroying her dress as I pumped a full drum into her. Stepping over
the creature, I handed my bill to the grateful manager.
Walking the mean streets of the Windy City. I am naked beneath my trench coat. A gust of wind blows up the hem and I notice that the weak rubber bands on my faux pant legs have allowed them to drop to my ankles. I should have duct taped them.
It was all my brother's fault. If he would have listened to the Fat Man's Missus, I wouldn't have to do this. Don't get me wrong, I like taking over a bit of his territory. Seems cheap, getting it through the broad instead of my tricks. My name? Snow Miser.
There she was, the end of my case, just another body lying in the middle of the street. She had lied to me, she was just trying to get me to kill her husband, and now she ends up the one dead, her life being washed away in red runoff.
Moshe Katz walked out of the hotel on New York’s East Side, his .38 still warm in his pocket. It took Katz years to track him down. This morning, the Ex-Gestapo officer who had murdered his uncle at Treblinka met his fate. Katz hoped the old Rabbi was granted peace.