Posted in The Case
August 10, 2009 – 9:00 am
Smoke flashing red and blue, the colors drifting away to nothing. The glow of a cigarette, a flickering flame in the dark, driving rain. Gunshot wail. A bullet and a Bulleit, nestled in the warm bosom of my jacket.
Tonight, something bad was about to go down. A man’d need balls to survive a night like this. Steel balls.
The game had just begun.
Chapter Eight – Part 1
Chapter Eight – Part 2
Posted in The Case
November 2, 2009 – 5:00 am
Epilogue: The Return of the Dick
Rehab was hell on Earth. Every night I woke to the sound of screaming – usually my own. A rainbow of bodily fluids coated the wall like a mad mural as I smeared at it desperately, swiping the air to chase the demons away. Yet slowly, one by one, the pegs faded, the blocks pinging gracefully from existence, the scores and buckets and multiballs disappearing like ghosts into the daylight. At last, I could glimpse the clear, crisp edges of reality. It was over.
Back in my office, the debt collectors had turned the place over, smashing the lock and taking anything of value, scattering my files and notes like a kid tearing at wrapping paper on Christmas Day. It took me half an hour to notice anything was out of the ordinary.
Rabbit called. Said Bjorn, the dame, and all their cronies had gone down to the big house. All the drug money in the world couldn’t save them this time. I smiled. I watched his hat disappear behind the door frame, his leather jacket plodding down the creaking staircase and to adventure. Said he was going to try some Ancient Greek place this time. I wish him the best of luck.
And so, I kick back, a foot sweeping the piles of paper and empty bottles from my desk to the floor, and I gaze upon the city. Somewhere, in the night, a little crime was going down. A siren wails. Somewhere, a damsel was in distress.
Dames. Ha. I’d had enough of those to last me a lifetime. Eventually, though, at the back of my mind, I knew the bills would pile up once more. The collectors would be back, the baseball bats a little bigger and the goons a little meaner. A dark, mysterious figure would come a-calling and… Well, what can I say? Maybe people would call me a mug, falling hook, line and sinker for a pretty face, a few credits and a ghost to chase down some alleyway.
But hell. I’m Dick Turpentine. I’m a detective. It’s what I do.
~ FIN ~