Shades0077
09-29-2005, 10:24 AM
So recently I've been on a total detective kick, started off by reading some of the Garrett books by Glen Cook. So I decided I'd give things a shot myself, and see if I could come up with a tale of my own. I'm not really that far, but I've got an intro bit, so I figured I would post that and see what people think. Any comments are appreciated.
I wake up with a start, looking around wildly for the source. Spying a decent sized drool stain on my desk, I surmise that I fell asleep. I do a lot of that. The surmising, not the sleeping. It’s what I do. I’m a detective. Or at least, that’s what the sign on the door says. Business has been slow these days, and I do a lot more of the other thing. The sleeping, not the surmising. It just seems like not many people need to hire us private dicks anymore. Well, except for that one movie director, but whoa now, that’s another story.
Anyway, glancing down at the floor, I see what stirred me from my slumber. A shattered bottle of Jack. Goddammit. What a waste of good liquor. Now I’ve got two problems to put my detecting skills to work on. One, cleaning up the busted glass, and two, securing some more booze. Item one is easy. Using my superior tracking abilities, I locate my dust pan and brush in my broom closet. Well looky here, I’m almost halfway done my goals for the day. The rest, unfortunately, is going to be a good bit harder to pull off. As I’ve said, cases are pretty scarce. This means funds are low. If I were a cartoon, I’d pull out my wallet and a few moths would flutter out, signifying my utterly complete lack of monetary units. But I’ve got the rent paid up, and enough food for a few weeks. It’s just that the hooch money is so low that it looks up to cockroaches.
This will not do.
So I’m thinking about how I can rustle up some work, maybe run a package job or some surveillance for Downtown Donnie, when all of a sudden, She walks into the door. Hearing the thud of someone’s face meeting wood causes me to cringe in sympathy. After a few moments, the door opens, and I begin to glance up from my position on the floor, where I’m sweeping up my mess. First, I catch a glimpse of her shoes. A real strappy number, black stilettos, this must be one classy dame. The legs come next, and damn, they just keep on coming. My gaze travels upward rapidly, wanting to know if she follows through with the scintillating hints her lower half has provided. Sure enough, she’s a knockout. A real life blonde Hollywood bombshell. I’m almost glad I already dropped the bottle of Jack, because I certainly would have dropped it after seeing her. And let’s just face it. That would have been really embarrassing.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a Mr. Henry Scarpington.” Her voice is sultry and sensuous, a hot August night down on the bayou. I think I’m in love. But alas, it appears as if we are destined for a professional relationship. Besides, red heads are more my style anyway.
“Well you need look no further miss. You’re lucky though, not many women catch me down on my knees. Only the ones I really like,” I quip, flashing her a wink. Wait a second, what does that even mean? Rocking back onto my heels, I spring upright, offering her my hand. “Hank Scarpington, at your service. The guys call me Scarper. The gals call me every night.” Ah, success! My rapier sharp wit results in her laughter as she takes my hand, its melodious peals making my knees go all a quiver. She’s got a smile that could melt steel. Gesturing for her to sit, I take up residence behind my desk, inconspicuously kicking the dustpan and brush away. Propping my feet up on my desk and lacing my fingers together behind my head, I give her a nod, signaling for her to tell me her tale. And what a tale it is.
I wake up with a start, looking around wildly for the source. Spying a decent sized drool stain on my desk, I surmise that I fell asleep. I do a lot of that. The surmising, not the sleeping. It’s what I do. I’m a detective. Or at least, that’s what the sign on the door says. Business has been slow these days, and I do a lot more of the other thing. The sleeping, not the surmising. It just seems like not many people need to hire us private dicks anymore. Well, except for that one movie director, but whoa now, that’s another story.
Anyway, glancing down at the floor, I see what stirred me from my slumber. A shattered bottle of Jack. Goddammit. What a waste of good liquor. Now I’ve got two problems to put my detecting skills to work on. One, cleaning up the busted glass, and two, securing some more booze. Item one is easy. Using my superior tracking abilities, I locate my dust pan and brush in my broom closet. Well looky here, I’m almost halfway done my goals for the day. The rest, unfortunately, is going to be a good bit harder to pull off. As I’ve said, cases are pretty scarce. This means funds are low. If I were a cartoon, I’d pull out my wallet and a few moths would flutter out, signifying my utterly complete lack of monetary units. But I’ve got the rent paid up, and enough food for a few weeks. It’s just that the hooch money is so low that it looks up to cockroaches.
This will not do.
So I’m thinking about how I can rustle up some work, maybe run a package job or some surveillance for Downtown Donnie, when all of a sudden, She walks into the door. Hearing the thud of someone’s face meeting wood causes me to cringe in sympathy. After a few moments, the door opens, and I begin to glance up from my position on the floor, where I’m sweeping up my mess. First, I catch a glimpse of her shoes. A real strappy number, black stilettos, this must be one classy dame. The legs come next, and damn, they just keep on coming. My gaze travels upward rapidly, wanting to know if she follows through with the scintillating hints her lower half has provided. Sure enough, she’s a knockout. A real life blonde Hollywood bombshell. I’m almost glad I already dropped the bottle of Jack, because I certainly would have dropped it after seeing her. And let’s just face it. That would have been really embarrassing.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a Mr. Henry Scarpington.” Her voice is sultry and sensuous, a hot August night down on the bayou. I think I’m in love. But alas, it appears as if we are destined for a professional relationship. Besides, red heads are more my style anyway.
“Well you need look no further miss. You’re lucky though, not many women catch me down on my knees. Only the ones I really like,” I quip, flashing her a wink. Wait a second, what does that even mean? Rocking back onto my heels, I spring upright, offering her my hand. “Hank Scarpington, at your service. The guys call me Scarper. The gals call me every night.” Ah, success! My rapier sharp wit results in her laughter as she takes my hand, its melodious peals making my knees go all a quiver. She’s got a smile that could melt steel. Gesturing for her to sit, I take up residence behind my desk, inconspicuously kicking the dustpan and brush away. Propping my feet up on my desk and lacing my fingers together behind my head, I give her a nod, signaling for her to tell me her tale. And what a tale it is.