Film Noir . A short detective case,1960's. . The dame's scream hit an octave usually reserved for calling dogs, but it meant I had a case, and the sound of greenbacks slapping across my palm is music to my ears any day. After all, I'm not an opera critic. I'm a private eye.
I keep two magmums in my desk. One's a gun, and I keep it loaded. The other's a bottle, and it keeps me loaded. I'm a tracer bullet. I'm a professional snoop.
It's a tough job, but then, I'm a tough guy. Some people don't like an audience when they work. Enough of them have told me with blunt instruments that I'm a phrenologist's dream come true.
Snooping pays the bills, though. Especially Bill, my bookie, and Bill, my probation officer. So when a tall brunette opened my door with a case for me, my heart did a few calisthenics and I took the job.
The dame said she had a case. She sounded like a case herself, but I can't choose my clients. Either she had a psychotic decorator, or her place had been ransacked in a big hurry.
The dame was hysterical. Dames usually are.
The click of a hammer being cocked behind my head focused my thoughts like only a loaded .38 can.
The dame had set me up! She didn't want me to solve the case at all! She just wanted a patsy to pin the crime on!
I introduced the dame to a friend who's very close to my heart. Just a little down and left, to be specific.
My friend is an eloquent speaker. He made three profound arguments while I excused myself from the room. I always leave when the talk gets philisophical.
I'd just finished putting the puzzle peices together when the dame's hired goon jumped out of nowhere and practiced his chiropractic degree.
When he was done, an all-percussion symphony was playing in my head, and the acoustics were incredible. The orchestra went on a ten-city tour of my brain, and I had a season pass with front row seats.
I had figured out who had robbed the museum, but since she wasn't my client anymore, I felt no need to divuldge the information. Besides, the culprit happened to be a buddy of mine. I closed the case.
This exerpt was written by Bill Watterson, from a strip of Calvin and Hobbes.
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