Post by Ben O.O on Jan 12, 2011 9:59:53 GMT -5
The Investigations of Rend Bloodletter, Private Eye, and Company, episode 1: The Caper of the Crimson Skull!
---Part 1---
Another day.
I rolled over in my bed and removed the pen knife from my alarm clock. It’s one of the few things I own from my old home. That, and the longsword I keep in my closet. I set down the pen knife on my bed stand next to the clock. It was 4:30 am. The alarm was to go off at seven. I got out of bed. Knowing the kind of nutjobs my clients tend to be, it probably wouldn’t be long before the first looney came to my door.
I put on my suspenders and shirt. Another day. The clothes smelled like musty old leather left in the rain for too long, possibly because that’s what they were. I don't mind, though. I like the smell. I grabbed my faded brown trench coat and fedora and walked to my office.
The lettering on my door says “James K. Kevlar, Room Service.” My name is not James K. Kevlar, nor do I do room service. That sign is left over from the previous owner of the apartment. I didn’t have enough money to have the door replaced, so I left it there. I am Rend Bloodletter, Private Eye. I lit a cigar, sat in my leather spinning chair, leaned way back, propped my feet on my desk, and gazed blankly out the translucent window. Sure enough, the first client arrived just before five.
First impressions are everything. If you make the wrong first impression, you may never change that impression, no matter what you try. That truth sped through my mind as my first client walked into my office.
The guy was big, and there was something undeniably strange in his demeanor. As if, perhaps, he did not quite… belong. That was my first impression. His skin was grey, and rough, as if chiseled from stone. He appeared as if he was a statue that had just been given life, and not quite sure of what that meant. He wore a flat cap that covered most of his head, and a cheap plain leather jacket that simply screamed inexpensive. He came in slowly, and stood silently at the door for a moment before approaching.
“Good morning,” I said. “A bit early, don’t you think?”
He paused. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, pulling out the chair and sitting down. He looked back up at me.
“Take a picture, it lasts longer,” I said, blowing a smoke ring at him. “Wadda ya want? I ain’t got all day.” The smoke appeared to startle him. He squeezed his eyes shut and recoiled. “Look mister,” I said, “I’m an investigator, not a model. Either give me a job or get out!”
At that, his eyes got wide and he shook his head. “No, no, please! Don’t kick me out,” said he, “I have a job for you.”
I rolled my eyes, took my feet off the desk, and leaned forward. “He speaks! Now tell me what you want.”
He looked at the ground meekly and told his tale, only glancing up at me occasionally. “I am Goyle, and my wife and children have been kidnapped. It all started about a week ago, when I felt I was being followed home from the po- err, work. It was late at night, and there was a shadow that walked a few blocks behind me, stopping when I stopped, you know, that whole stalker scene. Then he ducked into an alley, and all of the sudden there was a loud clatter from the spot where he had just turned. I turned to look, and somebody grabbed me from behind and pulled me into another alley. A sharp object was pressed against my neck and I heard someone whisper in my ear, ‘See ya later.’”
“Sounds ominous,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Goyle. “Then everything was normal for a while. Then two days ago, I came home from work, as usual. When I got there, the whole house was a wreck, and I couldn’t find my wife or two beautiful daughters. What I did find, however, was a hand-written note in my youngest daughter’s room.”
“Did you bring it?” I asked with interest. This was turning out to be quite the case.
“Of course,” said Goyle. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket. “Here,” he said as he handed it to me.
It was crumpled up. I had to work very carefully to not tear the paper. It said:
SEE YA LATER
---Part 1---
Another day.
I rolled over in my bed and removed the pen knife from my alarm clock. It’s one of the few things I own from my old home. That, and the longsword I keep in my closet. I set down the pen knife on my bed stand next to the clock. It was 4:30 am. The alarm was to go off at seven. I got out of bed. Knowing the kind of nutjobs my clients tend to be, it probably wouldn’t be long before the first looney came to my door.
I put on my suspenders and shirt. Another day. The clothes smelled like musty old leather left in the rain for too long, possibly because that’s what they were. I don't mind, though. I like the smell. I grabbed my faded brown trench coat and fedora and walked to my office.
The lettering on my door says “James K. Kevlar, Room Service.” My name is not James K. Kevlar, nor do I do room service. That sign is left over from the previous owner of the apartment. I didn’t have enough money to have the door replaced, so I left it there. I am Rend Bloodletter, Private Eye. I lit a cigar, sat in my leather spinning chair, leaned way back, propped my feet on my desk, and gazed blankly out the translucent window. Sure enough, the first client arrived just before five.
First impressions are everything. If you make the wrong first impression, you may never change that impression, no matter what you try. That truth sped through my mind as my first client walked into my office.
The guy was big, and there was something undeniably strange in his demeanor. As if, perhaps, he did not quite… belong. That was my first impression. His skin was grey, and rough, as if chiseled from stone. He appeared as if he was a statue that had just been given life, and not quite sure of what that meant. He wore a flat cap that covered most of his head, and a cheap plain leather jacket that simply screamed inexpensive. He came in slowly, and stood silently at the door for a moment before approaching.
“Good morning,” I said. “A bit early, don’t you think?”
He paused. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, pulling out the chair and sitting down. He looked back up at me.
“Take a picture, it lasts longer,” I said, blowing a smoke ring at him. “Wadda ya want? I ain’t got all day.” The smoke appeared to startle him. He squeezed his eyes shut and recoiled. “Look mister,” I said, “I’m an investigator, not a model. Either give me a job or get out!”
At that, his eyes got wide and he shook his head. “No, no, please! Don’t kick me out,” said he, “I have a job for you.”
I rolled my eyes, took my feet off the desk, and leaned forward. “He speaks! Now tell me what you want.”
He looked at the ground meekly and told his tale, only glancing up at me occasionally. “I am Goyle, and my wife and children have been kidnapped. It all started about a week ago, when I felt I was being followed home from the po- err, work. It was late at night, and there was a shadow that walked a few blocks behind me, stopping when I stopped, you know, that whole stalker scene. Then he ducked into an alley, and all of the sudden there was a loud clatter from the spot where he had just turned. I turned to look, and somebody grabbed me from behind and pulled me into another alley. A sharp object was pressed against my neck and I heard someone whisper in my ear, ‘See ya later.’”
“Sounds ominous,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Goyle. “Then everything was normal for a while. Then two days ago, I came home from work, as usual. When I got there, the whole house was a wreck, and I couldn’t find my wife or two beautiful daughters. What I did find, however, was a hand-written note in my youngest daughter’s room.”
“Did you bring it?” I asked with interest. This was turning out to be quite the case.
“Of course,” said Goyle. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket. “Here,” he said as he handed it to me.
It was crumpled up. I had to work very carefully to not tear the paper. It said:
SEE YA LATER