Case 1: Strudel Oven Pt. 2 (G)

Oh, money. I faintly remember something like that. My humble abode seemed to echo that statement. If luck was a thing then I had none of it - the only time I am needed, it’s in a 40 year old subway at 3AM. What’s wrong with these people? What are they so afraid of? All they have to do is meet me in a coffee shop at rush hour. They’re more likely to be spotted by the people they don’t want to see when they’re the only ones around. Jesus, no fucking manners anymore. Well, it was close enough 11PM already so I decided to head out. Only a short venture down the stairs - that I frequently put a foot through - stood between me and the shitty streets that seemed perpetually a dark grey hue, a hue acquired only by being slapped for hours by rain. 

The Leon station wasn’t too far from me, only about half an hour on foot. So with a bit of spare time on my hand, well, there was only one thing for it. Now before I even say it, I know I’ll be judged. Fucking cliché on legs. Look at me, already using curse words in every fucking sentence. Well, abra-fucking-kadabra, my life is a noir film. 

I walked through the door, the music jumped up a few octaves as I pushed the door closed behind me. The place was like a sauna, but only the guys here wore clothes. The doorman gave me a nod, might as well have been my best friend I see the guy so often. I kept on walking to the back room, everyone thought they knew what that room was for and that worked just fine for me and my boys. Dave and Jack were already there, sitting around a table covered in papers, a cloud of smoke floating around them, illuminated by the one overhead light in the room. 

“Anything new?”

Jack chimed. The kid wasn’t new around here, he knew his assets and used ‘em. He was the first guy I employed to actually approach me for the job. “Knew my type” he said, hah! The guy’s smart and he knows it, gonna go far so long as things don’t go wrong for him.

“Some guy wants me to meet him at Leon station, mentioned a murder. Weird thing: this person wants me to meet him at 3AM. One of you mind coming with me?”

I was somewhat proud of finally being able to respond to his question with an answer worth hearing.

“No problems, boss. Got any ideas which friend I should bring?”

He replied merrily.

“Can’t go wrong with the .45!”

I remarked, like I was discussing which kind of car I dreamt about. Things had got like this. Streets weren't safe around here. Everyone’s packing. The 80 year old picking up her pills in the pharmacy? Probably a Ruger type. 

I moved further in the room and sat down at the table with ‘em. The table was covered in fake ID’s. Some new guy in town was handing them out like candy at a playground. Fucking idiot, obviously hadn’t realised that people ‘round here tended to have first names and genders. The good thing about this new business was that we wouldn’t have to deal with this low key shit till we finished the murder case. If anyone in the liquor shops hassled us about the amount of kids trying to buy alcohol, all we had to say was “Lady, we’ve got a murder to solve”. Shut them right up. 

Dave was a family man, no way he’d want to come on something like this. Jack was getting ready, loading ‘Roxanne’, his gun, and making sure it was working. We put our vests on, slid on the leather gloves and swaggered to the door. Hard not to, knowing you’ve got a solid layer of Kevlar right under your stained shirt and crumpled tie. The only perfect thing about our appearance, and it was apparent only in our confidence, huh. I nodded at the doorman, he opened the door. For once the rain seemed to make no noise and the streets seemed clean. Thing were looking up. We made course on foot for Leon station.

Case 1: Strudel Oven Pt. 1 (P)

The night sky was a black shroud, speckled with small, glittering stars, like the night-gown of the gaudiest Betsy in New York. It was all pretty normal, except there was no goddamn moon. One day it had just decided to up sticks and leave. That was the thing with earth - it was a fucking shithole. The planet was like a disemboweled body on the sidewalk; given a wide berth. The city was full of giant, poorly-built skyscrapers, stretching upwards like reeds from a pond. It was like a dare between architects, to see how much shit they could get away with before the Building Standards Authority took notice. Got some piss-stained mahogany and rusted sheet metal? You’ve got yourself a skyscraper my friend! The buildings seemed to sway with the wind, though a notice from the city council dismissed this as an “illusion brought on by extreme heat.” You could assume that the nails and rivets lying on the sidewalk were just an illusion too. The street lamps on every corner were worn and rusted; some even had smashed bulbs. Perhaps people couldn’t stand seeing things clearly: the garbage that seemed to appear out of nowhere, blowing around the streets like candy-wrapper tumbleweeds; or the prostitutes that hung about on the curb all the time. When aliens visit in the year 3030, ol’ Jenny’ll still be doing her shifts, feeding that crack addiction.

I slowly pulled myself out of bed, almost tripping over. My eyes weren’t accustomed to the darkness yet, all I could see was a murky haze. There was a shadowy figure sitting on what was probably the couch.

“Mary H. Christ, why're you still here? I gave you the fucking money, now leave Cassandra!" The shadow figure sighed and then left, slamming the door behind her. Goddamnit were my standards dropping; it was probably best that she was in darkness, her face was horrific. Suppose that's what you get for being a PI in this crime-free city. Ha! Everyone here was crooked as a crocodile's smile. 

I suppose I should probably see if I can get a case – I’m struggling to pay rent for even this standard of accommodation, and the landlord has kidnapped the toaster as penalty. Next it’ll be the strudel oven. I’ve hidden it under the floorboards, but he has a nose for kitchen appliances. Is this any way for the leading light in sleuthing to be living - in fear of losing access to delicious pastries at any moment? Quietly seething, I tried to regain my composition. I could finally see in the darkness, catching a glimpse of myself in the wall-mounted mirror. It all became clear, why I was referred to as ‘The Druid.’ My beard had grown to master-wizard length, jet black and wispy, sloping halfway down my large stomach. Jesus, it looked like a furry chair. I decided that I should freshen up; what better place than the lovely communal bathroom? After surveying my apartment - a sparsely furnished misery-cube with torn grey wallpaper and rotting floorboards - I decided against locking the door, what was there to steal? The couch? I'd get a laugh out of that, it smelled like Satan's piss. 

Though my apartment was awful, the communal bathroom was even worse. It looked like the walls had been tiled by flinging cement and ceramics in every direction. Perhaps the walls were tiled by monkeys, flinging shit was all they knew. There were two toilets and two sinks in a block housing fifteen. Opportunist thugs charged people twenty cents a use. Smart bastards, probably earned more than me. However, the bathroom seemed strangely empty, apart from an addict shooting up heroin in the corner. He was known as 'Urinal' for whatever reason. Nice guy, aside from looking like an emaciated zombie. I splashed my face with tepid water from one of the sinks. Like a quick wash would make any difference. I stared into the cracked mirror - My hair was black; medium length but badly cut, done by myself one drunken night with a glass shard. Dark circles sat underneath dull green eyes. It looked like I had been punched in the face, and that's what I told people, to maintain my image as someone not to be trifled with. Urinal started mumbling, stirred from his drug-induced stupor,
"Uuuugh, hey, like I was going through the mail and I found something for ya'. Opened it and there was no cash. Take it man." There was no true kindness in this place. He flailed a bony arm out in front of him, vaguely in my direction. I grabbed the envelope, it was crumpled and stained. I pulled out the letter inside. My first case in ages.

"A body has been discovered under suspicious circumstances. You appear to be a private investigator, at least according to this Biro-scribbled pamphlet. Meet me at Leon subway station at 3am. There's good money in solving this case."