Friday, February 24, 2012

Detective Mick and the One Ring (Pt. 3)

            I awoke in a back alley filled with more trash than your average popular music station. My head clanged like the Vatican on Christmas Eve, and I put a hand to it in an effort to stop my bells from ringing. Grumbling, I shook my head. Finding my hat, I put it on my head, and stood up. It wasn’t the first time I had been punched out and ditched in an alley, but it was the first time in broad daylight. Why didn’t anybody help me?
            “Jerks,” I said, grumbling and groggy. Putting a hand on the red, rough bricks to my left in order to steady myself, I saw a large, folded piece of paper laying in front of me in a puddle. Although most of the ink had blotted away in the continuing rain, (I was a likely candidate for hypothermia) I could still read a few words.
            “No hard feelings, just felt…” here it got blotchy and unreadable, but the jist of the note was Eddy just wanted to punch me in the face. Couldn’t blame him, lord knows I feel that way about a couple ‘a mugs about town. “…man you’re looking for is Everett Donning. Best of luck!
            I looked at the paper. Eddy apparently had tracked down the man who had bought the ring. More than that, he had known who it was. More more than that, he had known I was on the case, and looking for the same man. Slowly lowering the paper, I spoke in a hushed whisper, “Eddy is a waaay better detective than me.”

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Detective Mick and the One Ring (Pt. 2)

Okay I'm working on this much faster than I should be, seeing as I'm a full time student with many more writing projects. But here's part two! Feel free to catch up on part one here.

             I stepped out of my car and quickly closed the door. I didn’t want the upholstery to be exposed to the sheets of rain that were pounding against my windshield like paparazzi that just spotted a drunken starlet.  Hiking up the collar of my coat, I walked calmly past other unlucky souls holding umbrellas or newspapers over their heads. In front of me was the pawn shop that Catherine had pointed me to. Neon lights shone through the reinforced windows advertising jewelry, guns, and fair prices. I couldn’t see the pampered and debonair Ms. Von Werner ever stepping foot inside of a place like this, but after checking the piece of paper for the third time, I balled in and threw it in the river that was passing as a gutter. I don’t worry about littering. This city is just one big piece of trash, one more piece of paper is going to have the same effect as the attempts to clean this dump up.
            I opened the door, and hearing the ring of the bell over my head, shook some of the rain from my long coat. I hope I didn’t look too much like a dog that had been left on his chain for too long, but that’s exactly how I felt. A large, bearded man stood behind the counter, his enormous hands resting flat on the glass. Underneath those massive paws laid several expensive-looking watches, and a few watches that actually were that pricey.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Detective Mick and the One Ring (Pt. 1)

Hey so I'm sorry about the huge delay in writing anything. I'm sure both of you are devastated. I've been quite busy as I work every weeknight and go to school every, well, school day. So since I didn't feel like Skyrim tonight, I decided to let you in on a little something. I've been doing this writing thing for awhile, and even as far back as third grade I was writing short stories. Sure, they were 90% dialogue without any reference, but they were semi-readable. The main reoccurring character was a shady detective named Detective Mick, mostly inspired by the Tracer Bullet character from Calvin and Hobbes. So I decided I'd bring that crazy little guy back, with a little bit more narration than he's used to. So here's the first part of a short story of unknown lengths. Hope you can stand it. 

            The smoke rose lazily over the ashes in the tray. They should be floating that easy. They didn’t have bills to pay. I did. My name is Detective Mick, so my door tells me, and most of my bills pay for my three T’s; Tobacco, Tequila, and Teresa. The second two often have a grand old time collecting together.
            I’m a private eye. I solve the crimes that are brought to me, and ignore the ones that don’t pay. That would explain why they threw my hindquarters out of the force. They called me corrupt but I’d prefer to call myself a business man. I don’t get enough cases, unless you count the ones at the clinic that I receive from Teresa. That’s not a fact I give out very often, so consider yourself lucky for hearing it. I don’t give out too many facts in general. Secret facts are what my business is founded on, my own personal 11 herbs and spices.
            It was about the thirteenth time I had recrossed my legs over my desk that day when she walked in. She was tall, like they all are. I think I’ve only had three women clients under five foot eight, and they were only looking for their lost kitten. It was a damn hard shame to collect those eighty seven cents from those girls for finding the late Mittens in the street down the road. I work with what I can get. But back to this vision gliding into my office like she was on roller skates. Tall, like I said, with blond curls bouncing down to her high collar. Under her shoulders was what looked like a half-open dresser drawer wearing a stark-white shirt, and before long was a skirt that would have been tasteful at any state dinner. Any state dinner that took place in the seediest dive in town, that is. I’m usually pretty good with words, but these legs rendered me speechless. That’s not entirely true, I suppose.
            “Buhhh,” I said, struggling to stand while my feet were still propped up on the desk. She didn’t look fazed. Girls like this one standing in my office aren’t often fazed by anything, much less positive attention from the type of guy I am. You know my type, five o’clock shadow since 8 PM last night, and the bags under the eyes to prove it. My fedora was still tipped far forward on my face, sending my face into shadow. I like it that way, so this dame couldn’t tell what I was thinking. So she couldn’t see my eyes, still working on getting past her knees. Maybe once I did I could pay attention to the sentence she had begun some time ago.