(no subject)
I wrote a story.
The Toughest Private Detective, Ever.
As Detective James Grubel sat in his office, shaving his deck of vintage silk lined playing cards with a straight razor, he heard a knock at the door. It was about time; after all, he hadn't had a good job in weeks. He decided at that point that he was going to take the job, no matter what it was. A lady named Layla Smith stepped in, who couldn't have been more than twenty-five and pretty to show for it. James decided to turn on the charm, rather than degrading the lady.
“Hi, I'm wondering if you can help me,” she said, her voice quavering a little.
“Come in and sit down why don't you?” James responded.
He took out a fat cuban and lit it up. He took a long draw and asked, “so, what can I help you with?”
Layla coughed a little and said, “I'm sorry, the sign out there said no smoking...”
“Right,” responded James, “and I'll bet that sign also knows eighty-six ways to kill a man. Why don't you smoke too?”
“But I don't smoke...”
“Look lady, I ain't got all day. Either smoke one or get out.”
“Well, I don't have anywhere else to go, so...” Layla said, as she took a cigar and began to light it up.
“Alright, that's better,” said James, “now give me a good reason why I shouldn't just kill you.”
Layla had a short coughing fit from the cigar and began to sob softly. James sighed, as a woman crying was the second-most irritating thing to him; right after babies crying.
“Come on, I haven't got all day. Can't you see I was busy?” James pointed to the shaved playing-card dust, “I'll give you ten seconds.”
“My son,” she spluttered through the whimpers, “he's been kidnapped, just two days ago.”
“I don't give a damn about your son lady, you want to know why? Because your son can't PAY me to find him.”
“I'll pay!” Layla said, sterner now than before, “I'll pay.”
“Oh, I didn't think of that. I'll find your son, lady, now get the heck out of my office.”
Layla looked at him a little confused, “but I haven't even told you my name,” she protested.
“I've had enough of you! Why would I want to know your name? I'm not trying to find you, I'm trying to find your son. Get out now, or I'll get you out,” James glowered at her as if she had insulted his mother.
Layla rose to her feet, sobbing even harder now than before. James quickly counted to three then jumped over his desk and put her in a headlock. He growled aggressively then dragged her over to the window. She screamed so he donkey punched her in the back of the head, opened the window and threw her out. He didn't even need to catch his breath afterwards.
Looking out the window, he noticed, behind the crumpled, gasping lady, the traffic going past in the street. That meant he was on the ground floor. 'That's funny', he thought, 'my office is on the third floor. I wonder whose office this is?'
He opened the office door and read the nameplate. “Craig McCutcheon,” he scowled. This sort of thing happened a lot. When James arrives to the office in the morning, he's often far too angry to get the right office or sometimes even the right building.
He shrugged it off, and reached for the telephone. He dialled in the digits for his long time partner, Jake Fist. “Jake, we've got a BIG problem. We've got to find a boy.”
“Alright, I'll get the straps,” Jake's gruff voice replied.
“No- not like that. This is a job.”
“A job? Great! What do we know about him?”
“Well, if he's anything like his mother, then he's a total bitch who wastes time and money pretty much constantly.”
“That's good to go. I'll be there in my Humvee in ten minutes.”
* * *
James and Jake were cruising across the city. Jake was driving, revving the engine wildly at 120mph and holding down the air-horn at all times, whilst James sat at the passenger window firing his gun at potential criminals. They'd cleaned up most of the east side of the city, and now, as the sun lay gently over the liberty lake on their right, they pushed across to the west side aiming to solve the case before the end of the day.
“This is pretty bad,” James shouted over the sound of the air-horn, “it's been three hours and we still haven't cracked this case.”
“I've got an idea,” Jake yelled back, “we're two blocks away from the Yale, don't you have a friend there we could coerce in to giving us information?”
The Yale was the dirtiest drinking hole on the west side of the city. More cases have broken there than anywhere else. “You're right,” shouted James, “I'll get the shotguns.”
Jake drove the Humvee at screaming speeds down Jefferson Drive across to 34rd street intersection, where the Yale is located. As they approached, Jake nodded to James and they both got ready. As soon as they passed the last set of traffic lights, they both leaped from the speeding vehicle in perfect synchronousity. The Humvee spun and careered off the road in to a cake shop, exploding in flames, while Jake and James hit the road at 120mph, using only their respective willpowers to keep themselves from turning in to road jam. They smashed in to a wall and dust and rubble flew in all directions.
As the cloud of cement powder settled, they both rose to their feet.
“This is pretty bad,” said Jake, pointing to a bone sticking out of his leg, “I think my leg's broken.”
“No,” said James, “that's my humerus bone. May I have it back?”
“Here you go,” said Jake, pulling the bone out and giving it back to James, who stuffed it back in to his arm.
James wiped the wound with the sleeve of his jacket and saw that it had healed. He picked up the shotguns and threw one to Jake. “You go round the back and wait three minutes, then storm in and... well, you know?” said James.
Jake nodded and ran up the street. James crossed the road and entered the Yale. Inside was dark and dingy, as despite the fact the sun beat down outside, the windows were always tarred up. Rusty stood behind the bar in proper dress, cleaning a pint glass with a white cloth. The various ales stacked behind the counter gave the only non-brown color the place had, apart from a blue fluorescent sign bearing the name.
He peered around looking at the pathetic handful of losers who sat here regularly. He was looking for Dan Browder, an ex-underground thug who was more washed up than the pacific. He was sitting at the bar, tending to a scotch. James approached him.
“I could kill you a hundred times over, so you better help. I need to find a boy.”
Dan looked round and grunted. “I didn't think you were like that. I'll give you a number to call.”
“No- not like that. This is a job,” responded James, “and if you don't help me immediately, I'll kill you to death.”
Dan glanced at his shotgun and sighed. “You don't scare me. I've been hit by worse in 'Nam. That's why I'm always at the bottle, it still hurts now. I can help you with the case, though.”
James prompted him by smashing him round the jaw with the butt of the shotgun. “Talk,” he said furiously.
“The boy in question was taken by a Mafia gang on the west side of the city,” Dan began, seemingly oblivious to the fact that James had just violently assaulted him, “A new gang, full of hotshot kids. No respect for the established families.”
“Figures,” said James, “we already cleaned out the east side.”
“Right. Their hideout is located at the Bester Docks, in warehouse 22a,” Dan said.
Upon revealing this information, a few cronies at the back started to take notice. They got up and pulled out their nine millimetres. James sighed, as he'd already done enough to stop crime today. It didn't matter, a few more scumbags biting it was no trouble for him.
Whilst James was distracted thinking about how great he was, the two thugs put their guns up to James' and Dan's heads. 'This is bad,' James thought, 'a point blank bullet wound could land me in hospital for up to a week.' He looked at Dan and saw that, like much of life, he was letting this one pass him by.
Just at the moment, there was an explosion, and the 'Staff Only' door at the back blew in to splinters. Jake stepped through and raised his shotgun to the mafioso who had James pinned.
“Stop! If you,” the guy began, before Jake blew his face in to a million bits of brain across the back wall. “If I what?” Jake shouted, as Rusty fetched the mop from the back room.
The other goon grabbed Dan by the neck and pulled him up, “If you shoot me, you'll kill us both!” he screamed.
“I don't care,” James responded dryly, as he cocked his shotgun. He pulled the trigger and the guy became man-chunks, and Dan dropped to the ground covered in blood.
“You got me,” Dan gurgled through his own blood, “You got me good. But I'll be alright, I'm not some damn kid.”
“I owe you one Dan,” James said, as he shot a few other regulars to death with his shotgun.
“Hey, you owe me twelve now, but who's counting?” Dan chuckled, before collapsing comatose in a pool of his own blood and bile.
James and Jake high-fived, and left to get to Warehouse 22a before it was too late.
* * *
The moon shone down upon the duo as they waited outside the Warehouse, trying to come up with a plan. This was the docks, so when bad things went down here, there wasn't anyone to back you up. This was the badlands.
“How about we storm in and kill them all?” James asked.
“I guess,” Jake said, “that's the best plan we've got.”
James loaded himself up two glocks, and Jake unsheathed his hunting knife. They both crept up to the warehouse door, which was a large corrugated iron sliding door, about twenty-five meters across. James signalled with his hands: Three, two, one, and then they both jumped, smashing through the iron door and bursting in to the warehouse.
Inside, about twenty mafioso were taken totally by surprise. Before any of them could duck for cover, James had dispatched eight of them with his dual glocks. They scattered in to two groups, to the left and right sides of the warehouse and returned fire, as James ducked behind a pile of stacked palettes. Jake ran round the back and slit some throats covering the right hand side of the warehouse, whilst James held covering fire at the left.
“This isn't good,” James screamed, as bullet ricocheted past, “they've got me pinned!”
Jake didn't respond, as he was too busy yanking his hunting knife out of a teenage punk's neck and licking it clean.
James looked towards the ceiling and saw a net full of gas canisters supported in ceiling storage, directly above the mafioso firing at the left. He pulled out his gun and unloaded two bullets directly at the holding bolts, so the canisters fell down and crushed the mafioso goons below. Jake jumped over a pile of crates and went to clean up the survivors with his knife.
James stepped out in to the centre of the warehouse. “Hello? We've come for the boy,” he shouted, “if you give him up, we won't hurt you.”
The boss stepped out from a hidden back room alongside a henchmen. He was dragging the boy by the arm, and the henchman was carrying a large industrial flamethrower. “You Americans are all the same,” the boss said, “you think you own everything.”
“Give me the boy, or I'll make you die twice,” James growled.
“You can't get past Tony, my flame-wielding second man. He's just crazy enough to turn you in to fertilizer.”
James turned to the henchman, and sized him up. He wasn't all that, James decided. He raised his gun to point at Tony. Tony laughed and let rip with a wall of flame that enveloped James entirely. At the same time, James pulled the trigger and sent Tony to the other world, with bits of his face splattering across the boss and kidnapped boy.
James turned to the boss, totally on fire and stared him straight in the eye. “I could destroy your soul, and not even care.”
The boss opened his mouth as if to speak, but then blood suddenly started pouring out. Jake appeared behind him with his hunting knife and started slashing like mad. Fountains of blood sprayed across the room, soaking everyone.
The case was cracked, and everything was fine. James, still on fire, turned to the blood-soaked boy. “Are you alright?”
The boy was unharmed, although he seemed to be hyperventilating and mumbling, and his eyes were extremely dilated.
“What's wrong with this kid?” asked Jake.
“I don't know, I think he must be retarded.”
James roundhouse kicked the boy in the face, and the boy flew two metres back and landed face down on the concrete flooring. “Go home kid. Get out of here,” he ordered.
James was just patting out the last bits of fire which still caught on his jacket, as he turned and gave Jake a wholesome high-five. They left the warehouse together.
It had been a tough day, but the case was solved. Jake went to the water and pulled up his speedboat towards himself and lifted it on the docks, and they both got in. Jake revved the engine and held down the fog-horn. They coasted on to the highway, the propeller tearing up the asphalt. “Another case cracked like an egg under a hammer, as always,” James sighed.
It was just another day in the life of the world's toughest private detective, ever.
By Dr_Ian.
The Toughest Private Detective, Ever.
As Detective James Grubel sat in his office, shaving his deck of vintage silk lined playing cards with a straight razor, he heard a knock at the door. It was about time; after all, he hadn't had a good job in weeks. He decided at that point that he was going to take the job, no matter what it was. A lady named Layla Smith stepped in, who couldn't have been more than twenty-five and pretty to show for it. James decided to turn on the charm, rather than degrading the lady.
“Hi, I'm wondering if you can help me,” she said, her voice quavering a little.
“Come in and sit down why don't you?” James responded.
He took out a fat cuban and lit it up. He took a long draw and asked, “so, what can I help you with?”
Layla coughed a little and said, “I'm sorry, the sign out there said no smoking...”
“Right,” responded James, “and I'll bet that sign also knows eighty-six ways to kill a man. Why don't you smoke too?”
“But I don't smoke...”
“Look lady, I ain't got all day. Either smoke one or get out.”
“Well, I don't have anywhere else to go, so...” Layla said, as she took a cigar and began to light it up.
“Alright, that's better,” said James, “now give me a good reason why I shouldn't just kill you.”
Layla had a short coughing fit from the cigar and began to sob softly. James sighed, as a woman crying was the second-most irritating thing to him; right after babies crying.
“Come on, I haven't got all day. Can't you see I was busy?” James pointed to the shaved playing-card dust, “I'll give you ten seconds.”
“My son,” she spluttered through the whimpers, “he's been kidnapped, just two days ago.”
“I don't give a damn about your son lady, you want to know why? Because your son can't PAY me to find him.”
“I'll pay!” Layla said, sterner now than before, “I'll pay.”
“Oh, I didn't think of that. I'll find your son, lady, now get the heck out of my office.”
Layla looked at him a little confused, “but I haven't even told you my name,” she protested.
“I've had enough of you! Why would I want to know your name? I'm not trying to find you, I'm trying to find your son. Get out now, or I'll get you out,” James glowered at her as if she had insulted his mother.
Layla rose to her feet, sobbing even harder now than before. James quickly counted to three then jumped over his desk and put her in a headlock. He growled aggressively then dragged her over to the window. She screamed so he donkey punched her in the back of the head, opened the window and threw her out. He didn't even need to catch his breath afterwards.
Looking out the window, he noticed, behind the crumpled, gasping lady, the traffic going past in the street. That meant he was on the ground floor. 'That's funny', he thought, 'my office is on the third floor. I wonder whose office this is?'
He opened the office door and read the nameplate. “Craig McCutcheon,” he scowled. This sort of thing happened a lot. When James arrives to the office in the morning, he's often far too angry to get the right office or sometimes even the right building.
He shrugged it off, and reached for the telephone. He dialled in the digits for his long time partner, Jake Fist. “Jake, we've got a BIG problem. We've got to find a boy.”
“Alright, I'll get the straps,” Jake's gruff voice replied.
“No- not like that. This is a job.”
“A job? Great! What do we know about him?”
“Well, if he's anything like his mother, then he's a total bitch who wastes time and money pretty much constantly.”
“That's good to go. I'll be there in my Humvee in ten minutes.”
* * *
James and Jake were cruising across the city. Jake was driving, revving the engine wildly at 120mph and holding down the air-horn at all times, whilst James sat at the passenger window firing his gun at potential criminals. They'd cleaned up most of the east side of the city, and now, as the sun lay gently over the liberty lake on their right, they pushed across to the west side aiming to solve the case before the end of the day.
“This is pretty bad,” James shouted over the sound of the air-horn, “it's been three hours and we still haven't cracked this case.”
“I've got an idea,” Jake yelled back, “we're two blocks away from the Yale, don't you have a friend there we could coerce in to giving us information?”
The Yale was the dirtiest drinking hole on the west side of the city. More cases have broken there than anywhere else. “You're right,” shouted James, “I'll get the shotguns.”
Jake drove the Humvee at screaming speeds down Jefferson Drive across to 34rd street intersection, where the Yale is located. As they approached, Jake nodded to James and they both got ready. As soon as they passed the last set of traffic lights, they both leaped from the speeding vehicle in perfect synchronousity. The Humvee spun and careered off the road in to a cake shop, exploding in flames, while Jake and James hit the road at 120mph, using only their respective willpowers to keep themselves from turning in to road jam. They smashed in to a wall and dust and rubble flew in all directions.
As the cloud of cement powder settled, they both rose to their feet.
“This is pretty bad,” said Jake, pointing to a bone sticking out of his leg, “I think my leg's broken.”
“No,” said James, “that's my humerus bone. May I have it back?”
“Here you go,” said Jake, pulling the bone out and giving it back to James, who stuffed it back in to his arm.
James wiped the wound with the sleeve of his jacket and saw that it had healed. He picked up the shotguns and threw one to Jake. “You go round the back and wait three minutes, then storm in and... well, you know?” said James.
Jake nodded and ran up the street. James crossed the road and entered the Yale. Inside was dark and dingy, as despite the fact the sun beat down outside, the windows were always tarred up. Rusty stood behind the bar in proper dress, cleaning a pint glass with a white cloth. The various ales stacked behind the counter gave the only non-brown color the place had, apart from a blue fluorescent sign bearing the name.
He peered around looking at the pathetic handful of losers who sat here regularly. He was looking for Dan Browder, an ex-underground thug who was more washed up than the pacific. He was sitting at the bar, tending to a scotch. James approached him.
“I could kill you a hundred times over, so you better help. I need to find a boy.”
Dan looked round and grunted. “I didn't think you were like that. I'll give you a number to call.”
“No- not like that. This is a job,” responded James, “and if you don't help me immediately, I'll kill you to death.”
Dan glanced at his shotgun and sighed. “You don't scare me. I've been hit by worse in 'Nam. That's why I'm always at the bottle, it still hurts now. I can help you with the case, though.”
James prompted him by smashing him round the jaw with the butt of the shotgun. “Talk,” he said furiously.
“The boy in question was taken by a Mafia gang on the west side of the city,” Dan began, seemingly oblivious to the fact that James had just violently assaulted him, “A new gang, full of hotshot kids. No respect for the established families.”
“Figures,” said James, “we already cleaned out the east side.”
“Right. Their hideout is located at the Bester Docks, in warehouse 22a,” Dan said.
Upon revealing this information, a few cronies at the back started to take notice. They got up and pulled out their nine millimetres. James sighed, as he'd already done enough to stop crime today. It didn't matter, a few more scumbags biting it was no trouble for him.
Whilst James was distracted thinking about how great he was, the two thugs put their guns up to James' and Dan's heads. 'This is bad,' James thought, 'a point blank bullet wound could land me in hospital for up to a week.' He looked at Dan and saw that, like much of life, he was letting this one pass him by.
Just at the moment, there was an explosion, and the 'Staff Only' door at the back blew in to splinters. Jake stepped through and raised his shotgun to the mafioso who had James pinned.
“Stop! If you,” the guy began, before Jake blew his face in to a million bits of brain across the back wall. “If I what?” Jake shouted, as Rusty fetched the mop from the back room.
The other goon grabbed Dan by the neck and pulled him up, “If you shoot me, you'll kill us both!” he screamed.
“I don't care,” James responded dryly, as he cocked his shotgun. He pulled the trigger and the guy became man-chunks, and Dan dropped to the ground covered in blood.
“You got me,” Dan gurgled through his own blood, “You got me good. But I'll be alright, I'm not some damn kid.”
“I owe you one Dan,” James said, as he shot a few other regulars to death with his shotgun.
“Hey, you owe me twelve now, but who's counting?” Dan chuckled, before collapsing comatose in a pool of his own blood and bile.
James and Jake high-fived, and left to get to Warehouse 22a before it was too late.
* * *
The moon shone down upon the duo as they waited outside the Warehouse, trying to come up with a plan. This was the docks, so when bad things went down here, there wasn't anyone to back you up. This was the badlands.
“How about we storm in and kill them all?” James asked.
“I guess,” Jake said, “that's the best plan we've got.”
James loaded himself up two glocks, and Jake unsheathed his hunting knife. They both crept up to the warehouse door, which was a large corrugated iron sliding door, about twenty-five meters across. James signalled with his hands: Three, two, one, and then they both jumped, smashing through the iron door and bursting in to the warehouse.
Inside, about twenty mafioso were taken totally by surprise. Before any of them could duck for cover, James had dispatched eight of them with his dual glocks. They scattered in to two groups, to the left and right sides of the warehouse and returned fire, as James ducked behind a pile of stacked palettes. Jake ran round the back and slit some throats covering the right hand side of the warehouse, whilst James held covering fire at the left.
“This isn't good,” James screamed, as bullet ricocheted past, “they've got me pinned!”
Jake didn't respond, as he was too busy yanking his hunting knife out of a teenage punk's neck and licking it clean.
James looked towards the ceiling and saw a net full of gas canisters supported in ceiling storage, directly above the mafioso firing at the left. He pulled out his gun and unloaded two bullets directly at the holding bolts, so the canisters fell down and crushed the mafioso goons below. Jake jumped over a pile of crates and went to clean up the survivors with his knife.
James stepped out in to the centre of the warehouse. “Hello? We've come for the boy,” he shouted, “if you give him up, we won't hurt you.”
The boss stepped out from a hidden back room alongside a henchmen. He was dragging the boy by the arm, and the henchman was carrying a large industrial flamethrower. “You Americans are all the same,” the boss said, “you think you own everything.”
“Give me the boy, or I'll make you die twice,” James growled.
“You can't get past Tony, my flame-wielding second man. He's just crazy enough to turn you in to fertilizer.”
James turned to the henchman, and sized him up. He wasn't all that, James decided. He raised his gun to point at Tony. Tony laughed and let rip with a wall of flame that enveloped James entirely. At the same time, James pulled the trigger and sent Tony to the other world, with bits of his face splattering across the boss and kidnapped boy.
James turned to the boss, totally on fire and stared him straight in the eye. “I could destroy your soul, and not even care.”
The boss opened his mouth as if to speak, but then blood suddenly started pouring out. Jake appeared behind him with his hunting knife and started slashing like mad. Fountains of blood sprayed across the room, soaking everyone.
The case was cracked, and everything was fine. James, still on fire, turned to the blood-soaked boy. “Are you alright?”
The boy was unharmed, although he seemed to be hyperventilating and mumbling, and his eyes were extremely dilated.
“What's wrong with this kid?” asked Jake.
“I don't know, I think he must be retarded.”
James roundhouse kicked the boy in the face, and the boy flew two metres back and landed face down on the concrete flooring. “Go home kid. Get out of here,” he ordered.
James was just patting out the last bits of fire which still caught on his jacket, as he turned and gave Jake a wholesome high-five. They left the warehouse together.
It had been a tough day, but the case was solved. Jake went to the water and pulled up his speedboat towards himself and lifted it on the docks, and they both got in. Jake revved the engine and held down the fog-horn. They coasted on to the highway, the propeller tearing up the asphalt. “Another case cracked like an egg under a hammer, as always,” James sighed.
It was just another day in the life of the world's toughest private detective, ever.
By Dr_Ian.