Starting up

It was near end of December, and nobody came through my office doors for two months. My pockets were so thin I couldn't even afford a soda. What to do, I wondered, as I stared at a TV commercial promoting KFC's new chicken wings. Being a Private Investigator is a drag sometimes, and who would have guessed that a dead client could be so damaging for business. After that guy dropped, all my jobs vanished, and all efforts to get back on my feet resulted in failure. Situation was desperate indeed.

Being an optimist by nature, I already started exploring other possibilities. My family had money, so there was that ever daunting option of "begging my mom and dad". Other solutions included actually getting a normal job, so I was not quite enthusiastic about the prospect. And then it hit me. Like a brick thrown from above, I got struck down by the sheer brilliance of my idea.

I will write.

But what to write, and for whom? That was the second question that struck, and if the first one was a brick this was a meteorite. And it landed right on my thick skull, ripping waves of desperation through my entire being. I didn't have the faintest idea about writing, what it was, and how to actually start. As you can imagine, this is an often encountered problem for aspiring authors, even more so for those with a serious lack of funds.

As I was low on fresh ideas, blogging about my work seemed to be the best start, so I ventured off and made myself a neat little blog, where I could share my adventures with the public. If and when my writing will be recognized, was not disclosed by my goddess of inspiration. 

In expectancy of further bricks from above

Truly yours

Mr. Dean J. Coobledick, PI


I.

One perfectly normal day in July, for the life of me don't remember what year,

I was sitting in my office, trying to read the daily news. Constant buzzing of a fly was the only thing distracting me from my exploration of an endless stream of violence that seemed to be the only worthwhile read in the paper. Sports and politics were not of any interest, as it was clear to me for a very long time now that these activities bring no good to man. I was in between two cases, and as it often goes in private investigating, the in between was most of the time.

Imagine my surprise when the phone rang, and after picking up, a sturdy male voice with a distinctly Russian accent informed me that I will be receiving a visitor soon. When asked who from, the man simply clasped the phone, shutting me off from any further information. With nothing left but to wait, I returned to my paper, trying to find the article about a butcher who killed his mother in law, because she told him his steaks were rotten. Great stuff.