…so this goon who works for a nefarious, underworld kingpin who is strong-arming my client — a beautiful, long-legged vixen of course— has me cornered in a gritty but overpriced public-parking garage. His gun is pointed directly at my head.
I’ve counted how many of those Teflon-coated rounds he’s got left. (Private dicks like me always count shots fired.)
So he goes like “Say your prayers, Bulldog.” with a brusque but politically correct and therefore highly marketable foreign accent. He raises his piece, trigger finger twitching and then…and then…
(OH NO!!!! NOT AGAIN!!!! THIS CAN NOT BE HAPPENING AGAIN!!!!!”)
The old fool who is developing me as the lead character of his story decides to stop writing mid-sentence…and chat with Debbi.
And then…the old fool gets himself some water.
And then…he talks to the kid from the theological seminary.
And then…he checks his email (Visa is insisting on s a new password).
And then…he closes “Private Detective Episode 3.docx” without saving it.
And then…he ignores the project for another month leaving me frozen in time with a gun pointed at my head, wondering how I’m gonna look with the Holland Tunnel between my eyes. Closed casket, please.
A little advice to anyone who wants to get into the fictional-character game. Don’t quit your day job, avoid parking garages and stay away from old men with keyboards.
