bleakly
It was a quiet night. At least, it was as quiet a night as this city ever saw; I mean, the building in which I had the misfortune to lease an office was on the corner of Raucous Street and Loud Music Avenue, and I’d be lucky to escape the sounds of crying babies and badly-maintained vehicles echoing up from the street. But hey, no gunshots. Not yet. So: quiet enough, by my standards.
Too quiet.
I’m Tom Bleakly. I’m a detective.
Actually, those two sentences sum up my problems pretty well… luckily, I’d invested in a simple solution to all my problems. I tossed back a slug of my universal solution (although it was less of a solution than a solute, really) and pulled my hat over my eyes. That took care of another problem- the sight of the filthy office I’d had to live in for the previous four months. The little hole I called home was positively encrusted with the flotsam and jetsam of things I didn’t want to think about- which is to say, overdue bills, threatening notices, and empty bottles. To top it all off it smelled like stale mildew; luckily it almost smelled enough like cigarettes to cover up the musty odor.
I barely registered the footsteps approaching my door, but as I did I reached into my coat and touched two fingers to my sixty-shooter. I was very jumpy at that point in my life.
Something in my head registered that someone entering my office might mean somebody with a case. Consequently, I almost regretted the state of my office and desolate self; I could really use the work. Alcohol, after all, does not buy itself.
I tried, at the least, to pretend to be somewhat sober and composed. Rather, I should say I failed to pretend to be sober. I almost choked when the door opened.
It was a fucking robot.
