Detective Commons Part Two...

Here is some more Detective Commons for your eyeballs...

- C!

I had just bitten into my pork-chop sandwich when it hit me. I’ll never know why pork-chop sandwiches are so good at jogging my memory. I call it pork-chop magic, and I have a trademark pending so watch it! Anyway, the Ginger had a name. Molly Macleod, the eldest daughter of Angus “Big Loon” Macleod, his pride and joy, who had run off many years earlier to avoid a pre-arranged marriage. Angus was one of the most powerful men in this city, and the head of the Ginger Mafia. This was bad news. Not for me, mind you, but for everyone else in this horrible, shit-stain of a city.

I twirled a French fry in some mayo (don’t judge me), and pondered the future. To say it seemed pretty bleak is simply a retarded statement. Fucked is the term I would use. Shit was about to get real, to use the vernacular.

I called the waitress over with my check, she scanned my credit chip, and I stepped outside to call my consulting detective. Why I, a consulting detective myself, has his own consulting detective is a long story. I’ll tell you about it some day when I’m good and drunk, as that’s the only way to properly tell it. Jimmy Bottoms had quite possibly the dumbest name in existence, next to my sister-in-law Hermione Asshat, but he was an expert in seeing minuscule, yet important, details that even I would miss. I rarely called on him, as he was a highly unstable and unreliable sort, a bit of a pervert, and usually high on a mix of painkillers, goat semen, and methamphetamines, but time was of the essence. Plus, I had my finger of judgement at the ready.

Not surprisingly, Jimmy was late. And high. Surprisingly, he had actually shaved and showered. Not for me of course. He said he had a date after our meeting, a brunette with three perfect breasts and an ass that could make a man cry. His words, not mine. I got right down to it, explaining what the case was like, showing him crime-scene photos, and trying not to picture his aforementioned date’s three perfect breasts.

Jimmy gave me “the look”. I wanted to stab him in the face when he did that. It meant that he had already found something I’d missed. He pointed to one of the photos, to the small trash-can in the back corner of the bedroom. There was a receipt sticking out, practically flipping me off and smiling at me for not noticing it. The date on this smug little piece of paper was for three Wednesdays from now! I now had an inkling of what I was dealing with here. Time-travel drugs, or Recall, as they’re known on the street. The Ginger’s main gift to society.