I say 'on the case', but actually, we're waiting in a rather swanky hotel at the climax, a stark contrast to that wooden shit hole we found ourselves in early this morning. Winchester ran out of alcohol and - you guessed it - talked my ear off about some fucking political conspiracy I don't care about, for the full duration. We've been put up here while we wait to give a statement to the police. I'd rather just go home, but Winchester insisted upon it. Apparently it would be 'beneficial' and 'helpful' to them if we went along with this. In my opinion it's 'fucking pointless'.
The media will want first dibs on the story, and they're welcome to it. I can't be bothered describing every minute detail of the past few days. While there was, admittedly, a fair smattering of excitement, it was more than balanced, perhaps even outweighed by tedium.
We thought it was safe out there, with only the snow to surround us like cotton wool. I don't know, maybe we thought we'd be protected there, especially considering how dastardly the business had become. 'Get the notebook back from my psychotic girlfriend!' Yeah, should be easy enough. A few novel ideas and angry thoughts scribbled in the pages? Trivial. Succeeded with that on the second day. We're good at what we do. Not surprising.
-But it was never going to be that simple, was it? We'd travelled far enough into the underbelly of the case that we had to see it through. By then we'd already caught the attentions of some unfortunate people. By then we had discovered what the notebook contained, and why said unfortunate people were involved.
Suddenly, oh no we're in Alaska, on the run from a foreign gang of arms dealers.
A day in the life of Rogers and Winchester? No, because it's usually warmer.
- S.R.
Saturday 18 February 2012
On the Case - Norman L. Winchester
I am writing this from a cabin made of logs deep in a wilderness so far from anywhere I ever expected to find myself holed up with Rogers. The sky is dark and collapsing with rain and I am concerned we will perhaps never break free of this place, but rather be consumed by cold mud without trace.
If I think too carefully about the enquiries we made and the questions we asked to lead us to this point, my head aches and fills with white noise. Some sleeping dogs should be left to lie and my gut reminded me of this when our client approached us with an apparently simple task of recovering his notebook from the belongings of a girlfriend who and run away and gone to ground. Yet I ignored my instincts and so did Rogers. We need the money and, more than that, we needed the thrill. Our offices have been festering with inactivity for some time and the atmosphere thick with reproach. I had no fingernails left to destroy, no whiskey with which to burn my chest back to life and certainly no will left to live another day under the weight of Roger's intolerable bitter fidgeting.
So we took the case and demanded a ridiculous fee upfront, he paid it and I gave my half away that night to wine and dine some not too bright but pretty thing who collapsed on my sofa in heap like a dead bird, too drunk to offer me comfort and reward for my exhausting night of wit, charm and generosity. Rogers has no idea of the male condition and mocked me by proxy from her satisfying night in with a novel while I conned myself that man needs woman like oxygen and all the while all I needed was a slap and some fresh air.
N.L.W.
If I think too carefully about the enquiries we made and the questions we asked to lead us to this point, my head aches and fills with white noise. Some sleeping dogs should be left to lie and my gut reminded me of this when our client approached us with an apparently simple task of recovering his notebook from the belongings of a girlfriend who and run away and gone to ground. Yet I ignored my instincts and so did Rogers. We need the money and, more than that, we needed the thrill. Our offices have been festering with inactivity for some time and the atmosphere thick with reproach. I had no fingernails left to destroy, no whiskey with which to burn my chest back to life and certainly no will left to live another day under the weight of Roger's intolerable bitter fidgeting.
So we took the case and demanded a ridiculous fee upfront, he paid it and I gave my half away that night to wine and dine some not too bright but pretty thing who collapsed on my sofa in heap like a dead bird, too drunk to offer me comfort and reward for my exhausting night of wit, charm and generosity. Rogers has no idea of the male condition and mocked me by proxy from her satisfying night in with a novel while I conned myself that man needs woman like oxygen and all the while all I needed was a slap and some fresh air.
N.L.W.
Friday 17 February 2012
On the Case - Scarlett Rogers
Winchester and I spent the majority of last night on a stakeout.
I don't mind this necessary aspect of being a P.I. It normally involves cigarette after cigarette and damn good music. Winchester spends most of his time trying to make conversation. Admittedly, 'discussions' soon spiral downwards into arguments, and I wish he hadn't spoken at all. It'd be easier for us both if he just drank himself stupid like he normally does. There's a reason for that hip flask. As I'm normally right, arguments are a collosal waste of my time and energy, anyway.
We were keeping an eye on a dingy bar downtown. I hear it sells a damn good whiskey, but that's not the point. We've followed our noses to this point in the case, and while I can't disclose the details until it's closed, it's shaping up to be a fairly interesting one. We're one step closer after the events of last night.
The cases are getting grittier, sharper, and that does a world of good for Winchester and I's boredom.
Just as long as people stop with the fucking adultery cases.
- S.R.
I don't mind this necessary aspect of being a P.I. It normally involves cigarette after cigarette and damn good music. Winchester spends most of his time trying to make conversation. Admittedly, 'discussions' soon spiral downwards into arguments, and I wish he hadn't spoken at all. It'd be easier for us both if he just drank himself stupid like he normally does. There's a reason for that hip flask. As I'm normally right, arguments are a collosal waste of my time and energy, anyway.
We were keeping an eye on a dingy bar downtown. I hear it sells a damn good whiskey, but that's not the point. We've followed our noses to this point in the case, and while I can't disclose the details until it's closed, it's shaping up to be a fairly interesting one. We're one step closer after the events of last night.
The cases are getting grittier, sharper, and that does a world of good for Winchester and I's boredom.
Just as long as people stop with the fucking adultery cases.
- S.R.
Thursday 16 February 2012
Missing Emeralds Found: In retrospect - Norman L. Winchester
I live in hope that Rogers' assassination of poor Mrs Jenkin's taste is uncalled for and that, indeed, Mrs Jenkins lives a life of fantastic irony. The niggles in my tired mind lead me away from such hope and land me firmly back in the reality of doilies and artificial room scent.
The Butler is a prat. He can't be named for legal reasons, so we shall refer to his sorry touche as such. The prat figured in his camp little mind that this lady of the manor would ignore his japes or that her taste for gin early in the day would render her too cloudy to notice priceless jewels taking a holiday. NONSENSE! I have yet to convince Rogers of my theory and my hearsay evidence and I can see her scowling through a fog of disagreement across our dingy office. How I wish she would stop tutting and refreshing her name-sake shade of lipstick and pour me a tumbler of fine single malt. This will never happen. We don't have any in this echo chamber of an empty office. Christ knows how that huge spider plant stays alive. It wouldn't be from the hard work churned out by Sibylle whose best work ethic is lighting another fag.
Anyway, you get the picture. This Prat by name and nature butler definitely did the deed, but I reckon upon a deeper scandal brewing here like a shit mug of tea. When I extracted him from the hedge he managed to invade he whispered something (he was badly winded) which I figured to be interesting. "Fag hag". Mrs Jenkins, do you have secrets you are yet to share with us?
I have thrown out those new shoes. Should have stuck to the boots. Sure they stink, but so does this case.
N.L.W.
The Butler is a prat. He can't be named for legal reasons, so we shall refer to his sorry touche as such. The prat figured in his camp little mind that this lady of the manor would ignore his japes or that her taste for gin early in the day would render her too cloudy to notice priceless jewels taking a holiday. NONSENSE! I have yet to convince Rogers of my theory and my hearsay evidence and I can see her scowling through a fog of disagreement across our dingy office. How I wish she would stop tutting and refreshing her name-sake shade of lipstick and pour me a tumbler of fine single malt. This will never happen. We don't have any in this echo chamber of an empty office. Christ knows how that huge spider plant stays alive. It wouldn't be from the hard work churned out by Sibylle whose best work ethic is lighting another fag.
Anyway, you get the picture. This Prat by name and nature butler definitely did the deed, but I reckon upon a deeper scandal brewing here like a shit mug of tea. When I extracted him from the hedge he managed to invade he whispered something (he was badly winded) which I figured to be interesting. "Fag hag". Mrs Jenkins, do you have secrets you are yet to share with us?
I have thrown out those new shoes. Should have stuck to the boots. Sure they stink, but so does this case.
N.L.W.
Missing Emeralds Found: In retrospect - Scarlett Rogers
The case which April Jenkins presented to Winchester and I caught our attentions instantly.
Considering the sheer amount of adultery cases we have been receiving - despite it being noted on our side bar that we find cases such as these DULL and TIRESOME, and refuse to accept as such - it was a welcome break to have a case of interest, for once.
It was evident from the moment we stepped into Mrs Jenkins' hallway, decorated with overly ornate tables and wall sconces that the butler had done it. The emeralds had been taken from the safe in the dead of night, and considering the security surrounding the property it had to be an inside job.
It didn't take us long to gain the evidence we needed. Winchester dusted the butler's room for finger prints, and with the results, we compared them with a set found on the safe which held the jewels.
Only an idiot revisits the scene of the crime, and unfortunately Winchester and I were denied a dramatic manhunt throughout the city, and were faced with the culprit moments later, as he returned for the tapestry which the emeralds were sewn into. Criminals aren't clever these days. It's perpetually disappointing.
Naturally the butler wasn't impressed with our sleuthing skills, and made for the roof, resulting in a fairly interesting chase through the tastelessly decorated halls of the Jenkins mansion.
The storm that had suddenly come on while we investigated left us soaking wet and balancing precariously on the roof tiles as we faced off with the culprit. Winchester soon discovered the shortcomings of wearing expensive shoes on a wet tiled roof. He slipped, after our man made for him with intent, and managed to steady himself on the guttering while the butler continued over the edge.
The rose bushes below welcomed him with thorny hands.
The case is closed for now. Neither Winchester nor I are aware of the reasons behind the butler's impulsive drugs use, and nor do we care. The identity of the gang who threatened him for payment remains unknown. Drugs busts are to be left in the incapable hands of the police, while Winchester and I return to fresher, and infinitely more important cases.
- S.R.
Considering the sheer amount of adultery cases we have been receiving - despite it being noted on our side bar that we find cases such as these DULL and TIRESOME, and refuse to accept as such - it was a welcome break to have a case of interest, for once.
It was evident from the moment we stepped into Mrs Jenkins' hallway, decorated with overly ornate tables and wall sconces that the butler had done it. The emeralds had been taken from the safe in the dead of night, and considering the security surrounding the property it had to be an inside job.
It didn't take us long to gain the evidence we needed. Winchester dusted the butler's room for finger prints, and with the results, we compared them with a set found on the safe which held the jewels.
Only an idiot revisits the scene of the crime, and unfortunately Winchester and I were denied a dramatic manhunt throughout the city, and were faced with the culprit moments later, as he returned for the tapestry which the emeralds were sewn into. Criminals aren't clever these days. It's perpetually disappointing.
Naturally the butler wasn't impressed with our sleuthing skills, and made for the roof, resulting in a fairly interesting chase through the tastelessly decorated halls of the Jenkins mansion.
The storm that had suddenly come on while we investigated left us soaking wet and balancing precariously on the roof tiles as we faced off with the culprit. Winchester soon discovered the shortcomings of wearing expensive shoes on a wet tiled roof. He slipped, after our man made for him with intent, and managed to steady himself on the guttering while the butler continued over the edge.
The rose bushes below welcomed him with thorny hands.
The case is closed for now. Neither Winchester nor I are aware of the reasons behind the butler's impulsive drugs use, and nor do we care. The identity of the gang who threatened him for payment remains unknown. Drugs busts are to be left in the incapable hands of the police, while Winchester and I return to fresher, and infinitely more important cases.
- S.R.
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