Dogs...

Dogs

If you missed the last blog, I began relaying the story of my alter ego, Deuce Maverick, Private Eye. I'll continue that in a moment, if I feel like it. I'm looking for a house. If you've ever looked for a house to buy, you know what I'm going through. You find a house you think you might like and you realize it costs way too much money. Why can't it be easy to find a house you like in the neighborhood you like with all the amenities you like? I guess that is too much to ask. It's been a trying time. Hopefully soon I will find what I need and like. Now on to Deuce....
Let's see, when I last left you I was knee deep in dirty water, locked in a wooden coffin that was slowly sinking with my head pressed between the ample bosom of my current client, Mrs. Liddy Horne. As I mentioned earlier, Liddy is quite a striking woman for her age (which I have not had the courage to discover). Suffice to say, she's a ringing testament to the power of science and medicine to keep a woman beautiful and virile. And here we have a psychology lesson for all you wonderful readers out there. No matter the dire and dreadful consequences that await a man, he will still find a way to think about sex. Or women. Or women having sex. Or boobs.
Of course it is precisely at this moment that the cold water our coffin is slowly sinking into reaches my cajones. A swift jerk back to reality reminds me that we are probably about to die.
"Are you going to get us out of here or not?!?!"
I can't say that I find Liddy's voice attractive however. It's very high pitched and squeally and generally makes you feel as though you are an English butler serving the Queen her tea several minutes late. I'd probably do her but I'd need ear plugs or duct tape and since I don't have either on me, I guess I won't die having sex. Which is too bad. If you have to go, I've always thought that might be the coolest way to go.
But I digress. And you are still wondering how I got into this mess. Well, it all started 24 hours ago. I know this is going to sound cliche and all, but it was a rainy night. Pouring cats and dogs really. I'm not sure why all these stories seem to start on a rainy night but they do. It's just a fact of life. Accept it. I was working late of course when the hesitant knock came at my office door.
Well, not really my office. You see it is a combination office and home. I can't really afford both. So I sleep at my office. It's really quite comfortable but living in your office means you are pretty much always open. Which is ok since it means I never miss an opportunity to take a case. Unless I'm on a case and wind up drowning in a wooden coffin while potential clients are calling and visiting my office. It's a catch-22 really. You can't get cases unless you have cases and when you have a case you are not around to start cases. I need a partner. Or at the very least a secretary. A nice, pretty secretary with long legs and a tight, little body...
Sorry. Sex again. We've had that psychology lesson.
It was raining...