Had a case where a neighborhood bar was being vandalized every night. Front door was jimmied open. Liquor consumed. Jukebox still on. After a few days it turned out the waitress was taking some kind of neuroleptic to treat depression and that had her roaming around in her sleep. At night she would go to the bar, have a little party and walk home. Sometimes it’s just easier to stay depressed.
I remember that case where a sidewalk mime kept pretending to stick passers-by with knitting needles until he finally snapped and starting attacking people with actual knitting needles. Mimes. Working with the police, we trapped him in a box. A real one. He was powerless to escape.
I got in between a feud of hobo gangs fighting over territory. Had to make some calls. Set down some boundaries. All’s quiet now. But they paid me in soda cans.
I'm Nick Flebber, president and CEO of Flebber Investigations. I'm also the vice president, majority shareholder and the entire workforce. Some kind of tax shelter my ex-accountant had set up for me just before he ran off to the Cayman Islands with my secretary and most of my cash. I don’t often mention this. Bad for business.
Not all my cases come to a neat and tidy conclusion. Take the Rebecca case. Sure, they tried to blame that fiasco on me. But, hey, all I was paid to do was to tail that guy who stole the stocks and bonds. Once he sank into that tar pit it was outta my hands. Besides, I showed them were he went under.
I was hired to rescue the Barlow's son from some cult he fell in with. Worshipped
Jimmy Dean. Not the fifties actor. The singer who made the pork sausages. Anyways, I got the kid out, no problem. Made our way to a secluded motel near the airport. We started the de-programming session with the parents. To make a long story short, the Barlows wind up joining the cult with the kid. Makes you wonder. They tried to pay my fee in breakfast links. |