And so it is...
As Private Investigator Cuttlefish sits in the dark dank office mundaning his monotonous life away doing trivial and life-wasting chores such as paperwork (and in the process killing millions of trees), the world passes him by and continues at the snails' pace that it has been ever-moving in this 'higher-being' forsaken country.
He jabs a pencil at his watch and watches it as it blatantly ignores him. What else can you expect a watch to do? He takes a sniff at the drained coffee mug, the last remnants of the roasted beans drifting their aroma towards his twitching nostrils.
P.I. C, as his colleagues and friends affectionately call him, although not many of them find anything affectionate about the short stocky self-employed s.o.b. with a tongue sharper than a gillette mach3 razor. Cold and calculative, he is effective and direct in his dealings and his work, all of which were executed perfectly with the exception of this one case. The one he is currently garbling his brain over.
It confounds him to no end. Is there no end to this mystery that is a woman? It is always a woman. Must is always be a woman? Why can't it be a man? A sly grin escapes his goateed lips. Wait, erase that thought.
He struggles once again with the puzzle before him. What is she hiding from him? She has been cold to him lately. Her gaze, her deamenor, her touch. They spoke of something distant. What secrets lie beneath those purple grey eyes. Deep and infinite. Looking into them, almost makes him want to dive into the abyss. The endless void before him.
But he resists. It is not his nature to ponder over the trivial incidents that continues to plague his barren and un-dramatic life. The feeling will pass and the answers will manifest itself when the time is right. It always has been thus.
P.I. Cuttlefish pushed himself away from his desk, scraping his immobile chair, and muttered a slight curse for not getting the ones with wheels. Damn his own stingy principles. He grudgingly packed up his notes and his eyedrops, and headed for the door.
Perhaps a walk in the park might ease his troubled thoughts and lift his spirits a notch. He smiled to himself, almost a figure of insanity as the people around him stared in their nonchalant permanently frowned faces. Sounds like a good idea, he thought.
(Epilogue)
Elsewhere, in a dark, dank and icy cold compartment, a birthday cake awaits the midnight hour.
As Private Investigator Cuttlefish sits in the dark dank office mundaning his monotonous life away doing trivial and life-wasting chores such as paperwork (and in the process killing millions of trees), the world passes him by and continues at the snails' pace that it has been ever-moving in this 'higher-being' forsaken country.
He jabs a pencil at his watch and watches it as it blatantly ignores him. What else can you expect a watch to do? He takes a sniff at the drained coffee mug, the last remnants of the roasted beans drifting their aroma towards his twitching nostrils.
P.I. C, as his colleagues and friends affectionately call him, although not many of them find anything affectionate about the short stocky self-employed s.o.b. with a tongue sharper than a gillette mach3 razor. Cold and calculative, he is effective and direct in his dealings and his work, all of which were executed perfectly with the exception of this one case. The one he is currently garbling his brain over.
It confounds him to no end. Is there no end to this mystery that is a woman? It is always a woman. Must is always be a woman? Why can't it be a man? A sly grin escapes his goateed lips. Wait, erase that thought.
He struggles once again with the puzzle before him. What is she hiding from him? She has been cold to him lately. Her gaze, her deamenor, her touch. They spoke of something distant. What secrets lie beneath those purple grey eyes. Deep and infinite. Looking into them, almost makes him want to dive into the abyss. The endless void before him.
But he resists. It is not his nature to ponder over the trivial incidents that continues to plague his barren and un-dramatic life. The feeling will pass and the answers will manifest itself when the time is right. It always has been thus.
P.I. Cuttlefish pushed himself away from his desk, scraping his immobile chair, and muttered a slight curse for not getting the ones with wheels. Damn his own stingy principles. He grudgingly packed up his notes and his eyedrops, and headed for the door.
Perhaps a walk in the park might ease his troubled thoughts and lift his spirits a notch. He smiled to himself, almost a figure of insanity as the people around him stared in their nonchalant permanently frowned faces. Sounds like a good idea, he thought.
(Epilogue)
Elsewhere, in a dark, dank and icy cold compartment, a birthday cake awaits the midnight hour.
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