It’s six fifteen when I stumble back to the office, to bang out the remnants of the case on my little Remington situated immediately in front of my trembling hands, its slides away from me as I enter in words and adventures from the night before.

I’m a failure at dictating my own thoughts, a faulty private dick who can’t remember the name of the lady I interviewed a few hours ago.

I get frustrated with my own lack of follow through in my cases. I linger on year after year as a symbol of a bygone era.

But all is not lost on my little typewriter, the evenings reality fades away into egregious stories of flighty fiction, of routine cases blown wide open, deep corruptions of government laced up with history ripped apart by my tenacious investigations.

It always comes back to the booze. It’s been written about for centuries and will continue to plague and bewilder mankind. Yet we still write about it, intrigued as we are by a man run head on by a Mack truck.