"A Convoluted Chasm of Despair"

I parked my Pontiac in front of the address for Breedlove Detective Agency. On the torn seat was the shoebox. I figured I'd take the evidence with me. I double checked the address, thinking I must have made a mistake. I grabbed the box from the seat, and found myself standing in front of a flashing neon light. "Sensual Touch Massage Parlor." Surely, I was wrong. A light rain began to fall.

Inside, an attractive oriental woman sat behind a glass window, and smiled as I approached.

 "You want massage?"

"No, I'm looking for Breedlove Detective Agency."

An exotic woman wearing little peered from around the corner, and winked at me. A massage might not be a bad idea, I thought. I shook the thought off, when I noticed a painting behind the woman at the glass window. It was a Moluccan Cockatoo, the "massage" would have to wait.

The woman pointed toward a door to the right. Her eyes that twinkled just seconds ago appeared sad at my rejection.

"You maybe come back?"

"Maybe."

I headed toward the door, but stopped. I took one of the business cards stacked in front of her. She smiled, and the light seemed to return to her eyes. I opened the door, and trudged up a flight of stairs surround by walls in bad need of new drywall. At the top of the stairs, a single lightbulb dangled from an extension cord, and was stapled down the graffiti covered wall.  I followed the snaking orange cord, and nearly bumped my head on another door. I looked up.

Hand-painted letters stared back at me. Breedlove Detective Agency. I saw a figure through the opaque window. I'd never been to a detective agency, and wondered if I should knock first. I think they knocked on Magnum P.I., but couldn't remember. I twisted the knob of the door, and walked inside.

"Hey buddy, don't you know how to knock?" He sounded from the deep South.

The man sat behind a cluttered desk, his feet up, and crossed at the ankles. A big cigar dangled from his lips. I made my way slowly past the stacks of files, a broom that lay on the floor, and for whatever reason, a red, thick, water bottle with some kind of tubular attachment on the end of it.

I swallowed hard, and apologized for not knocking. There wasn't a soul in the place, and I wasn't sure why I had to knock, or even why I was here. I held out the shoebox like I was serving a birthday cake.

"Yeah, it's a shoebox, so what?"

"I need your help," I somehow managed to wring the words out of my dry throat.

"Well, you came to the...er..right place." The man slowly got up, adjusted his fedora, pulled up his fly, and, thrust out his hand saying, " I'm Ron Breedlove...private eye."

I set the shoebox on the messy desk, and thought twice about shaking his hand, but I did.

"Have a seat," he said.

I wiped my palm on my pant's leg, and sat down. Breedlove did the same, with the exception of wiping his palm. I proceeded to tell him about Lupe', and Satan's Road Rash Rangers Motorcycle Club. Suddenly, the black phone on his desk rang. It was a wrong number. I continued with my story, and within a half hour we were on the road to pick up the package at the 7-11.

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