/jp/ - Otaku Culture

I'd find the most dilapidated storefront in the Human Village, and rent a single room in the back. Within I'd install an old, scarred oaken desk heavy enough to anchor a battleship, and within the drawers would reside nothing but scotch, .38 Special, and ashtrays.

And on the door, on the frosted glass windowpane, it would say: "Michael O'Connor, Private Investigator."

I would investigate incidents. For a reasonable fee, of course.

A Fedora. A fucking Fedora, bitches. As the smoke from my cigar curls away into the rain hammering down on the padoga roof, I contemplate the dame giving me the evil eye. Just more trouble, dames, which makes this town the eye of the kimchee storm. Doesn't it fucking figure.

They say there's been another "incident," which means there's trade for a private dick like me. Hell, with the number of knickers in this town there might be trade for a dick either way, catch my drift.

I snap open my Ruger Redhawk, check the loads. The .44 magnum shells are still snug and dry.

Time to go to work.