The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

Postby the_shankmaster » Thu Aug 12, 2010 6:11 am

I stare out at the crowd and they stare back at me as I stand under the white-hot spotlight, unsure of what to do, what to say. It's dead silent, not like a show at all. Finally I speak.

"H-hello everyone," I force out. "Most of you probably know that I had the good fortune of preforming with the late Shamus O'Shamus not long ago. He didn't know who I was, but he chose to sing one of my songs. As an artist it's always great to know when people appreciate and enjoy your music, and it touched me that he enjoyed my song enough to sing it here on this stage, and I was glad to play with him. I'd like to sing that song for you now, and dedicate it to Shamus O'Shamus."

I look over my shoulder at my band and nod.

"One, two, three," I mouth, cuing them in. They play through the intro and I begin to sing.

Some days I walk at little faster
Onto the train so I can sit next to you
Some days I spend a little extra time
In the morning just to impress you

The crowd sings along as I make my way though the chorus, second verse, second chorus. Then I start in on the break.

I might even be a lounge star
If you only knew the real me
I might even be a lounge star
I'm telling you that we are meant to be
Now wouldn't it be nice if you could see
That I really am a lounge star

The band plays hard, at the height of the song. I glance at Daddy at the side of the stage, look back at the crowd, take a deep breath, and


The crowd goes wild, screaming and laughing, and some of them have tears in their eyes.

So do I.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and just keep singing. It's all I can do.
Last edited by the_shankmaster on Wed Aug 18, 2010 7:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

Postby the_crankmaster » Mon Aug 16, 2010 5:03 am

She’s staying. Why is she staying? Why is she staying? I should say something. I should grab the conversation, lead it somewhere safe before Harry can-

"So you must be the girl mom's been talking about."

My face goes red. Damnit, Harry. Clara presses a hand to her cheek, clearly a little embarrassed- "I don't, I, uh? Am I?" Harry grins.

“Well, it's not every day Norman calls home about a girl." Clara looks a bit guilty now, though I’m not sure why.

"That's sweet...” she says, feeling around for my hand. I let her take it, squeezing a bit. “Really.”

"Well, you're as pretty as I've heard,” Harry voices with a slight smirk. “But really, I'm just glad you're not made up." Clara’s not looking at him, choosing instead to look at my hand.

"I uh, I'm glad I'm not made up, too."

"Harry...." I say in a warning tone, hoping I can put a stop to this. Harry just laughs.

"Come on, Norman, did you think I'd forget about Lydia?"

Clara perks up at this. I don’t suppose I blame her. It’s not as if grown men making up girlfriends is a normal thing.

"Lydia was real...." I defend, looking away. "We just... didn't date."

"And was that the case with Patty, too?"

Clara’s hand is back on her face. She’s shaking her head, wearing a bemused smile.

"Ah.... no.” I admit. “Patty was made up..." My ARI is sitting on the bedside table and I eye it longingly. When I look at Clara again, she’s eyeing the ARI, too, frowning.

"Well, in any case, Clara," Harry says, flashing that winning smile of his. "It's good of you to be here with Norman. He's obviously had a rough time and I'm sure it helps to have you around." Clara looks away from ARI and smiles.

"I hope so. Thanks.” She looks at me. “Does it?” I give a smile, but it only goes up half way.

"Yeah. It really does." Harry stands.

"So, should I leave you two alone, then?" Yes. Yes, please do. Clara looks at me, indicating that I be the one to answer.

"If you don't mind....." Harry smiles knowingly.

"All right, well I'll be back to see you again later. Clara, nice meeting you."

"You too," she responds.

When Harry leaves I melt into the bed with relief. Clara grins.

"Come on, that wasn't so bad."

I don’t smile.

"Oh, hush," she admonishes.

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes you did." She puts on a serious face, an imitation of my own.

"Look, Clara, you saw him. You should understand." Clara looks vaguely amused, but mostly curious.

"No, what?"

"What, you didn't notice his perfect teeth and his perfect nose and his perfect hair that doesn’t do this stupid flippy thing in the front?" I point at the offending chunk of hair. Next thing I know, she’s got her fingers in it, playing with the hair.

“No, I didn't. Wasn't looking at him much. Why?"

"You'd be the only girl who hasn't...." I don’t mean to sound bitter, but I do. Clara raises an eyebrow. I look away. "I already told you about his wife..."


Yeah. Oh.

Suddenly her face is right there in mine. She’s tracing her nose along my forehead, then into my hair. "But I'm busy, you know."

I can’t help it, I scrunch my face.

"Not spending much time ogling men I meet, you understand,” she goes on. Explaining? “Busy."

"Oh, no, I got it but... you're just touching my face an awful lot is all."

"Well, can you blame me?"

"I...." She smiles absently.

"That's good. Never took you for a narcissist."

"Clara...." I start, and she pulls back, reluctantly.


"I..... I.... l....." I look away. I want to say it, but I can’t. Not right now. "Lllllike having you around...."

Clara scoots over and lays down next to me, closing her eyes.

"I like being around." I reach hesitantly, and then rest my arm around her.

“GodIneedtripto,” I mutter. Clara nuzzles closer.


"Ahh... I said 'God, I don't know.' You know... lots of stuff on my mind, these days. Kind of overwhelming...." Clara sighs softly.

"You're doing okay, though? You're doing better?"

"I'm doing.... all right."


"It's the best I can do right now."

"Then that's--" Clara lets out a huge yawn. "That's good."

"Tired, cupcake?" I ask.

"Yeah..." A moment later she’s mumbling something.



"Remember...?" I try.

"Hmmm..." Clara shifts.

"What?" Clara lets out a slight snore. I sigh, looking at her. I hesitate a moment and then I stroke her hair.

"Sweet dreams, cupcake...."

Agent Norman Jayden, FBI

Go get your shovel
And we'll dig a deep hole
To bury the glasses
Bury the glasses
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

Postby starseedjenny » Tue Aug 17, 2010 8:38 pm

The typical nature of tragedies is this: people die. It’s simple. Elegant. Death is an ending, an abrupt point where the tragedy is over—and that’s the body, the entirety of the tragedy. The point. Geometrically nothing. But his personal tragedy doesn’t end. It’s already begun, and unlike a death, it cannot be contained within a nothing. Our personal tragedy has the potential to stretch out over a lifetime, only to find release in the remote death of old age. My tragedy, our tragedy, is not a death, but a mode of life. This tragedy is an exquisite one. It is a tragedy for the ages.

Tragedies, you know, they come packaged with a certain inevitability, a dread sense of the unavoidable. This one comes without the death, sure. It comes without the solid ending point. Somehow, though, as I shift drowsily, stretching the length of my body against his, I know that dread and certainty are preserved. It’s the certainty of life, of life, his life if not also mine, and the knowledge that perhaps the worst thing that life has left to throw is to be long. That’s dread. For death to be the best thing that can happen to someone you love. The alternative—for him, it’s a lifetime of oblivious tragedy. Stumbling and stuttering through without any idea of how broken he is.

But I’m here for it, now, for every painful moment of it. For as long as he wants me.


No! Somebody's touching me, they're gonna kill me, no! No they aren't. I'm faster.

I grab the offending arm, twist it as I throw myself up and out of sleep. Pin the would-be killer down with my whole body and pull a fist back to--

I blink a few times, stupidly, as the necessary moments pass for me to remember where I am. That is, sitting on Norman's chest, one hand gripping the front of his hospital gown, its elbow pinning his arm down, the other ready to bury itself in his face. He's squirming, swearing copiously and creatively. Shocked, at once, I let go and scramble off. "I, I, I, I, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean--oh, man, I'm a danger to society, I didn't, I'm sorry, did I hurt--of course I did, I'm s..." I lean down and kiss him. He's still freaking out. Of course he's still freaking out. "I'm, I'm sorry, you were t--I was aslee--I'm sorry, I'll, I'll leave now, I'll, I'll--" I grab my purse and leave quickly. Break into a sprint as soon as I hear the door close behind me.

Wow. Making an utter fool of myself and throttling a bedridden guy in one move. Realnice. I've set a new low, definitely. Definitely a new low. There will be no topping this one.

I go back to the penthouse to see Alfred. I feel bad about leaving him alone so much. I have gone soft.
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

Postby the_crankmaster » Wed Aug 18, 2010 2:21 am


Agent Norman Jayden, FBI

Go get your shovel
And we'll dig a deep hole
To bury the glasses
Bury the glasses
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

Postby MetalNinja » Wed Aug 18, 2010 11:13 am

Reaching Pearls I instantly notice that it's looking pretty empty, kinda strange but then again I guess it is pretty late. Walking in through the door and taking a seat in a booth by the front window looking out onto the street, Pearl walks over.
"What you havin' hun?" She asks, pencil and paper at the ready.
"Don't you get any sleep Pearl?" I reply, smiling a little.
"Hah, can't afford to sleep in this city."
"And don't I know it! Erm.. I'll have your famous pie with a cup o' Joe thanks."
"Coming right up," she replies whilst spinning on her heels to go deal with my order.

Waiting for my order I sit there, staring out of the window onto the street, seems pretty lifeless at the moment. It won't last.
"Waitin' for somethin'?" Pearl enquires as she places the pie and a large mug in front of me.
"Yeah, just don't know what."
"Well that ain't usual is it?"
"Or maybe something's waiting for me" I trail off, staring further into the street.
"What was that honey?" Pearl seems kind of worried.
"Oh, nothing, thanks," I take a sip of coffee as I hand her a few notes, "Keep the change."
"But that's... that's too much!"
"It's fine, honestly, the pie's great, thanks."

Pearl walks off, bemused and leaving me with my thoughts and my order. Taking another sip of the mug I take a look through the window again,
"Come on Wasusy," I whisper to myself, "What you got waitin' for me?"
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume III

Postby Owen » Mon Aug 23, 2010 11:02 pm

Caimo was as good as his word. A few days later, a gas explosion gave Sally Meraz and a few of his closest friends the extra little bit of shuffle they needed to leave this mortal coil, and so it is I find myself again in the office of Sammy the Greek. I think we are both a little surprised that he is still alive.

The Greek plays with a pen as I talk, twirling it round his pudgy fingers. I tell him this: something's coming, and I don't know what it is. What I do know is that he's going to want to get out of its way - or at that least someone thinks he will. The unspoken sentence hangs in the air: because if they didn't, you wouldn't be here.

Tony Ducks is dead, died in a fire not too unlike the one that got Sally. Funny, that. I don't know who hired Caimo but I suspect that's a dead end. If they're willing to take on the mob then they must know they can't afford to leave traces. Lombardo Sr is gone too - I haven't heard any news of Franco, but I hope he's still alive. He's a good kid but I guess I wouldn't blame him if he just didn't want to talk to me right now.

So what does that leave? A whole bunch of I don't knows. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. As I wrap up my talk with the Greek (leaving him looking anything but reassured), I decide it must be time to do what I always do in times of trouble - head to Pearl's.
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