He was dead when I got there. Dead as a doornail, deader than a dead fish, deader than Kelsey’s nuts, dead as … well, I think you’ve figured out the message I’m trying to convey here. The son-of-a-bitch was fuckin’ dead! The door of the hotel room was ajar, so I had entered without knocking. […]
The Case of the Purloined Goldfish The call came in at 2:35 on a Friday afternoon. My partner and I were jawboning about the up and coming weekend. My partner, Carl Peterson, has been a detective for forty years or so, both as a cop and private. Me? My name’s Herbert Walker. I’ve been a […]
Rosewood is real. Google it. “The first I knew of any trouble was when my cousin Robie and me was playing out in the yard. A carload of white men came down the street. There was so many of ’em in the car they was spilling out, and they was all carrying guns. When they […]
My name is Spade, Sam Spade. Not really … it’s Herbert Walker. I’m a PI, a peeper, a gumshoe, a shamus, a private dick. In other words, a private detective, and I work out of Hollywood. No, not that Hollywood; Hollywood, Florida—although sometimes my business will take me as far afield as Fort Lauderdale. It’s […]
I’ve been running against the wind most of my life. My mother died in childbirth. My father was shot and killed when he accidentally bumped into a drunk in the Alhambra Bar on New Year’s Day of 1886. I was ten years old at the time, and having no siblings or other relations, that left […]
Long before time was assigned a number, a day dawned as no other had. The lemon-yellow rays of the awakened sun have infused the air itself with the color of saffron. A golden light lovingly embraces the misty morning air. Most assuredly, Kitanitowit, God of All, is pleased with his creation on this day. The […]
I woke up this morning and got myself a beer. The future’s uncertain and the end is always near.
You know what I find funny? Everyone who uses the “OK boomer” thing will one day have their generation just as maligned. I’m a boomer and I remember our saying was, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” The oldest living generation is always made up of old fogies who are so out of touch, it’s laughable. […]
Andrew Joyce 