Yes, I know this isn't Bionicle or Comedy related, but how else am I going to get opinions? :P

Be warned, this is my first REAL attempt at a book, (one that I hope to publish :P ), so there WILL be mistakes. :P If you guys see anything, please feel free to point it out, it'd be much appriciated. :P

Enjoy. :P


Chapter 1 - The Detective

"Lord... The stink... It's bad enough with the thick smell of tar and saltwater, and now the sharp stench of an unlucky sailor's rotting corpse stuffed into an oil barrel down on E dock... Makes me sick to the stomach. Makes me wanna gag... Poor guy. Didn't even get tucked in right, arm sticking out wrongways and all... Sloppy, is what it is. Murderers got no class these days, no decenty. Guy'll get caught in a day or two with the mess, and evidnce, and a big ol' blasted billboard with arrows basically pointing right to him that he left behind. Killed a man and didn't even take the time to cover his tracks or victem's body. Killed a man and didn't even make the life he took worth taking and running from... Sloppy."   

A wind flustered seagull landed atop an overturned brine barrel, next to the mutilated sailor. It titled its head, eyes darting as they scanned over a twisted pile of flesh that looked as if it might have once been human. It opened it's orange beak and squawked at the lone figure nearby, who waved his hand at the bird. Screeching in annoyance over being shooed from it's early morning scavenge, the gull flapped its fringed white wings and flew off into the fog.     

"Just gotta stay with the body a few more minutes until backup arrives ... Matt'll have a thing or two to say about this, likely after he pukes his insides out. Never can handle the bodies and blood and stench, rookies..."

Mark Wicker turned from the tar covered barrel with a body sticking out like a sore thumb, and pulled a creased handkerchief from his worn back pocket. He breathed sharply, then held it to his crooked nose. His brown, patched trench coat caught up in a stagnantly sick breeze blowing over the wharf, and the washed up Detective winced. 

"Lord. The stink..."    


Chapter 2 - What Comes 'A Knocking 

The faded blue 1925 model corvett with a broken yellow neon "Taxi" sign on the roof pulled into the parking lot outside The Detective's office building, narrowly avoiding the chalky cement curb lining the sidewalk. Wicker opened the door with a hollow click, and stepped outside, then shut it behind him in a disgruntled motion, his trenchcoat briefly escaped getting caught between a door and a hard place. 

"The early morning air was still foggy, and clung to the inside of my lungs like an unanted wet blanket, my pnemunia flairing under it's perpetual moist dank. I held my sleeve to my mouth and coughed as I payed the young guy in the driver's seat of the taxi. He thanked me with a halfasssed smile then drove off into the mists, headlights flickering and casting strange shadows across the street, then he was gone and New York harbor was quiet again. Quiet and cold and blasted muggy... "

"I climbed the short flight of stairs to the office door the way young kids expect an old man to, hunched over and breathing heavy. They key stuck into the lock and turned with a short creak, then the door yawned and fell open. Where's the bottle?..." 

Mark Wicker flipped his office's cone shaped overhanging light on, and slammed the door behind him. The floorboards protested his extra girth with moans and wooden shreiks as he made his way to the desk and fell back into his chair with a thud and sigh. Reaching into a half open drawer, a bottle of scotch found it's way into his hand and off popped the cork as The Detective poured himself a shot, and swigged it back. 

"Doctors said this stuff'll kill me. Like hell I care, they already gave me 8 months, and that was 7 figures ago... Not much left to care for, may as well enjoy it while I can. Beats having to remember the smell of Matt bust his guts on that godforsaken dock. How the force got it into their thick heads that I could "take him under my wing, show 'im the ropes" is beyond me. Kid's a whimp and coward. No guts and less brains, not enough grit enough to fill a meal bag."

The glass set back down on the desk in an area abundant with dew stains from many previous drinks. Another drawer opened, and Wicker withdrew an old yellow folder from it, then threw it onto it's face. His caloused fingers opened the font, and swept over it's unorganized contents like a hesitant predator. A black and white picture with pock marks was pulled from between two leaves of white wrinkled paper. 

"I reached into my trenchcoat and withdrew a photograph taken of the body from earlier this lovely New York morning down on the wharf, and held it next to the picture from the confidential case folder. Always the stuffing... the third kill this year, and each victem shoved and jammed and stuck in some crevice or container like a gift the parents forgot to wrap and rushed the packing on Christmas evening as the kids slept... This poor devil. Folded into street gutter and only found when the sun came out and his rot leaked out into the air as his corpse baked a few feet under hot asphalt... And why? Why the sloppy hiding? Why the shoving? Why the-"

The door of The Detective's office thudded as someone rapped sharp and quick on it's rough, thin oak surface.  "Rap-rap-rap-rap!"  Mark Wicker eased out of his chair, and lay the photographs onto the folder, which he shoved back into the desk. One foot fell in front of the other with more grace and stealth then seemed fitting for a man of his age and stature as he neared the door. "Rap-rap-rap-rap!" 

"Could be another client, or drunk stuck at the wrong address he think's is an old girlfriend's residence, but something deep in my gut started rolling, and I get the impression this isn't a client, or a drunk... And I for sure am no girlfirend... My right hand goes for gun holstered on my chest hidden by my coat as I reach for the dirty gold knob, and the door knocking sounds again..." "RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP!"  

The Detective tightened his grip on the heater tucked under his arm, and unclipped the leather strap attached with a brass button clip, then grabbed hold of the door handle and yanked open. Out came the gun, loaded and cocked like lighting with the skill of a seasoned combatant, Wicker's arm level and steady, ready to squeeze the cold steel trigger... His eyes narrowed and the arm slowly lowered as he made out the shape before him. 

"The figure outside was small and fragile, clutched arms folded and inward and shivering in cold and fear, green eyes wide and trembling like a terrified lost child... It was a woman outside my door..."

More Chapters coming soon hopefully. :P Anyways, lemme know what you think. :P


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