My name is Dick Dangerly, I’m a Private Eye in the bloody, beating heart of Los Angeles in the 1940s or maybe it’s still 1939 I’m really not sure. What am I sure about: the criminals are dangerous, the dames are leggy, and I am drunk all of the time.
The elevator doors open and I fucking leap out, holding up my gun and the badge I cut out of the back of a comic book and pasted onto a piece of cardboard. “Nobody move! I’m Dick Dangerly! I’m a private eye, and I’ve got some questions!”
I have finally made it to the San Francisco Chronicle. There’s a lot of newspaper offices in this city – which I’ve apparently lived in my entire life – and I had to crack the case of which one was the right one.
I’m staring at the phone, trying to decide if it’s ringing or not, when a dame walks in. A leggy dame. Wearing pantyhose, meaning my letters to the mayor haven’t been reaching him.
I’m sitting behind my desk with my legs up, trilby hat cocked on my head, the light is coming in from the blinds repeating black and white on my face. It makes me look dark and mysterious but is also destroying my sense of balance and I’m, like, ninety percent sure when I try to bring my legs down I’m just going to tip over.
Get new content delivered directly to your inbox.