Author's note: This is sort of a sequal to my earlier detective fic, "The Chartreuse Reticulated Chipmunk." You really don't have to have read the original to get this, they're more or less unrelated other than having the same title character. I would, however, recommend it if you like this.

***

Darkness encapsuled me. I saw nothing, felt only warm comfort. This was all that really mattered, this was all that-

My alarm clock began to sound. I shuddered and reached over to it, attempting to hit the snooze button. Unfortunately for me, my snooze button had been broken for some time. But my stubborn, drowsy brain refused to accept this, and I continued to bat pointlessly at the useless button, only eliciting more beeps. Finally I was forced to sit up and turn the damn thing off. The second I did, a large piece of plaster smashed on the top of my head. Again. Sighing, I removed a roll of duct tape from the drawer of my nightstand, stood and duct taped the piece of my ceiling back into place. I'd been bugging my landlord to get that properly fixed, only to find that he'd been dead for three months from plaster poisoning and no one had bothered to take his place.

I rolled out of bed, hit my head against the wall, pushed myself to my feet and blinked a few times. What day was it? Must be something midweek. . . yeah, definitely. Crap. That means I gotta work. I hate my job, even though it consists mainly of sitting at my desk doing absolutely nothing. Some detectives would take this as a sign of bad business, but I don't see their reasoning behind that. What I do is one hell of a lot easier than actually trying to solve cases. Some food would be nice though.

Silently I moved to my bathroom and looked in the mirror, then began to take inventory. All ten fingers, present and in the right spots. Legs, working. Good, good. Teeth still in place. More than I can say for most mornings. Why the hell is there a business card taped to my forehead?

At first I thought it was taped to the mirror, which while still perplexing, made more sense then it being on my forehead. But the fact was indisputable, I removed the card and examined it. It seemed to be a card from a lawn care service. For what concievable reason would someone break into my house in the middle of the night and tape their business card to my forehead? Must be a very aggressive add campaign. Not wanting to give them what they wanted, I tore up the card, discarded it and went in search for something to eat.

There was absolutely no food in the fridge. The lack of food didn't surprize me nearly as much as the lack of fridge. Come to think of it, the entire kitchen looked much emptier than it usually did. And didn't I used to have a couch? And a TV? And didn't my door used to block the entrance to my apartment rather than lying in two splintered pieces on the floor?

Damn it. Damn it to hell.

I decided to call the police. Then realizing that I had no phone (not because the theives had stolen it, but because I'd thrown it at a pigeon who looked at me funny and hadn't seen it since) I decided to just go to work and sort it all out there.

Grabbing my coat, which I presumed hadn't been taken because of the rotting cheese in the breast pocket which gave it a distinct odor of a dead hobo, I headed out of what used to be my door and into the hallway.

Immediately I was stopped by old Ms Johansen from down the hall. Her glasses were crooked and it made me dizzy just looking through the lenses so thick they could probably stop bullets.

"Hello Fred," she half said half slurped- her dentures must have been loose again.

"Hello," I tried to get past her, but for a four foot tall old lady she was very good at being in the way.

"You're a private detective, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I was wondering if you could help me find my cat, I've been looking for him since yesterday morning and he's nowhere to be found."

"I'll keep an eye out for him," I pushed my way pasy her and ducked into the elevator to avoid another long winded story about mangos on sale. Immediately I'd found the solution to Ms Johansen's cat problem- there he was lying dead in the elevator.

The elevator came to a halt, and I stepped out into the lobby. "Excuse me!" I yelled at the desk. A rather unkempt looking employee walked up.

"Yeah?"

"My apartment was robbed last night."

"So what do you want us to do about it?"

"Just thought you'd like to know."

"Alright. Anything else?"

"Yes." I set Ms Johansen's dead cat on the desk. "Put this in the freezer in the break room until I get back this evening."

The man eyed the cat like a. . . well, like a dead cat.

"I'd put it in my room, but there's no freezer in there anymore."

Hesitantly, he picked the cat up by its tail and headed toward the back.

"Thank you!" I called, and headed outside.

On my way out of the building, I passed two guys carrying a couch that looked somewhat like my old one.

"Hey man," one of them called, "Could you help us with this?"

"Sure." I grabbed an end of the couch, helped them lift it into their lawn care van, and continued on my way to my office.

***

I threw open the door to my lobby, which was little more than a coat closet joining the hallway to my office.

"Good morning Mr. Sawmill," I was greeted warmly, "Your mother called, wanted to know if you were still on vacation in Tahiti."

"Tell her I am."

"I did, she said it was rather odd to go on a vacation for three and a half year."

"Then I was attacked by a shark and my last words were 'I love you mom. Kids don't do drugs.'"

"Alrighty then. Your nine o'clock is in there already."

"I have a nine o'clock?"

"No I just like saying that."

"Ah. Carry on." I proceeded into my office. A few seconds later I poked my head back out. "Excuse me, who are you?"

"I'm an escaped mental patient who wandered in here and decided to pose as your secretary."

"Can you alphabetize?"

"Yes sir."

"See what you can do with my file cabinet. But don't open the third drawer from the top, there's a family of raccoons living in there. Or was it the second? Oh well, guess you'll find out soon enough. Oh and I think there's a side of bacon in there somewhere, bring it to me when you find it."

"Right away sir."

I ducked into my office, which like my coat smelled like a woodland creature had crawled into one of my desk drawers and died. I kept meaning to take the dead possum out of my desk drawer, but stuff kept coming up. Now that I have a 'secretary' that I presumably don't have to pay, maybe I could get him to do it.

Just as I sat down in my chair and began to toy with the idea of throwing myself out a window just to spice things up a bit, a gentle knock came on my door.

"Yes?" I called. The door creaked open a crack, and my secretary poked his head in.

"There's a man outside who wants to speak to you. He seems to be, er. . . taking a vacation from his sanity."

"Well he'd have to be to try to hire me."

"Yes. That and he just defocated all over the lobby."

"Dammit. There goes my deposit on that furniture."

"What furniture?"

"Oh right. . . I dreamed that. . . oh well, show him in."

At that moment it became clear that with or without my secretary's help (who I have decided to call Benny for no reason at all) the man would have come in. The door burst all the way open, and a man wearing a torn fatigue jacket and not much else flew in. When I say fly, its really just a fancy term for 'jump like a total psycho'. Just from looking at his eyes, I wouldn't doubt that he flung his excriment around my lobby.

I turned to Benny, who had been knocked to the floor. "Thank you, you may return to your desk."

Limping a bit, Benny stood and retreated back to the lobby, closing the door behind him. The lunatic was perched on the end of my desk not unlike a monkey, looking like he was about to pounce on me. I backed slowly to the far wall of my office. The psycho didn't move.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked finally.

"What business is it of yours!?"

"Well I want to know who to blame when they ask me who crapped all over my lobby."

"Blame it on Nixon. It's easier."

"Tell me who you are and how you knew my strategy for dealing with questions!"

"The name is Archibald Winnipenago," he grunted, "But most just call me Chibald for short."

"Rrrright. So what do you want?"

"What do I want!? What do I WANT!?" Chibald leaped off my desk and crawled on all fours to me. I pressed myself against the wall, dearly wishing that I could pass through it. But he did not, as it first seemed he would, rip out my internal organs with his teeth and use them to construct a shrine to Tina Yothers. He rose up on two legs for the first time since I'd seen him, and it immediately became apparent how appallingly tall he was. "I'll show you what I want," a bit of rationality seeping into his voice and face, "Come with me."

Chibald turned and flung my door open again. It struck poor Benny, who seemed to have been rather bruised and cut before that incident. I rushed over and helped him up.

"By the way sir," he croaked, "the raccoons were living in the second drawer."

"I had a feeling. . ."

"Come ON," urged Chibald, "I don't have all day."

I dropped Benny on his face and followed Chibald out onto the street. This day, I decided, was going to be much harder than I'd originally anticipated.