I'm a... private detective. Don't ask my name, because everybody calls me something different. Some people call me “moron.” Others call me “you're a useless, incompetent bastard”. To some, I'm known as “for Chrissakes, stop sticking your tongue in the toaster!” Or you can call me the name my mother gave me: You Were An Accident. I find this name too long, however, so you can call me... Detective Idiot Ness.
It was a dark, sad night. You could tell it was sad because the clouds were crying. I got home to my apartment building at... um... well, the little hand was on the ten. I think. I collected the mail. Nothing but a big, lumpy envelope. It was probably some underwear that I had left in a public place being mailed back to me. I walked up the stairs to my apartment. I tried the door, opened it, and saw some broad in curlers sweeping her floor. “Idiot, honey”, she said. “For the last time, it's room 18. Eight is the one with the two little circles, one on top of the other.” I thanked her, although I secretly found the concept incredibly confusing. But by constantly telling myself “TWO little circles. TWO little circles.”, I was able to find the right door. But by this time, I had forgotten how to open a door.
I had to force it open. The room was dark. That was probably because I had fumbled against the switch when I fell bodily through the door. I looked around... and saw Trouble sitting in my favorite armchair. Trouble looked uncomfortable... probably because there was a beautiful woman sitting on him. She was tall, with pale brown, curly hair She stood up. I had a strange feeling. I'm pretty sure I wasn't hungry or anything like that. “Good evening, Mr. Ness.” she said. “My name is Juana Maikowt.” “What do you want?” I said. “And how did you find out about the two little circles?” I narrowed my eyes in a suspicious m anner. “Have you been talking to Mrs. O'Flaherty down the hall?:”
She smiled and took off her overcoat. “They were right.” she said seductively. “You ARE a dumbass.” I narrowed my eyes again. “Are you trying to seduce me, Miss Maikowt?” “My, my, my.” she said, still in that sultry voice. “Just how slow are you?” “Pretty slow, toots.” I said. Ironically, I said that pretty quickly. Sometimes I don't make sense. Most of the time, actually. But back to my story. “I've got a job for you.” she said. I started trembling. “I need an adult!” I yelled. She raised her hand to quiet me. “No, I mean my employer has a case for you,” she explained.
“Who's your employer?” I asked. By this time my eyes were so narrow you couldn't have fit a dime through my eyelids. I stepped back, amazed at my own newfound ability to competently form a halfway decent analogy. I screamed. I had been smoking my cigarette backwards this entire time and had burned a hole in my lip. She seemed annoyed at being interrupted. “AHEM...” she said. “My employer wishes to remain anonymous.” “Ah,” I said. “So all your employers voted the same way.” “Uhhh... no.” she said. “He doesn't want me to tell you who he is.” I still didn't get it, but I wasn't telling her that. “So what's the assignment?” I asked.
She held up a photograph. “You want me to take a picture?” I asked, suspicion oozing from my every pore. “Look at the person IN the picture, you stupid mendicant!” she said. In the dim light, I narrowed my eyes, which was becoming a big thing with me lately.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “This is me!” “Damn straight..” she said. “It's not like anyone else will be able to find your body.” She smiled, drawing a revolver. She cocked it and shot me in the head. Ha ha, had you going, didn't I? Little did she know my head is harder and more dense than diamonds (although not as pretty). One bullet isn't going to do it. However, when you aim a hail of bullets at me, like she was obviously about to, it's time to run. Which I did. I leapt out of the door of my apartment onto the landing, slamming the door, followed by two stray bullets. I ran down the stairs and out the door. It was still crying outside. I walked down the street, wondering who could've wanted me dead. The relative of someone I put away? No, that wasn't possible. The only person I had ever put away was a vagrant who shot his prostitute, and that was because he had waited at the scene of the crime with photographic documentation and a signed confession.
Then I began thinking of the envelope I had gotten in the mail, which I still had in my hand. I opened it. It was several photos. One was of a dead guy. His head was crying like the sky, only it was a darker color. The next was a shot of the interior of a giant speakeasy. There were various other incriminating pictures, as well as a piece of paper. On that piece of paper was written the following: MAYONNAISE YOGURT RD. IDENTITY ITINERARY. This didn't make much sense, but neither do I. I decided to speak to a fence I knew.
“Listen. fence.” I said. “You got two seconds to tell me what you know or the gloves come off.” Silence. I slammed my fist into the fence. “OW! DAMMIT! SPLINTERS!” Suddenly, someone gave me a tap on the shoulder. I turned around. It was Billy Needles, an informant of mine. “Idiot,” he said patiently, “that's not what a fence is. That's a picket fence. I thinkI'm the guy you're looking for.” I turned around and pulled up the brim of my fedora. “So you are. Tell me, Billy,” I asked, “Do you know a Juana Maikowt?” “Never heard of her.” he replied. “Come into my shop, and let's talk.”