There she is, just walking down the street. Snapping her fingers and shaking that ass. Damn, that's an ass. Reminds me of that hooker I met in Belize. Not that I ever paid for sex.
“Hey, Protag.”
“Hey, Baby.”
“Want a date tonight, Protag?”
Pay no attention to those street walkers. I have no clue who they are. But that's my name. Protag. Protag O'Nist. I'm a cop. Or I was. I'm off the force now. Running my own detective agency off of High St. It's a filthy rat hole, but I get enough business. Never run out of scotch yet. It's right here, actually. Above my two favorite stores. Porn and liquor.
I stop off and pick up the latest copies of Hot Whores and Anal Explosions then head to the liquor store for my lunch, cheap rotgut.

“I need your help.”
I fall out of my chair. I must have fallen asleep. The bottle is on my table so I take a drink, scratch the perpetual stubble on my face and study the dame. My heart has stopped and I wasn't sure if I was in love or if I needed another drink. I took another drink and my heart still didn't beat. It was either love, or lust. Probably lust. The last thing I loved, died. No one ever told me dogs had to eat regularly.
“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” I ask, in my best lovable rogue tone.
She sat down and my heart started. I could feel it beating up into my throat, strangling me with my own tongue. She didn't wear underwear.
She opened her purse and I studied the long legs covered in fishnet stockings then run up to hooks from her garter belt under a skirt that should be considered a lethal weapon. It was so tight, she must have killed half a dozen old men from heart attacks. Her blouse was cut low and she wasn't wearing a bra. The way her nipples stood out told me that, plus the fact the only buttons done up reached only three inches above her navel. The jacket was unbuttoned and the cute little hat had a veil that didn't cover her gorgeous red lips I wished were covering mine. Or at least my penis.
She pulled an envelope out and handed it over. I hoped this was something good. She looked like she had money. And if she didn't, she just might pay me off the way all women should.
I opened the envelope and my heart fell then my spirits rose. Antag O'Nist had her husband and was holding him for ransom. Twenty million dollars. She was worth bucks.
“I've heard you know him.”
“I have.” I looked up at her. “He's my worthless adopted twin brother.”
She stared at me, confused by the statement, then asked, “If you can get him back without paying the ransom, I'll pay you twenty five percent.”
I could feel my irises reforming into dollar signs and I had to resist the urge to shout out, Ching Ching. I think I whispered it.
“I'll need expense money.”
She nodded and pulled out another envelope then handed it over. This time I did whisper it. The thing was an inch thick and filled with Benjamins. I always knew a C note was a man's best friend.
I walk her out and admire her shapely heart shaped ass then made a call. Thirty minutes later, I had three boxes of the finest whiskey delivered. Hey, every detective needs his fuel. I stuck a bottle in my pocket and walk out to my car. It's a piece of shit. But it's my piece of shit and it runs. usually. I prayed as I started it then drove to the woman's home. She had given me her address and told me he had been kidnapped from home. As I drove, I called my mom. She wouldn't tell me where Antag was. Should have known. She always liked him better. Bitch.
The house was amazing and the bikini she wore was even more amazing. I was harder than the arteries in my body. “You're here. Good. He was reading in his study. I came to find him when it was dinner time.” I tried not to stare. I could see her nipples clearly through the top and her labia was eating the thong. I wasn't sure if I was glad or sad when she pulled her robe on.
I followed her, glad the robe was silk. It clung to her wet body like I clung to my bottles. I took a sip as we walked, listening as she jiggled, her bottom wiggling divinely, the seven inch heels making her legs even more amazing than they had looked earlier.
I look around the room and ask, “You didn't call the police?” She shook her head and I nodded. “How many people work here?”
“Our chef, Micheal. He's been with my husband for twenty years. Then there's the two maids, Gillian and Jillian. We had a butler but he retired. He's in Oahu.”
I nod again and continue looking. There's no damage to the windows but this is a rich area. No need to lock them. Guards and fences everywhere. It was probably open anyway.
There's some dirt on the floor. I lean down and sniff it. Loamy. Like the farm we grew up on. Shame it's a mall now. No red clay. Most of this city is red clay.
She's sat down and I can see her thong has slid to the side. I almost fall over. All the blood is gone from my head.
I quickly finish up my examination and have a few clues to work off of. The dirt. A small bit of glass. Something shiny and red. I'll drop them off with Cecilia. She owes me some favors.
I say good afternoon and walk out to my car, take a great swig, then drive off. Whatever Antag is up to, I'll get him. I'm tired of his games.

Cecilia has good news for me. Somewhat. The soil is heavy with nutrients. Soil for growing things. That was obvious to me. The glass was safety glass. From a car. Specifically from a late eighties car. The red shiny stuff she's still working on. She said she'll call me back. Her boss is coming her way. I drop the phone and look around. No one near by. I take another sip of scotch and sigh. Full of vitamins and nutrients. Well, probably not.
Mrs. Money is on the phone. I'm listening to her tell me another letter has arrived. Where to leave the money. I whip the car around and drive to her home. This time she's wearing jeans and a tee. Still no bra. I want to sing praises to the Lord.
I read the letter and see no postmark. It was delivered straight to her box. The plaza park. Five AM. Three days. Three days? Antag is slipping. I'll have him in twenty four hours. Thirty six at the latest.
I drive back to my office and look through the file on my 'brother.' He's a filthy hard monster to catch. The only good thing about him is the fact he lets me borrow his condo in the Virgin Islands. Crime pays well.
It's all a game to him. I clean my gun then load it with the rounds I hand load. Crosses carved in the tips so I can cause major damage. I love both my guns. One as much as the other. Some people say I'm over compensating but I love this big ol' gun as much as my 'fun gun.' Sure, it only carries ten rounds but what does that matter when one round explodes a hole bigger than the scotch bottle on my desk?
I'm done and slip the Desert Eagle back into my shoulder holster and slide the extra clips into the belt packs.
I turn on the television then slide in a video of my interview after I cracked the big case before I left the force. I need inspiration. So far, my clues only lead to the fact he's on a farm most likely and his vehicle has a cracked window. Probably a van. Best way to kidnap someone. I checked the police reports. Eighteen stolen vans in the past month. Too many to follow up on in too little time.
I walk out to my car and try Antag's number again. No answer. I'm surprised he even has a cell phone most of the time. Sure, I don't try to bust him at family reunions and the like but damnit, we're on opposite sides of the law, like most of our family. My dad chased mom for years until he died in a sting operation.
There's a hooker waving at me, winking knowingly. I swear I don't know her.
There's my favorite bar. I stop off and walk in.
“Hi Protag,” the whole crowd calls out.
I smile and nod. The barman, Ted, sets a beer and a shot on the bar down then walks away. I don't pay. It all gets put on a tab. I'm sure I owe enough to pay off the national debt. He'll probably have to send it off to NASA to compute the cost.
As I contemplate the beer and the shot, I half listen to the news on the television.
I'm about to drink when my phone rings. I take it out of my pocket and look at it then nod. I drop the shot in the beer then chug it and walk out. Sure, I've got to concentrate as I walk but I'll drive just fine. Possibly.
I start my car and pull away. As I weave through the late night traffic, my GPS unit, the only thing aside from my phone worth more than fifty bucks in the car, starts to beep. Someone programmed in a destination. I debate following it then do so. I find myself at the docks, trying not to remember some of the whores from Nice.
The smell of rotten fish is everywhere as I park next to a familiar warehouse. I killed a man here. Got my first promotion from it, too. How I got transferred from foot patrol to detective.
Cecilia stepped out and said, “I finished analyzing the red thing.”
“And?” I asked, staring at her chest.
“It's confetti. From Russia. Commie red, with a hint of cocaine on the back.”
It was all coming together. Antag had tried this before. Running coke into Europe. It looked like he was doing it backwards this time.
“How do you know it's from Russia?”
“The manufacturer's mark. It's a Russian company that doesn't export here. Until now, it looks like.” She tells me the name and I nod.
“Why meet here?”
“I have something for you.”
I step back. “What?”
Cecilia unbuttons her blouse and pulls a slip of paper out from her bra. “Call this number and quit looking at my chest. We don't date anymore, so don't think about it anymore.”
I roll my eyes and walk away, still not sure why she wanted to meet there. Women. Why dress so sexy if they don't want us looking?
I get back in my car and drive. As I do so, I call the number. It's Cecilia's mother. She gushes and tells me I have to get back together with her daughter. I try not to hurt her feelings and get off the phone as fast as possible. This is all so weird.
I call another friend who works for a party store. He tells me that the confetti is new on the market. A place on the far side of town is the warehouse for the company that imports it.
Unfortunately, I have to stop and see Mrs. Money first. I take a sip of my amber dinner then pull up to the gate of her house. She lets me in and I drive up to the front. I walk to the door, adjusting 'my weapon' and my gun.
She comes to the door in a nighty the size a little girl would wear, her breasts bursting out. I wonder if she always dressed like this or if she is trying to seduce me. If she is, it's working. Mrs Money tied her robe and I ask, “You paged?”
She nods. “Another note came. Someone slid it under the door.”
I take it from her and read. He's changed the drop spot and time. An hour earlier, at the train station on seventh, near the first car, no cops of course.
I nod. He's going to keep doing this. I know he will. There will be a pattern. I know that, too. He's kind of stupid like that. It's how I almost caught him in Indochina.

It's Tuesday. I'm watching House. It's the only good thing on TV aside from bimbos in bikinis and the UFC channel but I can only take two or three hours of watching dudes beat each other before I feel like drinking myself into a stupor. It's just another soap opera in the long run. At least House is smart. It surprised the fuck out of me when my TiVo recorded it. I was even more surprised to see white people on UPN not living in shacks and accusing their daddy of sleeping with their girlfriend who also happened to be their sister/his daughter.
The call I've been waiting for comes through. I hit the speaker phone button and listen. I nod then stand, making sure the TiVo is recording. I have to know what happens to the fat girl.
I hit a release hidden quite cunningly as an empty scotch bottle on the floor and a hidden wall swings out. Inside, lots of SWAT toys are placed on movable racks. I flip through and choose the M4 pistol grip Bernelli shotgun then look for a third weapon. I'll carry my Desert Eagle, as usual. Ah. My P90. I stole this before it could be destroyed in a raid before I quit the force. The barrel and firing pin have been replaced long ago. I'm good to go. Spare ammo inside my leather duster. I look like some kid emulating the Matrix but even better, this is my JOB.
I walk down to the lot where my car is and look around. There's a black van. I walk towards it and the door slides open. I get in and it pulls away before the door is shut or I even have a chance to sit.
We're stopped at a light and in moments we're dropping through the floor of the van and climbing down the sewer manhole. Knowing people is useful. From here, the six of us head out. Even if I have to kill Antag, I'm taking him down tonight.
We move towards the building, the more tech inclined people scanning, searching for cameras and all that other shit. Tommy's got the lead. He knows this shit. He's done it for almost thirty years now. All of them have. Friends in SWAT are the best, especially when you have pics of them screwing someone other than their missus.
We're at the train station now. I love how fucked up the design of this town is. Underground on foot, we got here faster than it would take via car.
They're moving into place as I move forward with the money. I was surprised she trusted me with it. Twenty mill is a lot. I want to take it and run but unfortunately, I have too many scruples. I have an honest face, too. Seriously. I can see you snickering out there.
Someone's coming. I wait, half-hidden in the shadows, the money bag in my right hand, my left on the butt of my gun.
“Come on out into the light.” I know that voice well.
My voice is muffled, due to the cotton balls in my mouth and the shit I've been pouring down my throat to numb it. He doesn't recognize me as I hold up the bag and say, “Let me see him, you get the money, we all walk away.”
The old man was pushed into view and aside from the missing glasses, torn sweater, and tied hands, he looked like the one I was after.
“Throw me the money and I'll let him go.”
I cough and my men exploded into action, rushing forward. I drop the money, pull the shotgun and fire it into the air. Stone chips hit me as I scream, “GET DOWN MOTHERFUCKER!!”
He doesn't and I smile sadistically. The game is afoot. At least, I'd say that if I was some heroin addicted fictional detective. I'm a fictional alcoholic detective. I mutter, “Man is the best prey to hunt.”

We're chasing him through the sewers. The bastard has them memorized but he doesn't know we've booby trapped them.
One of them explodes and Tommy calls out, “It's Red-13. That way.”
We rush down the sewer, taking branches until we find the sector. The trap's been detonated but no bodies. I scream and kick the wall then brighten up. I just made five mill and Antag can't always keep getting away.