*as the darkness breaks as he draws the fliickering wooden match to his Lucky Strike. The shadowy figure in a dime store suite and tan fedora speaks. What brings a dame like you around a place like this?
This post was edited by Benedict Arnold at June 10, 2019 1:35 PM MDT
There were two things I knew immediately as soon as I first laid eyes on her: one, she was Trouble with a capital T, the exact kind of trouble that a guy like me was a sucker for, the exact kind of trouble a guy like me needed to avoid, the kind of trouble a guy like me would only end up regretting in the end, and two, I could no more avoid her than I could avoid breathing. It's an involuntary function, you know. I'm talking about breathing. We do it whether we want to or not. Even if or when we tried to hold our breath as little kids, our bodies wouldn't let us do it. Such a foolish feat. Yes, that's what happened when I saw her: foolishly, I told myself that it wasn't going to happen this time, that I'd just ignore her. Involuntarily, someone introduced me to her by saying, "Good evening, I'm Randall, a private detective. I believe you're looking to speak with me, and if you're not, you'd better be, because I'm not going to let you walk away just like that." Wait, that was me doing the introduction, what do ya know? Hmmmm, I suckered myself all on my lonesome . . .