literature

Some stuff I'm writing

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Literature Text

Sometimes the darkness can be serene. After all, ignorance is bliss. In the shadows, there might well hide literally anything that you would wish to fear. But it's not as if you can see them. And it's not as if they can see you. It really is a wonder why anyone is afraid of the dark. Of course, that is all different if you can hear things. No, I'm not talking about the screeching of tires, gunshots in the distance. I'm talking about voices, beckoning you forward, deep in tone, malevolent in intent. If this is the case, stick to the gas lamps, stay inside the radius of their dull glow, and stay out of the darkness. And most importantly of all, never turn your back on it.
Cops are paid to look away. The Mafia families rule the streets, and everybody keeps quiet. Or else they will be made to be nothing but quiet. The only people you can trust to solve your problems are Private Eyes, men who skulk around at nightfall, following leads until they find irrefutable evidence of another man's wrong doings.
But step past the fabled romanticism, the supposed hard-boiled stereotype, and what you get is a very different story indeed.

He slumped in his chair, admiring the sight before him. "Sight" being a very loose term for what he was looking upon. Walls which had not seen a drop of paint since they were erected, cracks striking through the sludge-like brown. One of the walls featured prominently a window giving a positively wonderful view of a depressing backalley, obscured partly by a slightly less depressing rusted fire escape, and another featuring a dartboard with a picture of a baby with an inadequately drawn moustache scrawled on in pencil. The picture had very few pockmarks on it, which is more than can be said for the wall around the dartboard. The ceiling whitewashed yet crusted from years of filth gathering on top, in the middle residing a bare lightbulb dangling like a suicidal man from a rope. 2 doors, each attached to a different wall, made of wood and, other than a few knots in the wood and the cheap brass doorknob hanging in loosely, there was nothing of note. Floorboards, fairly intact. A little worn, but otherwise fine.
The desk was just as worn, as was the chair. This was the most luxury that he could afford. Which just about tells how bankrupt he once since he stole them from a dead man's house. Don't worry, he checked the will. They weren't going to anyone, anyway. A small waste paper basket was placed next to the desk. He didn't have any waste paper, so instead he used it for storing a strange gelatinous goo that he used for pomade.
He smiled, and lead his hand towards his holster, shoving his horrible purple leather jacket out of the way so he could get a grip on his gun. He slowly pulled it out, and started to twizzle and twirl his revolver around his finger. Then he sneezed, dropped the gun on the floor, producing a loud bang as it went off, causing him to raise his knee and hit it on the underside of his desk. He shouted "Bastard!" at the top of his voice. He hated it when that happened.
He was going to have to find some work soon. This was getting tiresome.

In some completely different office a few blocks away, Dr. Mayhew was pinching the bridge of his nose and growling. It wasn't because his life was going badly, though; his office was fairly pristine. A working ceiling fan, a comfortable lighting arrangement and a bookcase, a large desk and a wooden panel floor, all polished to a mirror sheen. How could one complain about that?
No, he was irritated by the man sitting in front of him. He couldn't believe that a man could be so moronic. Trying to get information out of him was as hard as trying to shove your hand through a cheese grater, something that Mayhew was almost tempted to try at this point.
"Look," said Mayhew, pushing his glasses back, "If you are saying that nothing happened to you, then why are you in my office?"
The other man looked at Mayhew sheepishly. He hesitated. "Well, uh, Mr. Kettlefish told me to see you."
"Yes, yes," Mayhew responded impatiently, "You've told me about that. Why did he tell you to see me? He knows I have paperwork to fill out for him, and he doesn't tend to send people over to me for trivial reasons like hurting your poor wittle thumb."
The other man seemed to look everywhere but at Mayhew. The painting on the wall, was quite eyecatching, but he didn't know what it was of. It appeared to be a picture of a skeleton hanging by a noose. It seemed in odd contrast to the rest of the room, which was all cream and light browns and dark crimsons. But it was better than having to stare Mayhew in the eyes.
After a while of silence, the patient thoughtfully said "Um...".
Mayhew let out an angry cry, and shouted disjointedly at the other man, "Right! Fine! If that's the way you want to play it, Mr. Crump, then I shan't be the one to stop you!"
Mayhew was losing his cool. Who names their kid Crump anyway? What, were his parents ogres or something? Well, whatever. Trying to get information from Crump was like trying to get blood out of a stone. It looked like he was going to have to call up Kettlefish.
He reached out for the phone, and then hesitated. Surely there was another way of trying to get him to talk? He thought for a moment, and slowly produced an ornate key from his pocket. He used it to open a draw in his desk, and pulled out a sock with two buttons sewn onto it to replicate eyes. He slipped it over his hand.
In a silly voice, he exclaimed "Hi there! My name is Dr. Fluffenbottom, and I work for that mean old crabby Mayhew guy!"
Crump perked up almost immediately, and his focus remained on the puppet. His gaze was almost enough to burrow through the sock and burn Mayhew's fingers with its intensity. That's right, thought Mayhew, pay attention to the stupid puppet and not the man with the bloody degree, you moron.
"Now then," continued Mayhew in the ridiculous tone of voice he was putting on, " I hear you had an accident of some sort, is that right Crump!?" Crump nodded eagerly."Well, poor old you! Whatever did happen to ya, fella?!"
Crump's smile disappeared slightly. "Well, I was busy doing my, uh, thing that I was paid for, and then some man hit me."
Mayhew glared at Crump very lividly. He could barely conceal his rage. Why didn't he tell him that in the first place!
"Okay! But it could have been an accident, right?!" exclaimed the sock puppet though Mayhew's gritted teeth.
"Nuh-uh. I heard some guy ask me if I liked candy, and he said yes, and then he told me to step forward, and then I did, and then someone hit me."
At this point, Mayhew was seething over Crump's obvious stupidity. He calmed his nerves before speaking again, yet still managing to contain his anger.  "Okay!". There was a pause as Mayhew tried to calm himself down further. "Okay!", he repeated, "Well, you don't want to be hanging around here, do you!? Not when there is a grouchy man who has work to do and a maniac breathing down his neck, right?! Well, why don't you let yourself out?!" Crump looked a little puzzled, before turning and pulling the door open and just about squeezing through the doorframe. Why did Kettlefish keep on hiring these musclebound idiots? Couldn't he hire someone with some actual sense for once? Well, he had, he'd hired Mayhew of course, but apart from that, no-one seemed to be able to figure out how to even use a bloody quill with ink, it was ridiculous. He needed to relax. He reclined in his well-upholstered chair and looked up to the picture of the skeleton. It was relaxing to know that he would die eventually.

It appears that whilst rummaging through the trash cans he had dirtied his purple jacket slightly. He hated having to clean his clothes. He never had enough money for food, let alone that soap stuff needed to get the stains off. Hopefully he could get a client soon. Not only was it annoying for him to live in an abandoned building, but the pickings from the trash was fairly slim in this area.
A loud clatter came as he accidentally knocked over one of the trash cans, some of the contents came spilling out after it. Hey, he thought to himself, this one has some food in it! He gathered the food, then proceeded to look for some ingredients that he could add to his pomade to make it extra sticky. Usually this came from grease that had been thrown out and other sorts of detritus that were similar. He used to add alcohol into it, but because of that damn Prohibition, you couldn't find it in bins any more. He used a rusted bit of tin to scrape off some lubricant that had been slowly sliding down the side of the bin since he found it, and he clambered up the fire escape to his office. Seeing as it was a bit rusted in places, he kept getting his dark green pants caught on some of the railings, but after an arduous climbing of stairs, he climbed ungracefully through the window into his office. He can't remember the last time he used the front door. It reminded him that he needs to check that the sign saying "Sleazy Hernandez, Private Investigator" hadn't fallen off or anything.

Mayhew picked out a book from his bookshelf. "Advanced Strategies for Tiddlywinks - 1923" was its name. He didn't know why he had gotten this book from. It was pretty recent, but he was certain that he had bought it, yet he could not remember why. He never played tiddlywinks anyway. And he was pretty sure you couldn't write about - he checked how long it was - 190 pages on the subject. He read it anyway.
'The art to a good game of tiddlywinks is to know the weight of the counters. This shall help you to decide where to press on them, and how hard, and thus give you the right trajectory for making you get the counter in the cup. However, if you are to be in a tournament, then it is likely that you won't be familiar with the set that is being used, as there is no regulated set for tournaments (especially if it is an unofficial tournament). Thus you should learn more about learning to feel the weight with counters. Now, as they may be a similar weight each time, this might seem a little tricky at first, bu-'
What a bunch of bullcrap. Who takes tiddlywinks that seriously? I mean, it's not as if it's the most entertaining of sports.
Then the phone started to ring. Mayhew looked at the phone. He was dreading this moment. He paused, hoping that Kettlefish would believe he was not in. The phone stopped ringing, and Mayhew released a sigh of relief, only to be startled by a loud voice from upstairs shouting "MAYHEW! I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, I CAN SEE YOU, REMEMBER?!". He didn't remember. He was pretty sure he hadn't been told about it either.
"I DID TELL YOU ABOUT IT, YOU JUST WEREN'T LISTENING AT THE TIME! NOW NEXT TIME, ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE!" shouted the voice almost gleefully. The phone started ringing again, and Mayhew reluctantly picked it up.
"Oh, there you are Mayhew. Funny, I thought you were out just a second ago." A little chuckle could be heard over the phone. "Would you like to see me in my office please?"
Mayhew had really no idea of why Kettlefish couldn't just come down and tell him this. Or just shout the order down at him. He really was a complete lunatic.
I'm writing this story at the moment. However, I am fairly unsure as to how I shall go about it. I have found a plot that I like, but there are some holes in it that I need filling in it. Like what these two characters'll actually do when they meet up. I'm sure it'll come to me eventually.
© 2011 - 2024 Slacklustre
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