r/Atheism Noir: A neckbeard detective drama

I was in the middle of debating a pathetic Christian over my telephone when my secretary rang for me on the intercom "Yes, malady?"
"There's a client here waiting for you, Mr.Norris"
"Send them in."
I saw a silhouetted figure through the frosted glass door that had my name painted on it. I had tried to get a big 'A' with an electron orbit running around it painted underneath, but the painter told me he didn't know what a fucking electron was. I had no doubt that he was Christian, probably even catholic.
As the figure entered I saw she was a woman. She wore a green suit with matching bonnet clasped in her hands, and a pearl necklace around her neck. When she sat down she straightened her skirt.
"Good morning, ma'am," I dictated, "what brings you to my humble office?" I tilted one of my eyebrows for added emphasis
"Inspector Chad-"
"Call me Sagan. Carl Sagan."
"Inspector Sagan, I need you to find my husband. He went to play one of his card games on Saturday and I haven't seen him since. I called the police yesterday and they sent and officer and he asked me some questions, but I don't think they can do-"
"Slow down, malady."
The female was wringing the bonnet in her hands, she had already wrinkled the brim. I stares at her platinum blonde hair and thought about how well she could pull of Samus cosplay.
She got ahold of herself. "The police told me he probably ran off with another woman, but I know Michael would never cheat on me like that!"
I leaned back in my chair and thought things over for a moment. There was no reason not to take the case, not to mention there were a few My Little Pony figures I wanted to buy.
A missing person case wasn’t that bad, worse than adultery and better than murder. There was always the chance that the guy in question had been bumped off in the middle of the night, or passed out drunk in the gutter.
"Alright, I'll take the case for two hundred and fifty simoleans."
"What?"
"Cheddar? Greenbacks?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Money, dollars! Sheesh, you don't know your currency slang very well now do you?"
She threw five fifties at me and walked out. I had to ask her all my questions over the phone.


	The lady told me the guy’s name was Michael Smith. He drove a green Ford coupe to the bar Saturday night, she gave me the address. I grabbed my leather trenchcoat off its hook and left my office. My Cold Steel katana I had ordered from a Budk catalog was safe and secure in the sheath that I had gotten tailored into the coat. It banged against my thigh a lot and gave me a rash, but that was the price to pay for a weapon of such caliber, the sharpest and strongest Japanese steel, folded over a thousand times. It was vastly superior to a cowardly firearm.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and tipped the operator 5 cents even though he kept whining about my gentlemanly cologne suffocating him the whole ride down. Tipping was the polite and chivalrous thing to do.

I got in my car and drove to the address the Mrs. Smith lady had told me. It wasn’t anything special, a cheap and lousy bar that didn’t even have its own name. The sign over the door just said ‘BAR’. I went inside and was welcomed by a permanent cloud of smoke hanging against the ceiling. The smell of cheap tobacco was accompanied by the faint but unmistakable smell of cat piss. There were a few regulars at the bar itself, boring normal people with jobs. It didn’t take me long to find the bartender.

“Excuse me good sir, I’m looking for a man by the name of Michael Smith. I was told he frequents this establishment on the regular. Did you happen to see him last Saturday?” “Can you repeat that for me in normal fucking English?”
I was shocked by how rude this guy was. All I was trying to do was be kind and gentlemanly, the way a man should be. Nevertheless I stooped down to his level.
“I’m looking for a guy named Michael Smith, he was here last Saturday. Did you see him?”
The man nodded
“He comes in here every Saturday but not for drinks. Plays cards in the back room Take that door over there,” he pointed,” and you’ll find the German guy, Otto-he runs the card games. He’d be able to tell you.”
“Alright, thank you.” I tipped my fedora and left.