Detective Pyukumuku

You can find my office third floor, on the right hand side of the wrong side of town. But I'm not an estate agent. Im Pyukumuku, PI.
Some of my detractors have highlited the irony of my job, given my lack of ocular aparatus, but a right hook to the jaw lets us see eye to eye, if you catch my drift.

It was a Friday evening when that dame walked in. It's always a dame at that time of night. Infidelity, of one kind or another usually. Drives dames a bit hysterical, pushes them to their last resort.
Im Pyukumuku, PI and I'm a damn fine last resort.


"Good evenin' detective," her silhouette was striking, the kinda thing you'd find on every peice of merchandise in an Ibiza tourist trap shop.
As she walked towards me, her heels clicked like an empty .32, but her next words hit me like a bullet.
"I hear you're the best in town, detective, when you're not hitting the bourbon, but yous reek like a brewery."
The broad had a point, I was soaking in my in-tray filled with Jack Daniels. What can I say? I ain't got an oesophagus. Such is the joy of being a sea cucumber.

"Well" the dame continued, running her finger through a lock of her hair "I 'spose I'm a sucker for bad boys... whadya say detective? Would it be bad for a gal like me to hire a guy like you?"
Normally all this blabbering would put me in a sour mood, but the spirits kept my spirits high. So I just continued my soak in silence"
"Ooh, the strong, silent type, eh? I always did like those," she cooed, and without so much as an invite she sat herself on my second best chair and spun a yarn so long I could've had my ol' granny make me a sweater from it.

Her man had got himself wrapped up in more shade than a parasol factory. Late nights, evasiveness, a wild reduction in personal finances. So the dame had done some sleuthing of her own. He'd been meeting in an old warehouse lot, in the shady part of town, so she doubted it was another woman; however any PI worth their salt can tell you theres all sorts of trouble a man can get into without any extra marrital relations, and I like my brine a pinch short of pickle water.

"Ooh, but I'm no good with directions detective Pyukumuku, I wouldn't even know how to tell you where this place is!" She rung her hands as if a map would fall out any second, and I was hoping I could find a real golden oppurtunity to extend my billing hours. When you got rent to make, a P.I. on the job can happily spend a couple nights finding an unmarked address.
"Ah, I know!" she declared in a moment of clarity that I'm sure was a rare sight to see "I'll take you there!"
Without a second warning, I was ripped from the warm embrace of bourbon to the warm embrace of her bosom.
"Come on detective, lets go sleuthing!"

Now, if there's anything to get a salty P.I. to reduce his rates, it's any mode of transport that involves travelling down town squeezed to the chest of a dame in a low cut red dress.
Too soon and too cruelly, I was loosed from her hols as our walk through the shady underbelly of the city completed. If the biggest thing that gives you chills round here is the night air, then you ain't got your eyes open.
"Here it is detective. Here's the warehouse."
I didn't want to correct her usage of the detective title. It's been too many years since I had that golden badge, but correcting people ain't my scene.
What did nearly raise an objection was when she placed me down on the rough concrete to start fiddling with some shabby side door.
"I peeked in here last time" she explained  "all it took was a little encouragement..."
A soft glow of flourecent light streamed out of the warehouse, as I was lifted like a prize in a 50 cent claw machine.

The dame slipped out of her heels to avoid the clatter of them against the hard floor. It made for a smoother ride, but like a the last swig of street booze before the police officer catches your eye, there wasn't time to savour it.

Row on row of shelves, all stacked with unmarked crates and boxes. I didn't know what was in 'em, but I guessed it wasn't candy bars.
The dame looked around feverently, like some sorta sexy patrat, until she heard gruff voices echoing up.

With no real time to make out the words, she found herself a pile of unstacked boxes to crouch behind, leaving me plonked on a shelf like some sorta merchandise.
I dont reckon she got herself nestled in her boxed corner a moment tok soon, as the voices were loud and clear by the time she got settled, and drawing ever closer like final notice on office rent.

"Sorry I'm callin' quittin' time early boss."
"No worries  You get outta here Jimmy" a second voice replied, as gruff as a stountland bark and as deep as my gamblin'debts.
"Thats him detective!" The dame hissed at me "Thats my man Roger!"
"Jonesey and Pat already gone off," the boss, Roger, continued "you get home, I'ma deal with these last few crates a'tails, you get yourself home."
"Thanks boss!" Jimmy replied, followed by the sounds of footsteps running to the door.
The dame looked up at me and mouthed the word "tais"at me, scrunching up her face quizically.
I had a hunch, but only that, so said nothing. The chance to confirm or deny came moments later when Roger cursed from the isle directly next to ours.
"Buggerit, where did I leave my goddamn knife?"
This was followed by heavy stomping away and a fading trail of foul language.
The dame took this moment to slice the packing tape of a random box with the tip of her stilleto, opening the box with a sick parody of christmas anticipation.
The dame covered her mouth as if she was about to spew. Even I felt my Jack Daniels churn.
Slowpoke tails, cut and dried. A lucrative business, if you've got all the spine of... well, forget the metaphor. No moral compass is what I'm getting at.
"I'm sorry detective... I just, this is all too much!"
With that, the dame fled from that warehouse faster than a ninjask on meth, leaving me feeling like the last barbie on the shelf on December 24th.

Seeing as she hadn't left me in the easiest position to extract myself from, I decided to bill whatever happened next as recon.
I dearly hoped I was still getting paid after she bailed.
Soon enough Roger returned to the adjacent isle, and busied himself moving boxe. Unpacking and repacking. At least, thats the best I could gather with a box blocking my own line of sight.
A problem I sincerely wish I still had when the bugger moved it, revealing me like an opened door to a dame with very few clothes on.

"What the hells this?!" Roger exclaimed, with some level of incredulous indignation.
Luckily, that moment of suprise was a moment for me to take advantage of, and you dont last long as a P.I. without the ability to fully take advantage of a situation.
If you ever wanted to know how to fully exploit a situation like a P.I., this may be a good case study:

As the box I was camping out behing started to move, I readied myself. Then, when the moment was right, as he yelled in suprise, I hit him right in the jaw!

The guy hit the ground like a sack of rocks. I used his fallen body to aid my dismount, and raced for the door. The inches sped by in mere minutes. As I was making my way past his bald head, about quarter of an hour later, he stirred and I thought the game was up. Luckily for me, he stettled himself and I began the nerve wrecking sprint to the back door.

Sunlight eeked through the doorframe. The threshold was in sight, but I knew that I'd have to push myself to the limit to get there before Roger came round.
The effects of concussion can vary wildly, but at my best guess it'd been a couple of hours, and that was pushing it even for a punch with as much wallop as mine. I just needed to get out of this blastedly long corridor and out of sight.

A loud bang made me think the whole game was up. Shouts and clatters, I was convinced it was his cronies, come to check in on me.
"Freeze!" I heard, as half a dozen blue uniforms burst through the door, lead by a man in a brown trenchcoat holding a pistol in one hand and a golden badge in the other, "Police, we have a warrant for your arrest and-" the detective in the brown trenchcoat paused "Ah- detective pyukumuku, I see you've already dealt with the perp for us. Good job!" Then he reconsidered "Though I suppose you ain't detective anymore."
 I just looked up at him disdainfully "Alright men, time to clear this up. Our jobs been done by the P.I. here."

The detective, detective Connor, sat on the front doorstep with me, admiring the sunrise as his men carried out the evidence, crate by crate. He lit a cigarette.
"Y'know Pyukumuku" he said, taking a drag "You were a damn fine detective, I was sad to see you go. We all were" He blew the smoke to morning horizon, "if you weren't such a loose cannon... the drinking, the violence, the months without a single peice of paperwork completed... I mean, you can't take a perp into an interview room and then say nothing for two hours!" He rolled his wrist in a wistful sort of motion. "I dunno. All I'm saying is... I guess we'd have you back, if you ever wanted to. If you ever got, y'know. Sorted."
I said nothing. He seemed satisfied he'd said his peice, and we just sat together, until the bitter morning chill had been replaced by the suns first warm rays and the warehouse emptied of its wares.

I never really followed what happened after, to Roger and the rest. I try not to care about shit I'm not paid to, but a paycheck and a bottle of fine bourbon ended up on my desk, so I think my client got something outta it all regardless.
So it just left me the question. Do I go back to detective work? Do i rejoin the force? Beg for my badge?
After a quarter bottle of the good stuff poured into my in-tray, and a good long soak, I decided against it.

After all, detective pyukumukyu doesn't really suit me. At the end of the day I'm Pyukumuku, P.I.