Case 1: The Missing Chicken Wing


                                            https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQmpEvUWluw (smooth jazz)

                                            https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0noWWGvmjhU (rain background noise)


                                            >It was dark.

                                            >The rain beat down heavily on the shutters.

                                            >The only light came from the bottled glowflies on your dirty desk.

                                            >It shined fairly bright over the scattered papers

                                            >and the bottle of nearly empty scotch

                                            >and the dirty ashtray

                                            >...

                                            >You really should clean that sometime

                                            >But right now you have a monologue to do.

                                            >You are Anon, but not really

                                            >You became a filly because some faggot dipped you in a vat of unknown magical liquid some odd years ago.

                                            >Whatever it did, your body wouldn’t age, 10 years on and you wonder if old age will even kill you now.

                                            >Your green fur was matted, your mane pulled back in a bun in an attempt to hide the grease as natural hair care.

                                            >It usually worked until the customer got a whiff of you.

                                            >You took another swig of your alcohol, emptying your knockoff crystal glass.

                                            >Just another night of jazz and no work.

                                            *Knock knock knock*

                                            >Or maybe there was some work.

                                            “We’re open,” You said as you pulled your center drawer open, prepping a cigarette from the box you have stashed away.

                                            >The door all but smashed open, shocking you and dropping your cigarette.

                                            >The wind swept your mane and sent papers flying,

                                            “Shit,” You managed to say as you winced towards the entrant.

                                            >In stepped a Gryphon, white head feathers grayed by the rain, Her brown body feathers looked almost orange.

                                            >She looked sheepish as she grabbed for the door handle, fumbling it like an autist before wrenching it closed.

                                            “Late night to be traveling alone...” You look around, trying to find where your rolled cancer stick had wandered.

                                            >”I needed the utmost discretion, no ponies like coming out in a downpour this heavy.” She walked forward and sat down upon the old pillow in front of the desk, looking rather confident like an unaware chicken.

                                            >You pick up your beautiful tobacco roll and get to your seat, lighting it without a second thought, “so what’s a gal like you want from an investigator like me.”

                                            >She winced at the sight, either the cigarette or who was smoking it, before looking around, “is there...”

                                            >she seemed to hesitate for a moment, “an adult I can talk to?”

                                            “Take it or leave it, I’m the only employee here,” you puffed out smoke directly towards her, “rates twenty bits a day, we’ll guarantee to have the answer to whatever question you got.”

                                            >You took another heavy breath of flavored air.

                                            ”We don’t charge til the investigation’s complete.”

                                            >Little Mrs Gryphon seemed to be arguing with herself, probably whether a filly could really be as good as what others say.

                                            >Dumb bird, had you been back in your old body you’d have just made some chicken wings outta her and kicked her to the curb for acting like this.

                                            >Too bad this is every client now.

                                            >You poured another glass of Scotch and pushed it towards her, not a big glass mind you, you weren’t made of bits.

                                            >She took the glass and downed it, gasping for a moment before speaking, “my life’s in danger, I need somepony to find out who.”

                                            You decided it was one of the more important kinds of clients and pulled a notepad from the same drawer your cigs hid in, a moment later and you had the pencil too, “why do you think your life’s in danger?”

                                            >”My father deals in special circumstances, helps find work when Cutie Marks aren’t enough to get by.” She tries to explain.

                                            Pony trafficking? “So because of the delicate circumstances you need to know you can trust your surroundings?” You already feel like this wasn’t up your alley.

                                            >”I,” she seemed to lose confidence, “perhaps this was a bad idea.”

                                            >Little miss gryph decided to start getting up

                                            “Hold on, you should at least wait til the storm p-”

                                            >”I’ll be alright.”

                                            >And with that, your first customer in months was gone like a ghost

                                            >The only reminder they’d ever been in here being the chill and the impression the door handle left after its date with the wall.

                                            >swiping the glass back to your side of the desk, you poured an extra helping.

                                            >It was the last of your scotch, you’ll need something drastic soon or you won’t even be able to afford smokes soon.

                                            >Downing the glass, you lay your head on your desk

                                            >You feel yourself quickly passing out.

                                            >Perhaps tomorrow you’ll get something.