The Good People

“They took my kid and they replaced him with a fuckin’ stick!”

“A stick.”

“A fuckin’ stick!”

“Who did?”

“The Good People.”

“The Good People kidnapped your son and replaced him with a stick.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!”

“Okay.” Mike Fionn rubbed his left hand through the ashen fuzz of his head, following the curve of the back of his skull and and brought his fingers around to feel the gauge on his ear. He’d been trying to ease himself off coffee for the last six weeks, and the motion helped to ease the headaches. Still Margie’s nasal voice only amplified the pain as it echoed through his head. He needed whiskey. But he knew he shouldn’t drink before 10am so he poured himself a finger’s worth of Tully anyway. He could feel the eyes of his receptionist Ari boring through him from the other side of the office window, but he figured if he didn’t turn around to face her then they couldn’t hurt him too much.

“Well? Ahe ya gunna help?” Margie intoned as Mike drew the glass to his lips. He wished for once he’d get a normal case but then of course he’d never work. Most PIs these days made their bank from security work or internet snooping, and he’d  already hired The Creep to handle that side of the business. A job like this at least meant that he’d get out into the field. Over the last year or so, Mike had managed to make himself the go-to for these kinds of gigs. Sometimes he’d get a trophy wife from Chestnut Hill saying that her husband Senator McIrishfuck was sleeping with a siryn, but mostly it was folks like Margie from the old hood whose kids got turned into sticks or replaced with sticks or whatever the fuck she was talking about.

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