Chapter 1: Dead Men Tell No Tales (Well, not usually)
Dick Moriarty, world-famous private investigator - well okay, vaguely well-known private investigator...alright, more or less entirely obscure private investigator - was dead. He was fairly certain of that much at least, for three main reasons:
First of all, people were ignoring him more than they usually did. Which wasn't saying much, in retrospect, but before he had died people had ignored him out of spite rather than simply not seeing him. Secondly, he was completely and utterly unable to find a clean pair of socks. He wasn't sure what that had to be with being dead, but he figured that on top of all the other evidence it must have been somehow related.
The third, and most damning piece of evidence that he was, in fact, pushing up daisies, was that he was attending his own funeral. He didn't suppose people who were alive did that sort of thing very often.
It was quite a nice funeral, all things considered. All of his closest friends and family had attended, making for a rather impressive total turnout of three. Even his mother was there, although given that she was strapped and manacled to a trolley, Dick supposed that her attendance had been under some small amount of duress.
He didn't remember dying; the when, the how, or the why. He had no shortage of enemies, he wasn't even going to attempt to kid himself on that one. Assuming he had even been murdered, of course. It could just as easily have been an unfortunate accident. Maybe he had been on the trail of his latest case when he tripped and fell into a wood chipper. He dismissed this theory when he realised that it was an open casket ceremony and his body, which he'd been staring at the entire time, was perfectly intact.
So here he was, fairly conclusively dead with no idea what had actually ended his illustrious career. In his head, a tiny man crossed out the word "illustrious" with a red marker pen, furrowed his brow, took out an enormous tipp-ex, spread it liberally over the part of his mental page that had held the offending word, gave a satisfied smile, and wrote "disastrous" instead. As he was pondering the ethic and moral implications of tiny imaginary men messing with his thoughts, he failed to notice a man approach him from behind and tap him on the shoulder. His attention was caught when the man spoke, however.
"Ahrigh' Moriahty me geezah! Seems you got yeself into a spot o' bovva and no mistake, innit? Up the ol' duffel coat wivou' a drumstick incha? I 'spect ye wonderin' why ye've shuffled off the mohtal coil, so ta speak. Well me old son, buckle ya seat belt 'n get ready to blast off, 'cos ye're abou' ta find out!"
Dick was briefly wondering how it was possible for one man - a dead one at that - to single-handedly murder everything the English language stood for when suddenly a flood of images raced through his mind.
And if he had actually had any idea at the time what any of them actually were, he probably wouldn't have gone on this crazy adventure to start with.
Next - Chapter 2: Some Things Are Better Left Forgotten
Dick Moriarty, world-famous private investigator - well okay, vaguely well-known private investigator...alright, more or less entirely obscure private investigator - was dead. He was fairly certain of that much at least, for three main reasons:
First of all, people were ignoring him more than they usually did. Which wasn't saying much, in retrospect, but before he had died people had ignored him out of spite rather than simply not seeing him. Secondly, he was completely and utterly unable to find a clean pair of socks. He wasn't sure what that had to be with being dead, but he figured that on top of all the other evidence it must have been somehow related.
The third, and most damning piece of evidence that he was, in fact, pushing up daisies, was that he was attending his own funeral. He didn't suppose people who were alive did that sort of thing very often.
It was quite a nice funeral, all things considered. All of his closest friends and family had attended, making for a rather impressive total turnout of three. Even his mother was there, although given that she was strapped and manacled to a trolley, Dick supposed that her attendance had been under some small amount of duress.
He didn't remember dying; the when, the how, or the why. He had no shortage of enemies, he wasn't even going to attempt to kid himself on that one. Assuming he had even been murdered, of course. It could just as easily have been an unfortunate accident. Maybe he had been on the trail of his latest case when he tripped and fell into a wood chipper. He dismissed this theory when he realised that it was an open casket ceremony and his body, which he'd been staring at the entire time, was perfectly intact.
So here he was, fairly conclusively dead with no idea what had actually ended his illustrious career. In his head, a tiny man crossed out the word "illustrious" with a red marker pen, furrowed his brow, took out an enormous tipp-ex, spread it liberally over the part of his mental page that had held the offending word, gave a satisfied smile, and wrote "disastrous" instead. As he was pondering the ethic and moral implications of tiny imaginary men messing with his thoughts, he failed to notice a man approach him from behind and tap him on the shoulder. His attention was caught when the man spoke, however.
"Ahrigh' Moriahty me geezah! Seems you got yeself into a spot o' bovva and no mistake, innit? Up the ol' duffel coat wivou' a drumstick incha? I 'spect ye wonderin' why ye've shuffled off the mohtal coil, so ta speak. Well me old son, buckle ya seat belt 'n get ready to blast off, 'cos ye're abou' ta find out!"
Dick was briefly wondering how it was possible for one man - a dead one at that - to single-handedly murder everything the English language stood for when suddenly a flood of images raced through his mind.
And if he had actually had any idea at the time what any of them actually were, he probably wouldn't have gone on this crazy adventure to start with.
Next - Chapter 2: Some Things Are Better Left Forgotten