Avant garde, no?

It was nine seventeen in the evening and the heavy Melbourne rain beat down on Fleetwood Mack's 51 Studebaker Commander like a drunk Scotsman hitting everyone in the pub with a pool cue. He lit up another cigarette - he knew it was a bad habit, like a nun with a leather fetish and a faulty sewing machine, but he figured we all die sometime.

He was a fool to take this case, like a contestant on an overly complicated game show hosted by a man whose claim to fame was playing a satirical version of a rival gameshow host, but when a leggy blonde walks in and says those three little words, you don't refuse.

All. Expenses. Paid.

The words raced through his mind again, like Libyan terrorists in a parking lot, and he took another drag from his cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, like smoke from a cigarette filling a person's lungs.

All. Expenses. Paid.

Three alluring words, but were they worth the danger he now found himself in?

She'd taken advantage of him at a very vulnerable and bankrupt stage in his life when she'd walked into his office (though it was now technically the property of the Commonwealth Bank) and asked him to follow her husband.

"I'm sorry, sugartits," he'd said in a patronising and sexist fashion, "but I'm not in that game - I'm a Rock and Roll Detective."

"That's why I came to you," she sighed, her supple breasts trying to burst out of her maroon cashmere sweater, "my husband is Elvis."

TO BE CONTINUED?

(yes)

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