Another Sleepless Night
Insomnia overtook me as I vainly attempted to drift into peaceful slumber.
That idiot Leighton! Why had he mentioned Prescott?! Where was Mansfield anyway?!
Big Ben commenced tolling, informing London that it was two hours before midnight.
Being an investigator isn't at all the way it seems in books. I have suffered the immense displeasure of reading a few ludicrous novels about fictitious detectives. I must commend the authors for including the thrill of discovering clues and the intriguing nature of mysteries, but the writers tend to forget several aspects of the job. It isn't all about "Who committed the misdeed? Someone must pay!"
Before becoming a detective, I was told that the residents of Mousedom would sleep safely because of the difference I made in society. I would save innocent citizens from unnecessary imprisonment, and I would see dangerous felons locked away, never again to cause any harm. I valued the advice I was given, but counsel was a bit vague when it came to certain matters, such as the frustration of being outwitted by a fiend or the innumerable nights of insomnia.
No one ever warned me about Ratigan, and they certainly failed to inform me about Prescott.
