Author's note: hello, dear fellow fanfictioners. I've been in retirement
for quite a while, but I'm back. By the way, this story has no relation to
Calvin and Hobbes. Just strictly Tracer Bullet, which will be the first
time that I've done something like that. Like it or hate it, let me know.
As the smoke of my cigarette mixed in with the air of my office again for the first time in several days, I looked up at the familiar sights of my darkened room. Finally, I was home again. A single ceiling fan whirred gently around and around. I had several file cabinets against the walls, and in the center of my small office was my desk and chair that hadn't been used for nearly a week. My place was high above the city, overlooking the miserable slums I had done work in day in and day out. My door shed some light from the hallway, and I glanced over to see if anyone was passing by. Pouring myself another glass of whiskey as I dealt myself another game of Solitaire, I began to wonder if my client would call back.
Oh yeah, the name's Bullet. Tracer Bullet, to be more precise. I'm a professional snoop. I've been living in this crime filled city for as long as I can remember. As any fool could tell you, all cities have their shares of drug dealers, gangs, murders and the like, but this city, MY city, is quite infamous for it. For every day I've lived here I've got a story, each about as dull as a day on the battlefields of a World War. But perhaps the most interesting one of all is the one I've got on my hands now.
The day began like any other. But then again, all days do. A dame walked into my little office, and right there I knew there'd be trouble. She was a brunette, and she looked frantic and nervous. Her wavy hair came down past her shoulders, and her crimson lipstick shimmered in the dim light. She wore a red hat and a matching suit, complete with a skirt bottom and high heels.
I asked her what she wanted, something I knew I'd probably regret. She told me she had a case for me, but I didn't need rocket science to figure that one out on my own. The dame informed me that her name was Melissa, and that her father was a high-class drug smuggler for a big time gang, but something went wrong and he failed to deliver his latest shipment. The gang went after her father, but he hired an assassin to take them out, one at a time. This man was no ordinary hit man, either. 'Cause usually when people start calling you things like "the Angel of Death" and "the Bane of the Earth", you've gotta be one nasty individual. None knew his true name, but to all he was simply called Blight. But as my lovely dame informed me, her father wasn't able to pay enough to meet Blight's massive demands. And so in retribution for his treachery, Blight systematically killed every person in her family, all but her, her brother, and her father. And out of ten children, that's not a whole lot if you'll understand.
I knew if I didn't act quick, she'd soon be gone, too. I never liked these big time jobs, but then again, this wouldn't really be an interesting story if it weren't. To be honest, I never really wanted this case to begin with, but I was in a tight spot and needed the money bad, so I took it up. I had bills to pay, anyway.
No one could really say much about Blight, save that he was a cold- blooded killer. Well, everybody in these types of businesses are, but this particular case was excessively so. He took sadistic delight in executing his victims with his characteristic lethal precision and speed. But I eventually did my homework and found his real name: Vincent Shadow. I could find very little else in any files I had available, and I knew it was time to hit the streets. First, however, I awaited a call from my client.
Eventually, she called and informed me that nothing new had come up, so I adorned on my long overcoat, my hat, my gun---er, make that guns, and an imposing frown. I lit another cigarette and walked down the streets of the city's dirtier parts in the chilly, drizzling weather. I pulled my overcoat high above my neck and continued on, breathing out a combination of smoke and that cloudy stuff you breathe at Christmas time. I always liked Christmas time.
I found my way to a small bar. I knew the place well, for I was quite a frequent customer. The place was small, as I stated earlier, and was sparsely decorated. The room itself was about 10 square yards, and the only furniture other than tables and chairs was an old, beat up jukebox tat no longer worked. I knew the owner quite well, though, which is, I suppose, how I came to find myself there once again. The owner, Mack, was standing behind the counter, polishing glasses as he always did, shining like the glistening sides of my .34.
Mack wasn't the most handsome of fellows, his facial features were gruff, and Mack could stand to lose a couple of pounds. His face was grizzled and he had large, oversized eyebrows. He had short, dark brown hair and a receding hairline.
Mack was leaning against the bar, and as I entered, he greeted me with his characteristically gruff smile.
"Well, well, look what showed up at my place. If it ain't that Private Eyeball!!"
"Private Eye," I told him when I got closer. It was rather early, and no one had showed up yet. Though it was a small place, Mack always got lots of customers. And that's why I needed his help.
"Listen, Mack," I said, looking around as if there was someone nearby who could listen in on us, "I need your help."
"Well how about that. Listen, Mr. Eyeball, I may be slow, but I ain't stupid. I know what you need."
"Really," I asked, raising an eyebrow, "What,"
"Well you told me yourself; help."
"I rolled my eyes. "
"Listen. I need you to find out whatever you can about a man called Blight."
Mack's eyes grew wide.
"You know what you're gettin' yourself into?"
"...Yeah, I know," I told him after a short pause.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Eyeball, I'll get you exactly what you want."
I knew he'd say that. He always said that. And he always delivered. After all, Mack had never failed me before. I thanked him and started walking out the door. I turned around one last time as he told me:
"Be careful, Mr. Bullet. This is no ordinary man."
"I know," I said, closing the door behind me.
As the smoke of my cigarette mixed in with the air of my office again for the first time in several days, I looked up at the familiar sights of my darkened room. Finally, I was home again. A single ceiling fan whirred gently around and around. I had several file cabinets against the walls, and in the center of my small office was my desk and chair that hadn't been used for nearly a week. My place was high above the city, overlooking the miserable slums I had done work in day in and day out. My door shed some light from the hallway, and I glanced over to see if anyone was passing by. Pouring myself another glass of whiskey as I dealt myself another game of Solitaire, I began to wonder if my client would call back.
Oh yeah, the name's Bullet. Tracer Bullet, to be more precise. I'm a professional snoop. I've been living in this crime filled city for as long as I can remember. As any fool could tell you, all cities have their shares of drug dealers, gangs, murders and the like, but this city, MY city, is quite infamous for it. For every day I've lived here I've got a story, each about as dull as a day on the battlefields of a World War. But perhaps the most interesting one of all is the one I've got on my hands now.
The day began like any other. But then again, all days do. A dame walked into my little office, and right there I knew there'd be trouble. She was a brunette, and she looked frantic and nervous. Her wavy hair came down past her shoulders, and her crimson lipstick shimmered in the dim light. She wore a red hat and a matching suit, complete with a skirt bottom and high heels.
I asked her what she wanted, something I knew I'd probably regret. She told me she had a case for me, but I didn't need rocket science to figure that one out on my own. The dame informed me that her name was Melissa, and that her father was a high-class drug smuggler for a big time gang, but something went wrong and he failed to deliver his latest shipment. The gang went after her father, but he hired an assassin to take them out, one at a time. This man was no ordinary hit man, either. 'Cause usually when people start calling you things like "the Angel of Death" and "the Bane of the Earth", you've gotta be one nasty individual. None knew his true name, but to all he was simply called Blight. But as my lovely dame informed me, her father wasn't able to pay enough to meet Blight's massive demands. And so in retribution for his treachery, Blight systematically killed every person in her family, all but her, her brother, and her father. And out of ten children, that's not a whole lot if you'll understand.
I knew if I didn't act quick, she'd soon be gone, too. I never liked these big time jobs, but then again, this wouldn't really be an interesting story if it weren't. To be honest, I never really wanted this case to begin with, but I was in a tight spot and needed the money bad, so I took it up. I had bills to pay, anyway.
No one could really say much about Blight, save that he was a cold- blooded killer. Well, everybody in these types of businesses are, but this particular case was excessively so. He took sadistic delight in executing his victims with his characteristic lethal precision and speed. But I eventually did my homework and found his real name: Vincent Shadow. I could find very little else in any files I had available, and I knew it was time to hit the streets. First, however, I awaited a call from my client.
Eventually, she called and informed me that nothing new had come up, so I adorned on my long overcoat, my hat, my gun---er, make that guns, and an imposing frown. I lit another cigarette and walked down the streets of the city's dirtier parts in the chilly, drizzling weather. I pulled my overcoat high above my neck and continued on, breathing out a combination of smoke and that cloudy stuff you breathe at Christmas time. I always liked Christmas time.
I found my way to a small bar. I knew the place well, for I was quite a frequent customer. The place was small, as I stated earlier, and was sparsely decorated. The room itself was about 10 square yards, and the only furniture other than tables and chairs was an old, beat up jukebox tat no longer worked. I knew the owner quite well, though, which is, I suppose, how I came to find myself there once again. The owner, Mack, was standing behind the counter, polishing glasses as he always did, shining like the glistening sides of my .34.
Mack wasn't the most handsome of fellows, his facial features were gruff, and Mack could stand to lose a couple of pounds. His face was grizzled and he had large, oversized eyebrows. He had short, dark brown hair and a receding hairline.
Mack was leaning against the bar, and as I entered, he greeted me with his characteristically gruff smile.
"Well, well, look what showed up at my place. If it ain't that Private Eyeball!!"
"Private Eye," I told him when I got closer. It was rather early, and no one had showed up yet. Though it was a small place, Mack always got lots of customers. And that's why I needed his help.
"Listen, Mack," I said, looking around as if there was someone nearby who could listen in on us, "I need your help."
"Well how about that. Listen, Mr. Eyeball, I may be slow, but I ain't stupid. I know what you need."
"Really," I asked, raising an eyebrow, "What,"
"Well you told me yourself; help."
"I rolled my eyes. "
"Listen. I need you to find out whatever you can about a man called Blight."
Mack's eyes grew wide.
"You know what you're gettin' yourself into?"
"...Yeah, I know," I told him after a short pause.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Eyeball, I'll get you exactly what you want."
I knew he'd say that. He always said that. And he always delivered. After all, Mack had never failed me before. I thanked him and started walking out the door. I turned around one last time as he told me:
"Be careful, Mr. Bullet. This is no ordinary man."
"I know," I said, closing the door behind me.