"I always knew it would end up like this," I say, meeting her eyes like a clock meets its maker. "I just never knew how."

"Excuse me," she says, setting my glass down in front of it. What it may be, I do not know. So, I say I say, "Say, what's in this? Tastes like crack."

"It's not crack," she says, "I never touch the stuff. Wouldn't. Not with a stick or a pole meant for reaching and touching stuff."

"It's good to know," I say, fingering my bellybutton. Sexually. "What is it then?"

"It's drugged iced tea."

She's too innocent to drink drugs and I'm old enough to know better. "Yes," I say. "It's drugged iced tea. I imagine you'll be having sex with me after I drink this?"

"Oh yaaaaaa." She says, waiting for me to drink my drugs.

And I do. Drink my drugs.
I drink them better than I ever have before and I wait for them to kick in.

"Now," I say, a matter of factly, mattering the facts before her gracious eyes. "How do you want your loving? Docile or complicit?"

She is having her hand down my flannel shirt, brushing my nipples. "Can't you take off this ugly coat, Sonic?"

"Silence, I say," I say, silencing her but encouraging her with my body language to keep brushing my nipples. "Silence and silence again. This is my business coat. Now, let's get down to business."

And you could say the sex was good, but it would be a lie.
She made these... noises. These sounds. Really put me off of the whole thing. And then again when she was wondering what I was thinking about.

"What I'm thinking about? Jesus, woman."

"Was that a bad thing to ask," she asks, pawing at my chest.

"Yes, I say," I say. I say again. "Yes, I say."

She's being difficult. I know my way around the female anatomy but the brain is like a fart in an enclosed car.
Nobody knows which window the stink will roll out.

"Look," I say. "Listen. I'm the detective around here and it's about time I started getting some answers. When did Tails grow bones? When did peepee start to breathe?"

"What?"

"When did my goddamn drugs come out of an eight year old. WHO ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!"

I start to shake Amy like a fleshy maraca and she screams like a turd in the flushing period of her garbled existence.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAA." She screams. I don't like that. It offends me. I shake her harder until she stops making screams.

Her eyes darting around the inside of her head like mice in a fart maze. Any which way they can to avoid the smell but the rugged truth between them mouse eyes in the heart of their inferior souls is that they can't escape that box smell. They'll suffocate in there with my farts because I taped the exit closed.

"Who do you work for?!" I demand.

But it's too late.
She breaks her molar and subscribes to the coward's philosophy of escaping my endless psychic prowess.
She eats a death I didn't give her - wouldn't have given her, if she hadn't disputed my very sanity upon virtuous examination.

However, the fool neglected my tralala.
While that stupid bitch is choking on her own foaming fluids I am able to get into her face and speak freely.
I drip into her pores, her substance, her melting worth.

And I can tell her, finally, how I really feel.
And I do, I so very do with my words and jowls and bodyparts, I tell her what I utterly and truly feel about her.
But I forget what that is. Even though I really start to think about it.

Amy, her corpse coughs and and spits up bile around her burbling and foaming lips.
It's absolutely disgusting, and I wouldn't recommend any woman do it in front of any man you'd like to get down to business with.
You'll get rejected and then you'll never get married. Your only options will to be a butch dyke or pose in society as a man in order to rise up the ranks of men to just pretend for a split second you're valuable, and then lose that like you lose everything because you're goddamn worthless.

Anyway, she says some fucked up shit about my junk and I probably cried. I probably cry. There's nothing wrong with crying when you're a detective, the truth is your tears are like dusting for fingerprints.
But more like. Splashing for mindprints. It's like a sonic ecolocation because I'm fast enough to hear the goddamn universe. And the goddamn universe is saying something to me, it's saying Sonic, stop being so fucking good at everything and maybe stop punching that corpse because it died after saying something. Just because she said something and died before you said anything doesn't mean you lose. And you should probably stop punching the corpse for forensic purposes.

Or something.

There's a call on the answering machine, and I just can't hope enough that it's a good one.

"Hey bitch!" My brother Manic says on the answering machine. "I bet you like to peepee on a dingus hardstyle. Give us a ringus when you get done getting that Sonic dingus. Chooo choooooo! Haha! Chugga chugga chugga chugga chugga chugga chugga chugga CHOOO CHOOOOOO! Haha! Nuggets!"

I imagine how that message would have been different if he had known I was here punching her corpse.
And that I should stop.
Goddamn. You and Tails. Always dying on me and shit.

Disgraceful.