Easter & Patrick

Why is it that chocolate seems to have found it's way into every form of main stream societies celebrations? The shelves of shops seemed to be packed to overflowing with the stuff months before big calendar events and people wonder why there is an obesity problem...


I have no big problem with people celebrating religious events, I would rather not go around upsetting God in his heavens when there are enough people on earth whose wrath seems to be aimed my way. I'd rather not invoke any higher power's displeasure as well. What I do have a problem with is the way that people seem to think that a religious festival is an excuse for a holiday and to celebrate and try to make me join in...


I'm not religious, my faith is in my guns and my own intelligence. I was raised that way, no one has ever spoken to me about God to try and convince me otherwise, most have just assumed that I am a terrible sinner beyond saving I think. The closest any one has come is the pastor/priest/vicar whichever it is that Fred goes to see for spiritual guidance, a man named Patrick.


The man didn't preach at me, he talked to me, like a human being...the only other person who has ever done that really is Fred, well in my adult life at least. He asked me what I believed and why so I told him, didn't tell me I was wrong, didn't tell me to change my ways or how I needed to change my life before I ended up in hell (my father always said that's what church goers did). He simply said that he would pray for me.


I'm not sure what pull that would have with the Almighty but it felt nice to know that there might be someone looking out for, for no other reason than they wanted to. I found out two days ago that the guy was shot just round the corner from my office. Turns out he was coming to see me about something and didn't want to risk phoning. Fred had offered to come with him, but he'd said it couldn't wait. 


Whatever it was, somebody shut him up. That somebody obviously didn't know that they were going to kill the only person I have ever met that shows the world to not be a dark and dismal cesspool of evil. To take them from the world, from me has definitely got my attention. 


When I find them they are going to be praying for mercy, which is ironic really, since it's their fault that all of my mercy died when they killed Patrick.

Bookshops

I don’t know what it is about the general populous that means walking into a bookshop dressed in leather – black, covered by a long coat – black, inspires distasteful glances and even tuts. It’s almost enough to hurt a woman’s feelings.

Almost.

Of course the tuts of disgust are soon replaced by mildly discontented gasps and stifled screams at the sight of my revolvers sat in their holsters.

People really need to make up their minds, either fear, loathing or disgust. To keep changing between them is just unfair. For some reason the only person that currently seems to have his mind made up about me is one Frederick Barlow and his opinion of me is just plain wrong.

I discovered his current mind set quite by accident. Two days ago, a rather large vase of flowers may have found itself making an unexpected journey out of the window onto the bonnet of a certain person's car...yes the vase and flowers were from the same person...and yes they were handed to me with a proposition of dinner and dancing.

Granted if I was a normal human being, I would have melted and fallen into his arms as he apparently expected me to. Strangely enough this didn't happen. Instead he decided to tell me what a wonderful person I was...when you end up being described as a gentle, kind, compassionate person and there is still dried blood in your hair from where you shot someone not an hour earlier, you begin to wonder about the sanity levels of the person in front of you.

There are times when there are small amounts of hope for the human race...on days like today...Fred Barlow is the greatest hope for them...so really they're all doomed.

How Not To Escape A Prison Cell

After the last few days I have learnt several hard lessons: -

1) Trying to steal the key does not work as there is no keyhole on the inside of prison cell doors.

2) Equally, lockpicking is redundant for the afore mentioned reasons.

3) Trying to escape from prison cells leads to missing more meals.

4) Fred Barlow isn’t the bad guy I would like to make him out to be.

5) Men in suits aren’t necessarily the enemy…it doesn’t make them any less annoying but in the case not who I should be fighting against.

6) Mrs. Weldon was not the harlot that surveillance made her out to be…

None of this would have been discovered if there had not been several attempts made to escape captivity. I have never done well inside stone walls, especially if those stone walls have iron bars on them. So after all the time I have spent locked up here, I thought it was high time that I was out on the street again trying to avenge myself on Mrs. Weldon, Henry A. Weldon and men in suits. There are many different ways in which escape from prison cells can be made. There are the classic stealing keys, sawing through bars and dressing up as washer women, granted that none of these are particularly effective in modern cells, but nether-the-less a good way to alleviate boredom.

It was during a sojourn from my cell that I happened upon Fred Barlow arguing with the men in suits. Arguing with men in suits I can understand and indeed have indulged myself. However this was most interesting to happen across as Fred was actually arguing in my favour, seemingly trying to get me released.

There are not many occasions when this police sergeant isn’t the most annoying being in all creation, but seemingly today was a day when he was forgoing his usual nature. The men in suits also seemed to be bucking their trend in being the cause of most of my trouble and more surprisingly, Mrs. Weldon was there…

They seemed to be arguing the same point in different ways for what seemed like hours but was more like fifteen minutes. Eventually they resolved their disagreement with a decision to bring me forth from my rotting cell to explain the situation I was caught up in.

It was at this moment that I felt it prudent to reveal my presence…for some reason I ended up pinned to the floor with three guns to my head…

Why is it nobody ever just welcomes me with a hug?

The Case of Mrs. Weldon - Day 19

Fred has been to see me every day. Every day! There is definitely something he is not telling me about what is going on. To begin with I did consider the possibility that he was being sent down to try and worm information out of me, but every day he turns up with food (as I am still not being fed).

It occurred to me that Henry A. Weldon probably has a lot of influence with Mayor Major Tyler, but not even the Mayor has the power to keep me locked up for so long without any formal charges. So my thoughts have turned to higher powers than the local police force. Men in suits.

Men in suits had me arrested. Men in suits were keeping me in prison. Men in suits. I hate men in suits. Though it is true that every girl's crazy bout a sharp dressed man, men in suits don't count. Because behind men in suits is always someone out for money, power or something far more dastardly. In this case I had no doubt that the person behind the men in suits was Mrs. Weldon. What I didn't know yet is why on earth she would need men in suits and what exactly she is up to.

It is fairly obvious by this point that Mrs. Weldon was not just a woman having lots of illicit affairs and that Henry A. Weldon had landed me right in the middle of something I didn't want to be in the middle of.

PI Day...

Who on earth is it that keeps dreaming up all these days to dedicate to different groups of people? Seriously I can understand mother's day and father's day in some small manner of speaking. Ungrateful brats that demand toys and sweets all the time when they are awake and when they reach the age of 6 require a constant free taxi service should have to spend a day helping their poor parents out so the aforementioned adults don't have to kill them and bury them in the garden. This is perfectly reasonable.

The whole thing seems to be going slightly too far though when there is a day dedicated to hamsters, talking like a pirate and numbers with far too many decimal places. Not only that, but it is rather misleading for private investigators who think at last they are getting some recognition on 14th March for all that they do to improve the lives of the cattle that pace the streets below their office windows and generally are ignorant of most of the outside world, only to find that this day is not a day dedicated to the hard working, under appreciated private eye, but to 3.141592.

A mathematical constant receives more adulation than both myself and the Greek letter put together! Worst of all is when police sergeants use this tiny misunderstanding as an excuse to ridicule the sensible assumption. Hammering the point home by posting 3.14 cards reading "Happy Pi Day, here's to a number that's as irrational as you" was just cruel.

As I cannot hurt a number, I will just have to take out my frustration on hunting a certain man with a paint gun whilst he is driving his newest sports car...I wonder how long it would take to etch a legible π onto a bonnet from 12ft away...

Valentine's Day

Why is it that the day that is supposed to be the mushiest, gushiest, most annoying day of the year is actually my best business day throughout the whole year?

It's enough to make someone cynical...if I wasn't cynical already...Valentine's Day gives me two solid weeks of work either side of the day that means I can't do anything other than plough through each case! It's amazing how long the human body can function without sleep as long as there is takeaway food and alcohol available.

This year for example I had eight women asking me to find the men that were stalking them and then hand them over to the police, was rather unfortunate for Constable Evans really; seven men who wanted me to follow their wives to find out if they were having affairs, six women asking me to follow their husbands, five men asking me to follow their wives so they could have affairs without being caught, four teenagers wanting me to find them dates for Valentine's Day, three women asking me out for Valentine's Day, two men asking me out for Valentine's Day and final one really annoying policeman breaking up with yet another bimbo and wanting to spend the day with me.

Avoiding the last six makes getting my actual work done very difficult. 

My 12 Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, a headache the size of Italy.

On the second day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the third day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the fourth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the fifth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the seventh day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the eighth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the ninth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, ten packs of cigarettes, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, an eleven mile car chase, ten packs of cigarettes, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, twelve sincere apologies, an eleven mile car chase, ten packs of cigarettes, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

And people wonder why I hate Christmas...