“You are not supposed to be here.  They sent your notice of dismissal two weeks ago, you had ten days to clean out your office and get your affairs in order; quite clearly, you didn’t do that.
“No wonder,” she continued, “you reek of liquor.”
I was still lost, but she had a case, and as long as money was concerned, she had my attention.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what your problem is?”
“My problem?” she began.  “My problem is that the deadbeat I was sent to replace is still in his…no, in my office.”  She was a pushy dame, the kind that would break your heart, or your arms.  “Look, you were fired two weeks ago for enforcing negative stereotypes.  You honestly have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“Alright,” I told her, “I’ll take the case.  It’ll be five hundred, up front.  Depending on how it goes, I’ll charge you from there.”
“Are you even listening to me?” she asked.  Evidently she wanted to bargain with me.  “You don’t work here anymore!  Management decided to replace you with someone not so overtly degrading to women.”
The dame’s mouth wouldn’t quit, but then her figure wouldn’t either.  Something about her tone told me I wasn’t interested in what she had to say so I got a better impression of what she looked like; if I was going to be working for her, I figured I ought to memorize my employer’s features.  Of course, a shape like that is hard to forget.
She was still negotiating the deal, “Oh look at you, you’re disgusting!  You’re ogling me right now, aren’t you?  What a stellar combination – you degrade and objectify women while still managing to make your entire gender look like a bunch of knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.”
She was persuasive, but then most dames are.  I decided to give in.  “Fine, pay me when you get the cash, I need to get started.”
“Get started?  On what?  The Mystery of Why You Won’t Leave? … And give me your gun, that’s company property; you were supposed to leave it for me.”
My headache was getting worse so I thought I’d pay a visit to my first suspect, a gal named Bloody Mary.  The dame wanted to tag along; she loved to talk, but the sound of greenbacks hitting my palm was enough to drown out any noise.
“If we’re going to figure out who ransacked my office, I’ve got a stop to make at the bar,” I told her, heading for the door.  She had a few more details for me.
“Oh wow, lechery and alcoholism, what a package!  I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to get rid of such an outstanding stereotype.”
I stepped back out into the street.  It was starting to rain so I flipped up the collar on my trench coat.
“Now come on,” she demanded, “the trench coat-wearing private eye standing out in grim weather isn’t even stereotypical, it’s just plain cliché.”
At this point I began to wonder if the pain in my head might be caused by something other than the hangover.  I lit another cigarette and surveyed my surroundings.  Then something caught my attention.
Oooh, how exciting!
Add flour and watch the plot thicken on Page 3...