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Harry was unsurprised. Middle of the day, and it was still grey outside.

He was out for a stroll — an effort to clear his mind of the fog and cobwebs that seemed to take up permanent roost whenever he was stuck on a case. A walk often helped. Sunlight would help more, but he had to make do with what he had.

“Lips.” That was the name plastered on the outside of the building Harry was just passing. No windows. He had a good idea what went on inside.

“The Daily Llama,” read the sign on the next building. It was small and looked like it had once been a residential duplex — now oddly out of place between the more industrial (or, in the case of Lips, industrious) buildings. The Daily Llama, of course, was the local independent newspaper. It specialized in great stories showcasing and cataloguing the nation’s ascent to peak stupidity.

Harry continued, quickly lost again in his own thoughts. The MG Gang kept coming up. He had to find out who they were, what they were about, and why they kept defacing Mrs. Cackleberry’s boobs — or rather, the boobs on the pictures of her billboard advertisements.

Rounding the corner and heading down the block, Harry passed Happy Family Funeral Homes. He sighed… and kept going.

Somewhat fittingly, beside the funeral home was a dirt merchant. Harry passed Yard & Son, which proudly claimed to be “Purveyors of Fine Dirt.”
No one had ever seen the son. Or the dirt, for that matter.