Master Detective, Part I

FRIDAY FLASHBACK ON THURSDAY
When I cleaned out that closet at home a few months ago, one of the old writings I found was a very self-referencial, Monty Python-esque short story called "Master Detective." This was not written in the "I Feed the Dog" era but probably when I was in high school or college--and obviously very very into Monty Python. I honestly do not recall writing this story at all. But it has my name on it. So at any rate, today I share Part One of "Master Detective." Come back tomorrow for the exciting conclusion.

MASTER DETECTIVE

I leapt off the staircase onto the cracked cement floor. I pulled my gun from the holster on my side and began running toward the open bay doors of the warehouse.

With my partner dead, and my cover blown, I knew I was in trouble. As I ran, oil and dirt splashed against my shoes. I heard gunshots, hit the ground and rolled to the outside of the warehouse. This was not a good day.

A bullet ricocheted off of the inside of warehouse. I returned fire and struck the drug dealer dead. That was good. A shot came from behind me. This was not good. Being the agile man that I am, I pivoted, shot and dove—all at the same time--back into the warehouse for cover.

I sized up that the buyer was crouching behind his black car about 30 yards from the warehouse. Drug dealers and their buyers always have black cars. I don't know why, but they do. All undercover detectives have red cars. But not me. Mine is orange.

I fired toward the car. I took out the tires and the windows. Then I reloaded. No one ever reloads in the movies, but this wasn't a movie. So I did.

Then a very bad thing happened.

The buyer, whose name is Will, threw a lighted stick at the warehouse. I don’t know where that came from. But he had it and he threw it. Something in the warehouse caught on fire. I remained where I was, all the time firing on the man. Soon, the warehouse itself was on fire. I noticed a beam of wood above my head was on fire.

It didn't bother me. That is, it didn't bother me until I felt a pain on my skull.

My head was on fire. This was, also, not a good thing. I panicked. I ran towards the car swatting at my head.

"You stupid idiot," the buyer yelled. And then he shot me in the leg. This was not all together bad, because the force of my fall and the rushing wind as I fell put out the fire raging in my hair. But since I'd been shot, things weren't all that rosy.

TO BE CONTINUED...