A wrinkled eyelid opens to expose a bloodshot eye to the morning sun, an unpleasant stimulus to an around-the-clock alcoholic. Detective Vic Musket shook his head a few times before noticing that he was nude from the waist down and covered in vomit, but he put aside his curiosity about the previous night's events. In his experience any night that he blacks out is a night he didn't want to remember. It's kind of like Vegas: what happens in drunken stupor
stays
in drunken stupor. And since he collected on his last case he had many such nights, but instead of an alley and cheap vodka he had an expensive hotel room and all the 12 year scotch he could drink.
Then a faint memory of last night played through his head like some debauchery-filled zapruder film. There was a whore last night. A good one. Suddenly Vic shot to his feet and looked around the destroyed hotel room, certain she had robbed him and left in the wee hours of the morning. It wouldn't be the first time. Vic started tossing the room, looking for a tattered briefcase that held ten thousand dollars and an eleven inch black dildo (for obvious reasons). All he found were four condom wrappers, a pair of soiled women's underwear, and a greased bowling pin, but nothing out of the ordinary. Vic pulled on the panties, which were hardly up to the job of containing Vic's sore genitalia. One testicle dangled out of either side of the g-string, but he took no action to correct it and resigned himself to taking a shit and a shower. He always thought better after evacuating his colon of feces and whatever foreign objects that made their way up there last night.
When he opened the bathroom door Vic was pleasantly surprised to see his briefcase on the counter and wasted no time in prying it open. The ten thousand dollars stared back at him, but no dildo. That was a mystery he wasn't sure he wanted to solve. Secure that he hadn't been robbed Vic decided the whore must have hit the bricks once it was clear he was going to remain unconscious for the immediate future. Relieved, Vic sat on the toilet to start what was likely to be an hour long bowel movement. Then he noticed the shower curtain was drawn... He pulled the curtain back and immediately released a wet splatter into the toilet. The whore was in the bath tub with a sea of red around her, clearly dead. "I'm fucked". Vic thought.
After gathering all his belongings and scrubbing the room for fingerprints Vic hung the "do not disturb" sign from the doorknob, then hastily headed down the elevator and politely paid for another night in cash. "Thank you, Mr. Tipton. We are thrilled to extend your stay." Vic was happy he had the foresight to give a fake name, but truth be told anyone that befouled as many hotel rooms as he did quickly adopted an alias. There were two things on his mind. One, there was no way he killed the prostitute. Vic considered that profession to be more prestigious and altruistic than any legitimate occupation, and some of his best friends worked in the sex industry. Second, there was a killer out there that wanted desperately to frame Vic for murder. Vic didn't pretend that he made no enemies over the last twenty years of depraved detective work, but most of his enemies were of the filth-covered back alley meth addict variety, not the type to organize a conspiracy.
But now the detective had very few options, but he knew which he would take. There was a very important man that owed Vic Musket a favor, and what better time to call it in? But first he would have to turn the ten g's in the briefcase into a decent car to make his way down to Texas...
To be continued...
