Nick Faldo Cyber-Eye

The sunlight streamed through the blinds like a thousand locusts in a virgin cornfield, eating every bit of calm through the windows of my eyes. The light was red, or at least it appeared so through the last 2 inches of bourbon remaining in the glass on my desk. The glass stood between me and the world outside. It was going to be another long day in Los Angeles.

I sat up in my Rollerchair, the latest thing in comfy office furniture, and brushed my hair back over my head. Looking through a damn bamboo forest at a world that was still a little shaky was one toast over the line. Following that thought, one toast sounded about right.

I retrieved the toothbrush from my bottom right hand drawer, where it kept my straight razor and sap company. I swished it in the bourbon on my desk and carefully coated the well worn bristles with some tooth powder from the same drawer. As I began mowing the fur from my teeth and tongue, I considered the ads for Wallident Tooth Powder that I heard every day on my car radio. I wondered what their reaction would be to my bathroom habits. Feeling that I had dislodged a quantity of fuzz sufficient to knit a sweater, I threw back the remaining two ounces of bourbon, gargled loudly, and swallowed the whole mess.

I felt better already, knowing that I had taken care of my teeth and had also covered breakfast without ever leaving my chair. It looked like it was going to be a productive day.

I knew there were things to do this morning. There were always things to do, but it was still a little too early for the hired help to arrive, and even Sally; my secretary and right hand man; wasn’t due to arrive for about two hours.

The Private Investigation business had been booming these last few years. Corporate greed, marital insecurities and over the top paranoia always make certain of that. Couple that with the out and out invasion of personal privacy by just about every single facet of the Cyber age we live in; and you have a full fledged orchard of "credit wielding customers" tugging on you; begging to be harvested.

I am, in all aspects of my profession, the best. The best sleuth, the best Cyber-Cowboy and the best harvester on the 4 Planets. That’s precisely why I can get away with the shit I get away with and tip my hat as I pass the aggrieved parties.

Three things piss me off in the morning, and two of them I couldn’t remember. The third was ringing on my desk. Trying not to look directly at the offending device, and catching the clock happily proclaiming that it was 5am in the process, I picked up the handset and brought it to my ear.

"Faldo and Wrangle, cartooning and Bar Mitzvahs," I said into the receiver, hoping to confound whatever creature had dared intrude upon my purple hazed morning. I closed my eyes, trying to picture the expression on the other end of the phone as much as I was trying to be certain I didn’t bleed to death through my much abused ocular orbs.

Click.

Whoever it was had cut for cover. I put down the plastic ear scoop I held in my hand and began to lean my chair back, softly chuckling to myself.

Ring.

Well, it might be a productive day, but my luck wasn’t holding.

I reached for the handle one more time.

"Sam’s Mortuary. You stab ‘em; we slab ‘em."

Click.