Everything was overcast. I pulled my trench-coat closer as the wind kicked up. It was just cool enough for me to need a hat, but not cold enough for it to be ridiculous that I was outside. Something like 44 degrees.
I was only a six shooter and a cigarette short of being a private eye.
I'd recline in my chair with my feet kicked up on a dark oak desk. A pretty lady would wander into the room, crying, spilling some sob story about how gangsters took off with her husband.
My ceiling fan would cast shadows across her blond hair and fur coat. I'd think, "She seems to be a good kid, and I've got rent due." I'd take the case.
After running into several seeming dead-ends in the case, I'd get a big break when the bad guy showed up behind me with his gun pulled. There would be a scuffle. He'd get a couple of lucky licks in, but then I'd sock him in the nose sending him to the ground. His gun lays on the floor between us and we both jump for it.
We desperately try to wrestle the gun out of each other's hand until it accidentally goes off. The camera freezes on both of our faces. We're in shock. Who was shot. The camera lowers to our guts and it was him that was shot. He collapses next to me as I sit on the floor and light up the cigarette.
The police show up and I tell that little lady that it was her Uncle Joe that hired hitmen to take out her husband. When she asks if he was server justice, I show her my gun and merely reply, "You Betcha," cool and calm as I walk off camera.
Then I realize I'm once again sitting in my cubical, in front of my computer, resolving tech issues.