Intense, like camping

Intelligent subtitles are for show-offs

I actually can't remember what i titled this

Don't have cornflakes for breakfast.

           Freddy is sitting down, gaily chewing his cornflakes, indulging in his skim milk when he decides to visit the morgue. Brilliant. But of course, what better way for inspiration than to immerse yourself into precisely the kind of atmosphere you want to create. Upon writing this novel, I myself even experimented with having cornflakes for breakfast. But I had full cream milk. Minor detail.

            So Freddy gets up, half a mouthful later, drops his spoon into his bowl and speedily dresses, not shedding a second thought about his unfinished breakfast. His mouth is still crunching when he slips on his trousers, plain, brown. Nothing too flash. His tweed jacket is much the same. Plain as butter. Except it has those cool vintage shoulder pads, that are so uncool now they’re starting to be cool. Freddy likes to strut, you know? Bring a little paZAZ into his reality, if you get my drift. OK so what I’m really trying to say is watch him. Well, read him, really. His every move is pivotal. Or so conventions have us believe.

            Freddy steps out the front door, sun shining, it’s about 10:27. His shades on, briefcase by the hand, he starts to walk briskly to the bus stop. The unobtrusive morning plays well into his hands. Bus comes quickly, the bus driver smiles, and Freddy gets away with a concession fare. Eassssssy. But there’s the problem. Poor Freddy, little does he know that this precise ease of existence essentially means he is about to encounter his most life altering moment. Have you ever noticed, that it’s at precisely the most mundane and seemingly effortless activities, that your life flips, does a 180, high fives Tony Hawk and lands on a completely different ramp? For those of us who don’t skate, you should have interpreted the metaphor anyway. I’m simply saying watch out when it’s all good, it’s about to change.




            Freddy arrives at the morgue, bright eyes bushy tailed. In fact his favourite animal is a squirrel and one wouldn’t be laughed at for associating Freddy with such an animal. He’s always after some nut, and is always full of energy.

            There are a few cars parked outside, black. How perfect for the premises. And premise. Freddy has his notepad out, feverishly taking down notes. A hearse, a Mercedes and a VW are all parked rear to the front, all in perfect alignment. Details like this are important you know, help create the scene. Freddy frowns. He should’ve brought a camera. But it’s ok, taking notes is how they did it in the old days, so there’s no reason it shouldn’t work for him.

            He slides inside the office, smooth as a shadow. Not that he feels he’s snooping, but you know, in a place like this, one doesn’t want to be too animated. Not drawing too much attention, Freddy noiselessly strolls towards the unattended counter. A gold plate says Sally Woods. Underneath the gold plate a note written by hand advises to ring the bell if unattended. There is no bell. Freddy looks around, half inquisitively half suspiciously. All doors are closed. Should he wait or should he go in?

            Here we have, a passive protagonist. Freddy sinks down into a nearby armchair, leather, new, fantastic smell - and waits. Legs crossed. Uncrosses his legs and taps the arm of the armchair. Fuck it, he thinks. If I’m here, there’s no point wasting time. Reckless is the only way to be when you want a good story and when you want a good character. Let’s overcome some obstacles and make some decisions.

            He stands up. Lurks around the corner to the corridor and begins to stride, loooong wiiiiide steps. As inconspicuous as a ninja at a tea party. Freddy comes to a halt. A door is ajar, hushed voices creeping out from inside the room. He flattens himself against the wall next to the door, ears straining.

‘Damn it Will, what did I tell you about this job? Do not fukn shoot him in the head. How are we supposed to cover that up?’

‘Sally said it would be fine.’

‘No it’s not fukn fine, you think we can replace a dead guy with no hole in his head with a guy who has half his brains missing?’

‘Ok I’m sorry Chuck, it just happened.’

‘Things like this don’t just happen you dipshit.’

‘But I -

‘Shut up and lemme think.’

            A pregnant pause. Freddy’s eyes dart from left to right. This is possibly the best conversation he’s overheard. Top quality shit, you know. Real shit he can use. Its got drama, suspense, a dead guy. Could it get better?

‘So where’s the money?’

            It just got better.

‘It’s in the fukn coffin, as we agreed ok. Look they won’t know, this guy was found dead but Sal said there was no records anyway. She can just tweak a few things.

            Freddy’s hand is moving faster than the dead guy was running away from the bullet that killed him. He pretty much can’t believe how lucky he got. Jack pot.

            He slides down the wall, takes a seat and keeps writing feverishly, struggling to catch every word of the conversation. A perfect transcription is not entirely desirable though, as normal conversation is usually actually quite boring and doesn’t flow well. Yeah no shit. It’s the most boring tripe you could write. Which is why writers go over the top. Talk about lion taming and drugs all in one clause.

‘Let’s just finish this and bail the fuck outta here.’

            Scurrying is heard from inside the room while Freddy sits, cross legged on the floor against the wall, drawing up his character profiles and plot outlines. His mind is on such a fast track to creative victory that he doesn’t even notice the two guys emerge from the room and loom over him. A dark voice snaps him back into reality.

‘And just what the fuck are you doing?’

            The guy is looking at him, his grey eyes throwing daggers. The other guy is standing there, snarling, arms folded. Tough guy, obviously. Freddy smiles. Unwavering.

‘I was just uhhh taking notes. For my novel.’

‘Right. We got us a comedian. Get up.’

            Freddy’s smile drops faster than the stock market crash of 1999. ‘but I –

‘I said get up or your brains will be all over that wall.’

            Freddy leaps to his feet, gathering his notepad and stuffing it into his briefcase.

‘Chuck what are we gonna do with this clown?’

‘Well… seeing as the idiot stroll into this illegal string of events, he’s going to have to, unfortunately, be dealt with.’

            Freddy knew what this meant.

‘And what does that mean?’

‘It means, he comes with us. We take him to Monty and he can tell us what to do with him, though I pretty much know the answer already. Start praying mate.’

            Freddy lets out a whimper. It kinda sounds like a squirrels tail being run over by a truck. The guys take hold of both his arms and start walking forward, Freddy’s legs moving out of automatic response than will. How did he get himself to be the main character in this stitch story? Well at least the main guy always wins, right? Riiiiiiight?



            Outside, the sun meets them with an air of the most naïve happiness. If only Freddy could feel the same. He’s shitting himself. Not literally, cos that would be both embarrassing and gross, not to mention it would just slow down the narrative completely, so we’ll just stick with the metaphor. The uglier of the two guys – he has red hair, the one that’s called Chuck possibly, is leading the way to one of the fat Mercs Freddy saw earlier. A cool, luxurious ride to death. Great.

            Chuck blip-blips the car open, it flashes hello and he’s about top open the door when –


            The articulate expression comes from behind.

‘Chuck, we forgot to put the body back in the fridge…’ There’s a brief pause while Will tries to think of the word. ‘Or whatever.’

‘Shit.’ Chuck replies. These guys obviously have been mannered well. Their communication is mostly one syllabic profanity. Oh well, if the message is transferred, why not? Freddy, you must know, is one to philosophise, completely and utterly about language, usually at the most inappropriate times. Lucky he was snapped back to reality with the sudden departure of Chuck and Will, as they ran back inside to put that body in the fridge or whatever.

‘You stay there, no funny business.’ Were the last words thrown at Freddy. Menacing too, especially coupled with the pointed finger.

            Freddy looks after them. Looks at the abandoned open car. Sees the keys resting on top of the room.

            A Cheshire smiles crawls along his face.

‘Ha, idiots.’ Freddy says to himself.

            He casually walks over to the Merc, gently lifts the keys from the rooftop – you don’t want any scratches on this baby, it’ll cost you and arm and a leg to fix, this time probably literally, it being a mob car – clicks open the door and slides in, using his impeccable ninja skills to do it as smoothly as possible.

            Lucky it’s a Merc, because the engine starts softer than a purr, a warm hug of power, and Freddy hits the road. Smooth reverse, first gear, then straight out the morgue like he does it every day.

            Cool, Freddy thinks. This is fantastic. If those guys are stupid enough to leave me with their car, then this is definitely grounds to write about the perfect getaway. No escape in the history of fiction has ever been as smooth. I wonder if I can make this sound as easy as it was in real life? Or will it be painfully unbelievable?

            Speeding down the highway, Freddy is in the right lane, going fast, feeling the adrenalin and enjoying the moment. He’s got the radio on, pop pumping. He’s filled with lots of energy and a fairly reasonable chunk of self esteem. Like something you might feel when you’ve written a best seller. Won a basketball game. Taken your dog for a walk, I dunno. Something praise worthy. He’s on such a high he doesn’t even care where he’s going.

            Wait, yes he does.

            ‘Shit.’ Freddy swears at the steering wheel. The realisation that he has no idea where the fuck he’s going makes his self indulgence drop slightly. Followed by a millisecond of laughing at himself because he was starting to express his thoughts in monosyllabic fashion like the idiots he just left behind. Then he turns down the radio, slows down and starts to rack his brain.

            Where am I going, where am I going? I can’t go home, cos they know who I am and will probably be able to get a hit man there faster than the United States could think of another reason to invade Iraq. Wow. That’s a good one. Better remember that when I’m stuck for a funny line in a story somewhere. I can’t go to the police because technically, I just stole this car. Plus what a story – they won’t believe me anyway.

            Freddy looks out onto the road, in deep thought, cars screaming past him.

            I know, he finally decides. I’ll go to Patrick’s. He’ll know what to do. He’s been in trouble and come to me for advice and I –

            Freddy’s revelation is pierced with a banging which came directly from behind.

He stops thinking. Well not per se, but just stops thinking about his next move.

            The banging comes again, louder this time. It seems to be accompanied by a small voice.

            What the fuck is this?

            Freddy’s straining his ears when another, huge and boastful bang comes bluntly from the trunk of his car.

            Just as he thought. He’s lucky enough to steal a car with someone in the boot. Finally, another complication.

            I thought I was meant to be researching crime, he thinks, not comedy.

            Freddy finds a gap in the traffic and merges left, pulling over to the nifty shoulder lane, on the far left side of the road. Maybe, these lanes are actually devised for situations exactly like this? Because you know, it’s the Italians that run the roads anyway. So the guys who designed the roads would have had a pitch along the lines of ‘whenever you got a body in the car, and need to check on it, you pull over, to the snazzy shoulder lane and have a peek. Easy, done. Then you can go back to enjoying the road.’ That would’ve solved it to any mafia boss in a second.

            Anyway, Freddy steps out cautiously and moves slowly towards the trunk. He’s doing like a kind of crab walk, walking sideways, slowly, one foot over the next.

            He reaches the trunk.

            Another bang.

            Ok, Freddy thinks. Just be cool.

            He sticks the keys into the keyhole turns them, and the trunk pops open.


            Freddy jumps back like he just saw a spider or something. In fact, it’s only a woman. Gagged, tied and pleading eyed, staring at him from the inside. He regains his cool.

‘What the fuck, who are you?’

      He receives no answer.

‘I said, who are you?’

            The girl rolls her eyes.

‘Oh yeah right, sorry.’ Freddy bends over to ungag her.

‘Who do you think I am you squirmy little rat?’

      Freddy stops untying her hands, offended. She could have said squirrel, at least.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t you fukn know who you kidnapped?’

‘Hey, I didn’t kidnap anyone!’

‘Bullshit. It was you and the ugly red head fucker.’

‘Hey you got it all wrong. I actually walked into them at the morgue, innocently trying to do research for my novel, and they told me they were gonna kill me. So I escaped.’

      The woman stares at Freddy, incredulous.

‘You what?’

‘I escaped.’

‘No no, I mean, you were doing what? Research?’

‘Yeah, for my novel. I’m a writer.’

      A smug, triumphant smile explodes all over Freddy’s face.  ‘You can’t tell?’

      The woman observes Freddy.

‘Oh, I can tell all right.’

      Her eyes rest on his tweed jacket. They laugh.

‘Just get me out of here will ya?’


            Freddy continues to untie her.

            This, my friend, would probably be one of the funniest spectacles to witness. I mean, imagine happily speeding along a highway, thinking about your destination, what you had for breakfast, how unfair the whole tax thing is or how hungry you are when BAM, you drive past a fancy Merc, it’s boot open, a woman gagged, and a man standing over her. It’s double take worthy. But of course, you have no time for indulgences of such fancy, you keep driving, looking for the next Maccas. I guarantee you will see a moment like this at least once in your life. Statistics show that 7 out of 10* kidnappings are checked upon on the highway, during the trip. You know, just to make sure the victim is all safe and secure… i.e. tied up and hopefully unconscious. Just keep your eyes peeled next time you’re on the road. It’s a good show to see.

            Anyway, so, the woman is untied and is standing next to Freddy now, dusting off her black dress with extreme shoulder pads. What’s with the fashion these days? They’re so big you could probably have a tea party on them.

‘Well, thank you.’ She says. There’s a brief pause. ‘I’m Elektra.’

‘Oh hi, I’m Frederick.’ Freddy says, shaking her extended hand, ‘It was really no problem at all.’

      She smiles at him.

‘Frederick? So like Fred, yeah? As in Flintstone.’

‘Well, yeah, but only my friend’s call me Flintstone. Most people just call me Fred.’

‘OK well, Flintstone, considering you just rescued me, I’m gonna assume we’re friends.’

            Freddy suddenly realises how beautiful Elektra is. Tall, slender figure (how original), dark olive skin (even more so), full, red lips (this is just getting ridiculous now), and bouncy brunette hair (At least she’s not a blonde). His admiration must’ve shown on his face, as Elektra flashes him a cool smile.

‘Hey, so where were you going?’

      Shit, Freddy is hurtled back into real life, away from his fantasies with Elektra, which for some reason included a pelican on a boat.

‘Well, I don’t really know. I can’t go home cos the bastards know my name. I was thinking of going to a friend’s –

‘No no, you can’t do that. You don’t know who you’re dealing with here Flintstone. These guys, they work for Monty. He’s like, the underground King of fucking everything in Sydney. Have you heard of the Pink Rabbits?’

      Freddy sure as hell had not.

‘Is it a porn website?’

‘No, it’s their crew. They gave themselves the innocent title to detract attention from any authorities.’

‘Bloody genius.’

‘I know right. So they control everything from shit disposal…’

      Freddy snorts.

‘…Waste management, to the casino.’

      She lets this information sink in.

‘Ok, right, so I’m screwed, where are you going?’

            Elektra looks at Freddy as if he’s a pineapple.

‘What, don’t look at me as if I’m a pineapple!’

‘No, I’m just revaluating your stupidity. I was kidnapped, remember? I wasn’t going anywhere, particularly.’

‘Yeah I know that.’ Freddy rolls his eyes, ‘But I mean where were you going before they got you?’

‘Well, I actually got myself involved with Monty and his crew a couple of years ago, rather accidentally too. I was trying to sell some flour from little Ziploc bags, and they thought I was hussling coke on their turf, so they tracked me down and tried to intimidate me. But then, you know, it being flour, I easily weaselled my way out of that and started actually dealing coke for them. Lately it’s been shit though, so I decided to store some cash on the side and get away from here.’

‘Where to?’

‘New York probably. One of the biggest coke markets in the western world. I could be making millions.’

‘Ok, so, and they kidnapped you …?’

‘Just before I made my final arrangements to leave. Monty thinks I was trying to screw him over. Now he has my passport, my tickets, all my documents, and my Gucci heels.’

‘NO!’ Freddy exclaims, ‘That fuckn bastard!’

‘Hey, they’re a good pair of heels.’

‘Ok, well let’s go get them.’

      Elektra stares blankly at Freddy, like he just suggested cart wheeling through fiery hoops on a tightrope.


‘Let’s go get your shoes. And all your other shit too.’

‘Are you kidding me? That’s like suggesting we can just go and steal the crown jewels. Like hey, knock knock, do you mind if we just have a look around, maybe steal that big crown?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ Elektra elongates the word, ‘Monty is never alone.’

      She stops. Dead pan.

      Looks at her watch.

‘Except now. It’s Sunday right?’


‘Yeah, he reads his paper in the morning, and then goes for a run. He likes his easy Sunday mornings.’

‘Ok well let’s go.’

‘But he never even answers the door. ‘

      Another thoughtful moment crawls past.

‘Unless it’s a detective or his milk man. He likes to keep up appearances of justice, and he loves milk.’

‘Ok, I’ll just pretend to be the milk man, problemo solved.’

‘No, cos he’s had the same one for years. You’ll need to be a detective.’

‘Ok, I’ll be a detective… then what?’

‘Then,’ Elektra trails off. ‘Why do you wanna help me?’

‘It’s good research.’

      They stare at each other.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘C’mon sweetie, lets not use clichés like that again. But yes, I’m serious. Now let’s make a fukn plan and get you out of here!’

      Freddy and Elektra  slide into the back seat (no, it’s not what you’re thinking) and start drawing sketches, making notes and outlining their plan of action to infiltrate Monty’s house and retrieve the papers and heels. Their finalised piece is titled How a Bitch gets her Shoes back, which Freddy coincidentally decides to call his first chapter. All is baking well.


            Freddy arrives at one of the most luxurious houses he’s ever seen. Perhaps the most. He literelly had to lug his jaw out of the car.

            The house looms over him, all rich, wanky and pretentious. A couple of Ferraris are chillin’ in the garage. Red and blue. He didn’t mind the blue, actually. Bit of a twist to the stereotype.

            He knows what they have to do. Him and Elektra did role plays (again, no, it’s not what you’re thinking) so he could get into character. Capturing a detective’s attitude is hard work. It took them ages to figure out that Freddy was definitely not your sexy, hard boiled tough guy. He had no air of wit about him, no mystique, no oozing sex appeal. He wears a tweed jacket. Enough said. So, it was decided, he’d take the cosy approach. A Sherlock Holmesian attitude - astute, quick thinking, but humble and unobtrusive on the outside. For the part, they dressed him up in a Trench coat and got him a pipe. It may have looked authentic and plausible, had it a) been the 19th Century when people, especially detectives, wore any of that shit b) the trench coat had been black, even brown or something, and not pink (it was the only one they had - it was Elektra’s) and c) the pipe was actually a pipe, instead of a fake one that blew bubbles.

            It’s ok though. Freddy and Elektra thought about this. He’d just be a gay detective. Problem solved. If you ever can’t figure out how to quite capture or explain a particular trait of character, just make him gay. There’s no time for political correctness in fiction. Fast solutions, easy answers. What, why does the character have a slightly feminine voice? He’s gay, ok? Moving on. Too much? I dunno. Point is, there was no time to think about the finer, logical details now, they just needed those documents and Elektra’s heals. You go to extremes to get these kinds of things.

            So Freddy stands, outside the huge, oak front door of this gigantic house, feeling a little more than dwarfed. He’s going through the final lines and actions in his head. The plan was (it can now be revealed) that Freddy would distract Monty while he was reading his paper, ask him to step outside for a couple of minutes to answer some questions, while Elektra pulled up in a boat on the opposite side of the house, (oh yes, this guy is a filthy millionaire who gets a house right on the fuckn water). You were warned that this guy was ostentatiously rich) and snoopily steal back all her belongings. They actually got into a bit of a quarrel, because Freddy was arguing that she wouldn’t exactly be stealing them, as they were hers in the first place, while Elektra insisted that it was stealing, as they were stealing it from the house. Whatever the technicalities, this was the plan. And it had to work. Because if they got caught, they’d probably both be shot dead, right there and then.

            So Freddy stands before his destiny, rings the doorbell and plays the waiting game. A shuffling is heard from inside. Must be Monty putting down his paper.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

      The question politely seeps through the door.

‘I’m Detective Farlowe, I was hoping to have a couple of words with Montogemery Belgiorno.’

      Bolts and locks move and the door is unlocked.

‘Detective Marlowe,’ a warm smile and a firm handshake is received from Monty. His face also reveals sheer incredulity as his eyes meet the hyperbolic spectacle of Freddy in a pink trench coat and a pipe, looking stern and authoritative. Monty swallows the improbability and politely says ‘Please, come in.’

‘Actually, I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your car. The blue Ferrari RDK&7. Do you mind if I have an inspection first?’

‘Oh.. uhh yes, certainly. Please, follow me.’

      Freddy walks behind Monty, his first real chance at observing this crime mobster. His adrenalin is rushing so much, but he still has time to notice the sleek, almost black hair, the short, astute posture, the defiant steps, the luxurious bath robe. He’s got a scar on the back of his hand and the gruffest but elegant, I kow how? Both at once? It happens, facial hair. Well past the 5 oclcok shadow but still neat. Man, this guy looks like even his imaginary friends were in witness protection programs.

      They arrive at the garage, full glass, displaying Monty’s babies.

‘So I just had a couple of question in regards to the –

            Freddy drones on and on with one boring questions followed by the next, about Monty’s acquisition of the cars, their price, does he have receipts etc. boring stuff really, that would make for dry dialogue and unnecessary addition to the story. So we’ll skip that and go straight to the action where Elektra has already pulled up at the side of the house, switched off the boat and is making her way through the sliding doors and into the house. This was really the only way to sneak in. while Monty was at home. Seems ludicrous, right? But his house has such high tech security, the Americans would be jealous.

            She creeps around the huge dining room, with a delicious looking white marble table, on top of it a few bottles of Grange and the Sunday paper. Elektra walks over and starts to ruffle through the other pieces of paper lying on the table, with hopes one of them might at least be her passport. She drops a receipt, and as she bends down to pick it up, a fairly big bag jutting out from under the leather couch winks at her. Well, I mean, she notices the big white letters of GUC on it, printed on a huge shiny black box. She walks over and yes, of course, Bingo. A woman can spot her shoebox from across the world.

            She picks up the bag, peers inside and smiles. Her passport, documents and all her other shit are waiting for her inside. How convenient. Don’t you love neat things like this? She checks her watch. It’s only been like, two minutes. They estimated for seven. She has time to look around. She’s gonna make sure Monty knows not to fuck with her again.


‘Well, if that’s all?’ Monty stands, his hands spread, a pleading look of ‘just let me go and read my paper’ all over his face.

‘Yep. I should think that’s all.’

‘Well thanks detective, I’m sorry I can’t help you any further.’

            They shake hands, Monty eyeing the pink trench coat suspiciously.

‘Oh this?’ Freddy motions at it, sensing an explanation needs to be given. ‘My partner got it for me. Couldn’t say no.’ He does a cute little flick of the wrist.

‘Righto.’ Monty replies. ‘Well have a good day detective.’

‘You too, Monty.’ Freddy replies and watches Monty walk back towards his house. Freddy then splits faster than anyone has ever splitted before. He runs up the driveway, onto the street, and struggles into his (stolen) car.

            He turns on the engine, hits the clutch, hits the gear, hits the gas and he’s gone, speeding up the hill away from the exasperated cries of Monty who has discovered his 5 paintings, 2 sculptures, bottle of grange and morning paper is missing.


            Freddy arrives at the café him and Elektra agreed upon to rendezvous at, post robbery. Pertaining of course, it was successful. She is already there, looking beautiful, legs crossed, enjoying a cool drag of her cigarette. A shadow plays on her face, but she looks complete. How deliciously Noir. Freddy strides over, feeling the mood, kisses her passionately on the lips and says

‘We did it hot legs. We got our way.’

            Elektra plays along

‘Oh, Frederick. You were so brave, so resilient.’

She bats her eyelashes.

They both laugh.                                              

‘No but seriously,’ she continues, ‘we did it. Thank you.’

‘No,’ Freddy says, ‘thank YOU. Do you know how much shit I found out? Today was a goldmine of inspiration. You can’t write this shit without experience. I got to meet a real mobster. Think about how great my book will be now. Thanks to you.’

            A waiter brings over a coffee, announcing latte, and places it in front of Elektra.

‘Latte aye? Of course. You’re a capitalist.’

            Elektra throws an inquisitive look at Freddy.

‘I dunno, I heard it in a poem once. I don’t get it either.’

            Their eyes scream at each other, their lips quiver, but they do not touch.

‘I was thinking, Elektra says slowly.. how bout, you come with me?’

            She looks at him directly, a simple smile and inviting eyes on her countenance.

‘What… really?’

‘Yeah. When I was in Monty’s house, I managed to pick up a few extra goodies.’

‘What? Like what?’

‘Oh, just some paintings, his favourite artworks, those kinda things. We’ll have money. ‘

‘But I don’t have any of my stuff. My clothes, papers, passport.’

‘I can get you a fake passport in no time. We can buy you new clothes.’ She says excitedly, staring at the tweed jacket again, ‘and we can be in New York by tomorrow night.’

            This sounds tempting. So tempting hat Freddy almost can’t speak.

‘I.. uhh..’

‘You can say no.’

‘No, of course I’ll go. This would be the most exciting thing in my life, to date.’

            Freddy is gleaming. Could this be true?

‘Ok, well Flintstone, we got some preparations to do.’


            That night, Freddy and Elektra took off for New York, flying first class, of course, on Qantas. They drank gin and tonics and Amaretto sours on the plane in celebration, their stolen art smuggled in as cargo on the plane.

            At the same time, Chuck and Will barged into Freddy’s apartment. They found no Freddy, no phone, no contacts and no leads. All that was left of Freddy was today’s paper, a couple of notepads and a half eaten bowl of cornflakes on the table. It had started to smell like off skim-milk. If that’s not a middle finger to crime, then I don’t know what is.


I don't know where my final edited version is =( i can't find it. Sorry about the stupid little mistakes still in there.

Ran out of similes, like


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