If his landlord saw the Everest sized pile of moldy dishes, the sea of dirty clothing, and the swarm of fruit flies clouding his dingy basement suite, he wouldn’t hesitate to stamp a big fat eviction notice on the door. But Alexander Trainer didn’t care. For one, he had just published an Earth-based novel loosely based on his lonely existence, and the dividends were near sufficient to keep him going on the needle. Secondly, the other night a whopper of a case was dumped on his lap that would be enough to trade his rust bucket in for something more discreet. As much as he loved ole Delores. 

He pulled out his box of needles. Two left. Alex wrapped a tourniquet around his right bicep and tapped his forearm to find a blue vein. He injected the anti-canus serum. That gave him three days. Next it was off to meet his potential client, a man that gave him no other information than a first name: Charles.

With his raygun in it’s holster and his stetson fitted neatly, Alex hopped into his huvRcar, an antiquated model built in the golden age of huvR tech. An age long past by fifty or more years--nowadays the huvRcars have way more bells and whistles. He input the coordinates of the mysterious “Charles” and sat back with his dictaphone. 

He lit a Belmont.

“The nurse grabbed me,” he said, “and socked me in the eye good and hard so I knew there would be a shiner there the following day.”

He took a deep drag off his Belmont. Fuck this, he thought. He couldn't write in a time like this. He always grew antsy before meeting a potential employer, despite having a reputation of being a wolflike man with a stoneface. Only a select few ladies of the night knew that deep down he was as soft as they come.

His huvRcar motored through Charles’ neighborhood like a fly doing the backstroke in ointment. He could practically hear the upper class Elves’ noses curl up as his dilapidated huvRcar putted down the well maintained street of palaces. The place reeked of money. Good for him, he thought.

An overtly tall butler that fit the part opened the wide, double red doors. His twirled mustache was freshly greased and his double-breasted tuxedo emanated a rose odour that beckoned Alex inside.

“Welcome,” said the butler.

“Thanks, Jeeves,” said Alex.

The butler’s mustache twitched. “Daedelus.”

“I beg pardon?”

“The name, sir. It’s Daedelus.”

“I was just joking around with you.”

The butler flashed him a humorless smirk and wafted his hand forth into the foyer.

Quite impressive indeed. A double spiral staircase with ivory white railings led to an upper hall with three rooms, each door a rich mahogany. A suit of armour stood on either side of the staircase landings and for a moment Alex thought there may very well be creatures inside, ready to decapitate intruders. But what Alex was most intrigued by was the painting hanging off the wall in the middle of the foyer. A majestic Elven lord with a long white beard that seemed to move depending on the direction you stared. He sat on a white steed and was surrounded by forest nymphs. Bucephalus, thought Alex. Why, I’d have my pick of the litter riding shotgun.

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“If you could follow me,” said Daedelus.

“I certainly could, but it might cost ya.”

Alex followed Daedelus through a maze of hallways adorned in various Elvish style paintings. Bridges, waterfalls and trees the motif the designer had in mind. The crown mouldings were something to gawk at as well, exquisite white spiral patterns snaking above and below the burgundy walls. Finally, after what he thought was between six and eight rooms, they turned left into a room full of trophies. Mostly equestrian.

A humongous walnut desk sat center, and it was clear that somebody was sitting in the fancy leather huvRchair behind it.

The Elf did a one-eighty. He had his hands clasped together, looking not unlike the fellow in the painting from the foyer. He gesticulated to a chair. “Have a seat.”

Alex did as told, noting the deep wrinkles in his face and clouded over eyes. The old Elf was about to croak at any moment.

“The names Psymun, and I have a very important case that needs solving. Police have been working around the clock, but those hooligans couldn't organize a blowjob in a whorehouse. I needed a good P.I. with a reputation for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. Lo and behold, Daedelus, who is more than just a simple butler to me, tracked you down.”

“Okay. I work pretty simply. Let's talk money. Because that's what I’m here for.”

Psymun pulled out a Slim, inserted it into a hydro-carbon tip, and lit it.

“Mind if I?” asked Alex, pulling out a Belmont.

Psymun nodded. “Let me put it simply then,” he said. He took a drag off his Slim. “I’ll give you five thousand tokens up front, and upon completion, you would get another twenty-five.”

Alex’s gut sank a tad. Now his interest was piqued. A newer huvRcar might cost 18 thou, leaving him with extra for whatever stupid shit he could dream up. “Sounds reasonable.” He took a drag off his own smoke. “Why don't you give me the details of the case now and I’ll tell you if I can help or not?”

“Naturally.” Psymun pressed out his Slim into a nifty white ashtray full of other barely smoked cigarettes. Quiet wasteful, thought Alex, or not if you consider carbon emissions.

He pulled out a black manilla folder and opened it, spreading out three large stills of what looked to be gruesome murders.

Alexander looked closer. Spikes stuck out of the victim’s necks in and around their jugulars as if a porcupine had lunged at them in the heat of passion. But this wasn’t passionate. This was premeditated. And the spikes were too small to be caused by some beast like a porcupine. Alex’s first thought was blow darts of some kind, like what you might find deep in a jungle. “Odd. What more can you tell me?”

“All three were my nephews. And it doesn't stop there. Each murder had a note left behind instructing that this wouldnt stop until each member of my prosperous family had been bled dry.” Psymun coughed, gurgled rather. “I want you to find this killer because I know the police won’t. Too much red tape and bureaucracy with them. I need a gumshoe like you with a reputation for sneaking into places unwanted,” Psymun rubbed at his tired eyes. “So. Do you accept the job?”

Alexander flipped through the pictures pretending to mull it over. But money talks and he had already accepted the job when he was poking fun at the butler. “I accept, but I do have a few conditions.”

“Why don’t I have Daedelus bring in some tea and we can discuss the terms some more?”

“Swell, Psymun. Sounds swell.”