"He wouldn't be the first writer to have lost the plot."

"This isn't funny, Mr Jerk", she said, tapping her finger on the photo of her brother. Her nipples, hardened by the stress, pointed at me through the fabric in a chastising manner.

"Who's joking?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. "I'm sorry to tell you, but in my experience, writers are some of the most unhinged, neurotic, sexually-deranged deviants that walk the face of this planet. Some of the things that go through these sicko's minds, even Jesus wouldn't forgive, and he's in half of them! I'm telling you, tentacles up the..."

"Enough, please", she said. She got up and walked across the room. For a moment I thought she was about to leave, but she stopped at a wall of photographs, dusty and faded. Memories of happier times, but she wasn't interested in my story, just her own.

"It was stolen," she said, almost in a whisper.

"What was?" I asked, thinking we were finally getting somewhere. Her voice was barely audible as she whispered,

"The Plot..."

"Horseshit", I said, swivelling back to the whisky bottle. "Pardon my French."

She turned, her bodonkadonks reddening with rage. Or was it passion? I downed another whisky as a framed picture of me and the mayor flew past my head, smashing on the wall behind. She was a hard one to read.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but do you know how many messages I get every week from 'writers' and 'aspiring writers' and 'idea guys', all of whom claim to have had their latest idea or plot or story ripped off? I'll tell you the same thing I tell them, ideas are ten a penny in this two-bit town, so go jerk off in your parent's basement and cry yourself to sleep like the rest of us."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She began to laugh hysterically, and I knew I was getting laid, or murdered, or both, but not necessarily in that order.

"You don't get it", she said and banged her hands onto the table. It was like she knew my life story. "He had _The Plot._" It was then I knew she was crazy.

Every writer dreamed of having The Plot. The one groundbreaking story that would redefine literature and turn you from a pathetic nobody into a pathetic superstar, with more money than J.K. Rowling and more ass than Shrek.

"The Plot doesn't exist," I said. "It's a fairy tale, a fantasy, a MacGuffin chased by those foolhardy or desperate enough to believe in it."

"It's real", she said, "and someone killed him for it." She started to weep tears of anguish and desperation, and I knew my luck was in.

"I thought he was missing," I said, part out of concern, part for consistency of story.

"They haven't found a body, but I just know something dreadful has happened to him. I can feel it."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, "I truly am. But the fact of the matter is that you can't copyright an idea."

"To hell with all of that, I don't care about _writing_", she spat the word out with the contempt it deserved. "I just want to find out who killed my brother." There was fire in her eyes, and she stood up straight regaining her composure.

"OK", I said, "I'll look into it. It'll be my regular fee, plus expenses."

"Whatever it takes", and with that she dropped another handful of gold onto the table. "And if you find out who did it, I'll give you something _very special._" She leaned in so close I thought I was going to get swept away in her cleavage. It had been a long time since I'd been lost at sea...

She opened her purse and inside was a medal, pure platinum, with a jewel that seemed to pulsate, almost as if it were winking at me. I don't know why, but I was instantly drawn to it. The purse snapped shut, nearly catching my nose.

She stood up straight, and I leaned back in my chair, running my hand through my hair, trying to regain some composure.

"Here's everything I have, so far", she said, pointing to the folder on the desk. I wondered where she had kept it, and how she had gotten it out, but the next thing I knew the door slammed and I was alone again.

Was she crazy with grief or just plain crazy? Either way she certainly believed her brother had The Plot, and was murdered for it. Me, I wasn't sure. Something didn't add up right here and my mind was still spinning. There was only one way to start a case, and that was with a clear head. So I resolved to execute my fiduciary duty, and unzipped...