0-5

It’s dark. I see nothing, except two, almost identical, and disgracefully unfashionable versions of myself; sitting in plastic deck chairs. One moves to speak.

“Ahh, you’re here? No, no, go back; you don’t want to be out there, there's nothing but pain.”

I hear another voice, that is not in this ethereal place, tell me, “You can handle a little pain. Pain is not an obstacle.”

It seems as though the men in the chairs cannot hear that voice. I repeat the voice's words back to the man.

The other man speaks up, “No, you don’t understand, there’s nothing of value, just stupid monkeys, on a big, stupid ball, duking it out.”

I ask him how many monkeys there are, and how small they are compared to the ball. The one that spoke first answers,

“Millions and billions of ‘em, so many you wouldn’t be able to count them on your hands and feet.” The one on the right speaks up again,

“Infinitesimally small, grams to kilograms, tiny, tiny monkeys fighting the worst fight.”

I once again hear another voice without this plane, “*Fighting the worst fight* is a reversal of terms from the King James Bible, Timothy 6:12. The original phrasing is ‘Fighting the good fight.’”

Once again they do not hear the voice, but I do not repeat the words.

I ask to get out, this time the left one insults me instead of the *out there.*

“You will not survive out there with your bloated disgusting face, you will walk outside your house and get laughed at by every single person on the street, cars will slow down just so the occupants can see your face; so they can laugh at it.”

I hear another voice different from the ones I’ve heard before, this one encouraging, “So what they laugh at you, you and them, are one bad day apart from one another.”

I tell the two men on the chairs that I don’t care for their laughter, and that it won’t affect me.

The left one scoffs, “Like it hasn’t before. Don’t you remember, just one year ago, the Twit twins? Oh I see on your face now, one glance at your ugly mug an-”

My sweet dream is interrupted by the clarion call of a vehicle, I question to myself what it came from. The second ethereal voice I heard explains, “The ‘68 Roadrunner, made by the now defunct car manufacturing brand, Chrysler.”

I wake up to a pounding headache, the sharp air of spring invading my lungs then mixing with the dry smell of red wine, and a swift crash of glass.

I jump up with a start, head still pounding. I can’t remember what happened yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that.

“And you do not want to know.” This one comes from my Inland Empire, my hunches personified.

I soon discovered that my clothes are still on my body, even the shoes, though stained. I guess the drinking must be attributed to that. I wander my way through my rundown apartment, stepping over the broken wine bottle, to the bathroom sink to wake myself up more. The bite of cold water spreads like poison throughout my face. I look up to the mirror, once the feeling has settled.

Bloated, but not bloody, or bruised. Those are the thoughts at the forefront of my mind.

“Like a No Man’s Land, littered with scars.” Conceptualization, needed for every starving artist, or P.I.

I step out of the bathroom, and start heading to the door, then I feel light on my face

“You are on the first floor, the first of many.” This one is Perception.

I soon get out to the doorway, I see my only coat and put it over top of my stained clothes. I hear a tiny jingling in the coat pocket, reaching inside, I feel some keys, and a card. I pull them both out.

The card, my driving license. A younger me stares back. I see the name; Douglas, Keaton. Keaton Douglas. The me on the card speaks.

“You know who you are, you have things to do.” Dreams in Waking Reality, an extension of Inland Empire.

Shoving the license back into the depths of my pocket, I look at the key. And, I see a small logo of a phoenix rising from flame.

“Majima, Door to 104. Registered to Douglas. K.”

I hear the *Meep Meep* of the Roadrunner again, I stuff the key back down my pocket, only to hear.

“You are going to need those.” Logic, the backbone of thinking.

Walking to the front door key in hand, I unlock it. Looking up I see the gargantuan stairwell, I get lost in the moment until I hear the horn again, shaking the feeling I lock my door behind me, and go up to the front door.

Inland Empire stops me once I get to the door.

“But do you really?”

I push open the hard wood door, to see and smell the vibrance of spring, though the colours are a bit muted, the hangover comes back at the smell of air. I look down to the sidewalk to see the dreaded ‘68 Roadrunner. The driver gets out of the car, and I start walking towards him.

“Hey, Doug, how ya doing?” I see him squint and lean a bit closer, “Don’t look too good there, eh buddy?”

“Yes, I know that, thanks Greg, real wordsmith”

I come close wrapping him in a hug, “So, what happened in the last three days? Because I am hungover like all hells right now.”

He exits from the hug, pats me on the back and says, “It’s Thursday, let’s talk about this at the office.”

I clamber into his car, and I hear Empathy tell me, “He knows what happened, and everything else, and he will tell you nothing if you try to force it.”

And Greg starts driving.

The office is small, and unimposing. The architecture, a testament to the otherwise chaotic backdrop. One door, a small sign hanging up front, proclaiming to the world,

“K.D. Detective Agency!”

I step inside, hang my coat up at the door, and go into my office.

My desk is covered in small trinkets and souvenirs, I pick one up, it’s an action figure, a headless man riding a horse. It does not speak. I pick up another bauble, this one is a native trinket that I was gifted, a skull of a small bird. It's said to bring good luck, but in all my years of owning it, it has done nothing, neither good, nor bad luck has come my way. This one doesn’t speak either. I pick up another one. None speak.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Perception tells me, “You hear a soft ringing that is quickly cut off.”

Logic says, “Somebody must have called Greg.”

Greg comes by some 5 to 10 minutes later, after I’ve inspected all of them. He knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

Perception once again shows up to tell me, “You see he is holding a folder, manilla, the colour of a room that many have smoked their cigars in, the colour *yellow*.”

Greg sets the folder down on the desk, and opens it.

“Here ya, go, ya notes.”

He then promptly leaves.

“Hey! You said we would *talk about this in the office*. Where are we now?”

“Sorry Doug, just got a call, real important one too, can’t explain too much about it. But just know that it’s more important than you getting a lowdown from me.”

He’s gone in a blink of an eye. And I am left with an open folder on my desk.

“Owen Hilmann, 34, was murdered at 3:17 am, in his house at, 49th Oderta Street. The room was locked; keyed; bolted; the windows had nails in them; It has all of the hallmarks of a case that I shouldn't take, but we are low on money nowadays, and the client’s paying high.”

I flip the page, “I found the body slumped up against the door; once I fanagled my way in, I realized that the man had a massive wound where his third eye would be, if it was real. I noticed that for the murder weapon to hit vertically, and exactly where it was, I could only assume it was done post mortem. If it was thrown, then they would have to have thrown it from above, if it was up close, then well, it was self explanatory.”

I look at the other page, ”All other people in the house say that they were asleep at the time, and that they heard no screams, or any other thing that happened that night. Strange to say the least, I think I will have to look at the scene again tomorrow.”

I look at the top of the page, “Monday, April 26th.”

Logic pieces together what I am thinking about, “Today is Thursday. Three days ago was Monday. You do not remember the last three days.”

Fuck.

One of the baubles that I have on the desk speaks, it’s an eye figurine, floating in water dyed to look green.

“If you don’t go now, crucial evidence might be lost.”

I nod towards it and pick up the folder of notes, remembering to grab a pencil.

I get into the car and start driving towards the address. What seems to be minutes later, I arrive at the house.

It’s a townhouse, or duplex, the foundations are brick, and everything else is made of wood, they even have glass.

So, somewhat upper middle-class.

I walk up to the patio, the wood creaks beneath my weight, showing its age.

The door to Hilmann’s home is unlocked.

“The leasing company must have kept everything in its place.” Logic, once again.

I open the door, it’s squeaky like a chew toy. I close the door behind me, taking off my coat, remembering to take some gloves, this is going to be messy. I look through every other room, just to see, I did this to both floors. All of the doors probably hadn’t been oiled since this place was built.

But, upstairs, the last door down the hallway is the only one that had been oiled, within the past month, and coincidentally this room is also where the body is. Once I unlock the door and open it slightly, I hear a soft thud, opening the door further. The smell hit me first, like a train, tearing through my bones as if they were paper. The smell of rotting flesh, and iron. Then, opening the door up further.

“Walls are covered, the floor painted, this man is three ways dead from sunday.” Perception, always telling me what I need to know.

Toughing through the smell, I step over the dead man, and put on the gloves, but before I set him back up I notice a small hole in his shirt, not a rip, but an “entrance wound.” Propping the man back into place, I notice after I take my hand from the back of his head, the glove is slightly bloody, I look at his forehead wound more closely.

“Hilmann stumbled back into this door, messy footsteps lead from it, they then transform into a slip, from the then clean floors, that ends with Hilmann hitting his head on the doorknob. He must have been shot with a slow bullet, in his chest area, to only send him stumbling. The head wound looks like it was from a serrated knife, coming from straight above.” Visual Calculus, needed for every starving math nerd, and P.I.

I stand back up, taking off the gloves and stuffing them into my armpit, pulling out my notebook. I write what I saw and have noticed in this short time. Putting away the notebook, and putting the gloves back on again, I walk towards the window.

The windows are nailed shut. I jiggle around the frame a bit for any give, but get none. This is when I hear another thud, but this time from outside the window.

I lean farther into the window to get a better angle, and see a man sitting up from the ground, I do not see his face. He notices me in the window and quickly starts running.

I push back from the window, and start running towards the room's door, being careful to not slip. Once I am at the door, I slow down, opening the door just enough so I can slip through, and once I am through I slam the door behind me. I rush through the hall and down the stairs, not caring for my coat. I run out the front door, leaving it to hang open.

I realize that I did not see where he went, so I just choose right, to try to cut him off. I get to the end of the street, and turn the corner down a mud alleyway. The mud glues to my shoes for a moment, but lets go once I am more forceful. At the end of the alleyway, I turn to see an open gate and some muddy footprints from the yard leading to the right, the complete opposite of where I came from. I sigh, instead of chasing after him, I go to look at the backyard.

I see the entire backyard, a tool shed, a small garden, a ladder built into the wall, leading up to Hilmann’s window, and a door that definitely leads back inside. I close the gate behind me. I go into the tool shed first.

“You see a small overhead light, gardening tools, and smell, is that weed?” Perception questions.

“Did somebody say weed? That sweet green. That good good. The Devil’s Bush. Smoke that shit. Nobody cares about a murder, they care about all those drugs of the world. Smoke it. Smoke it. Smoke it.” Electrochemistry, every man’s dream is to indulge without the side effects, but Electrochemistry does not care about side effects.

I look around, and I see the small container on one of the small rafters, I pocket it. I didn’t smoke it, this is for once I get back home.

I come out of the tool shed and walk over to the garden. It looks like it hasn’t been watered in weeks, the plants brown, and the ground cracked.

I turn away from the garden to look at the, stupid, goddamn ladder, built into the wall. I can’t find a reason for anyone to have a ladder on their wall, leading to their window, the thought has never even appeared in my mind.

I see the door that could’ve gotten me out here faster, I go to it.

Inside the house again, I walk all the way to the front door.

“7.58 seconds, from the back door to the front.” Logic, failing me then being an ass about it.

I walk out the front door closing it, knock on his neighbor's door.

“Come in!” They sound like an old woman. I step inside and take in the surroundings. The doorway is covered in pictures of small children, presumably this lady’s kids.

“One is marked with a date, 2083. 5. 17. It is 2096.”

The old woman comes out, almost immediately after I am done looking, she has that grandmotherly feel.

“Ah, looking at these photos, ohh, I haven't seen those kids in a *long time* only one has visited me, and she left just earlier today, but I understand, they’ve got important jobs and families.” She goes quiet for a moment, seemingly deep in thought, “Ah, come, come, don’t want you standing in the door doing nothing, come, I’ll make you something to eat.”

She leads me to her kitchen, while I process her statement.

“A witness is gone, we have to get everything out of her, no matter the cost.” Authority, the driving factor to any detective witness dynamic.

The kitchen is chaotic, but, it does seem as though there is a method to the madness. Many pots and pans are hung up and to the side of the stove, the stove itself looks like a gas stove, old, very used, yet oddly clean. All of the cups are out of what I think are cupboards, and the silverware scattered across the counters.

I sit down, steadying myself in the wooden chair, after a few moments the old woman sits down, with a cup of tea in her hands.

“Sorry for intruding on you like this, but I just wanted to ask some questions about your neighbor.”

She takes a sip from her cup.