Have you ever had one of those days where you wake up and the hovering island you’ve been living on for the last eight years has completely vanished and you find yourself laying in garbage in a strange city with no idea where you are or how you got there?
Probably not. Forget I asked.
I’m Rock Gladstone.
I’m a detective.
Apparently, I live in some place called “Kansas City” now. Turns out it’s not in Kansas, which was also news to me. A fellow in black and gold filled me in after filling my gut with his fist. Nice guy. The garbage was his. There wasn’t any food.
I staggered back home. Halfway there I realize I don’t know where I’m going…but I end up there anyway. My office in what some incredibly drunken locals called Westport. How I knew to come here I’ll never understand. Especially not after the beer I had. I curled up on my trusty old couch – by which I mean pile of rags and pizza boxes – and slept like a baby. Except that babies really don’t sleep that well. They kinda wake up and cry a lot, don’t they? That’s what I hear, anyway. Mother always said I “cried like a bitch” and that she wished I “was never born,” so I’m no expert on embryos.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah, Westport. My office is here now. There are more bars here than I can shake a stick at, and I consider myself a pretty darned good stick-shaker. Above-average, even. Believe me, I tried. But it was just too much. That, and my stick broke and I was getting some mighty funny looks. Not ha-ha funny so much as…well…maybe they weren’t really funny.
I meant infants, not embryos. I’m still trying to shake off that one beer I had.
So here I am. I’ll take these lemons I’ve been handed and make lemonade, or as my mother would say: “No you can’t have any fucking lemonade you worthless piece of shit!” But my intense curiosity and keen intell…egect…ism? Interestual…damn. Where’s my Roget’s? Ah okay. Intellect. Anyway, I have to find out why I’m here. I have to find out more about this Kansas City place I find myself in. And I’ve got to find some primo dumpsters to get food from because I am broke as a…um…well…a poor person.
But in the meantime, if you need a case solved or a guy tailed or a watch recovered or a sandwich eaten…I’m your man.
I’m Rock Gladstone.
So your man is Rock Gladstone.
If you need a detective, anyway. I’m not really your man for, say, foundation repair. I don’t know anything about that. Actually, if you knew a good foundation man, I’m pretty sure my office is sinking on one corner. He’d have to work for a song, but I can sing “Set Fire to the Rain” really well.