Welcome to the 1930s black and white detective story in my mind: I’m sitting in my office on a dark New York night. The camera pans across the outside of my dreary building, then up to my dimly lit window, as you hear a subway train scream past. Cut to the window, “Mayhem Miller - Private Investigator.”
I lay my head on my desk, pull a puff from my cigarette and lay my brimmed hat beside me. I stare deep into an empty bottle of whiskey. The name’s Miller. I’m a gumshoe. A private Eye, a dick. Call me what you will, I call it a living. A meager one at that, see. The Great Depression has hit like a ton of bricks, and all that I got to comfort me is this here bottle of whiskey and this pack of Jack Johnsons. At least nothing like this will ever happen again. Not with the New Deal and all that jazz. At least real estate is a sure thing.
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*caution: "language"
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