Death's Waltz

At this point, we were completely out of leads. We had no idea who might have killed Mr. Grot. Honestly, we were about to just call it a day and go pick up an alcohol addiction when who else but my Arch nemesis waltzed on by.

I left Coldems there on the sidewalk and joined my Arch nemesis in his waltz.

He led. Then I led. Then he led. Then I.

We waltzed through traffic, we waltzed through alleyways, we waltzed down nameless streets and into blank avenues, past houses that receive no narrative descriptions, past people who are so inconsequential they're not even two-dimensional, through the gates of amateur and into the mouth of inexperienced.

He led. I led. He led. I.

On this waltz, I didn't even consider my job. There was only his gas mask and my faceless visage. His wit and my fists. His evil and my passion. He had to be devious, and I had to stop him.

And he led. And I led. And he led. And I.

For all I knew, we were dancing through space, a wake of wormholes preforming in our performing wake. We might have traveled through time, stepping in 3/4 with the primordial giants and with the gods that will be here when we're gone. I was so unaware of my surroundings we could be anywhere.

He led. Then I led. Then he led. But I.

We were outside my apartment, or wherever it is I live. Arch nemesis had stopped, looked at me.

"We can continue this endless dance, or you can go online and see how high this goes."

I looked back at him.

Then I remembered the frustrating cuckold that was this case, the responsibility I had to Head honcho, and the legitimate interest in figuring out who exactly killed Mr. Grot, and I left my nemesis there to dance with a different partner: Google.

(Note: The above was a metaphor. I do not dance with computers.)