Mister Grot, Esq's bedroom was dank and sweaty-ass. The kind of sweaty-ass that makes you think of all the places you'd rather be: A fish factory. A shoe store that is also a gymnasium. The capital of France. The kind of dank that causes you to question your place in life, as well as what the hell makes it so damn dank. I swear, Coldems looked so distraught he might have been about to melt. The reason Mister Grot's bedroom stank so un-swagly is because it was a bedroom. A bedroom for a man who is so good at criminal underachievement he could criminally underachieve even in his sleep.
When we got there, Mister Grot was asleep. We decided not to bother him; we'd come back another time.
A few minutes later we remembered a detective does not wait for sleepers and we waltzed right back in there (waltzing right back into places is a regular activity we practice in between darts sessions; on this occasion, Coldems led and I followed).
When we re-got there, Mister Grot was dead.
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