EBI

The cut to night meant lighting had significantly faded. Actually faded much differently than light usually does at night. It's almost as if, rather than cutting to night, some metaphorical director had simply applied a filter to the camera of life. To make it look like night. Also black and white. Coldems was no longer blue. Just grey. Everything was grey. Except for the city, which was black. Actually, everything was black but those rare described objects illuminated only by the lampposts. See what I did there? Call-back.

We pulled up at HQ. Got out of the car. Lit up more cigars. Coldems said very little. The people we passed in the halls all said "rhubarb" over and over again. Kinda creepy, if I'm honest. As if they were trying to summon the great god of love-craft Rhubarbia. But they weren't. They were literally just saying "rhubarb" to each other.

Head honcho was not happy to see me. His ears were all up in my grill, so to speak. Plus he was growling. That's how I could tell. I'm good with dogs.

Head honcho told me to take a seat. Coldems stood there pointing his gun at me.

I looked at Coldems. Then I looked at Head honcho. Said "Alright." Took a seat. I took that seat and smacked Coldems upside the head with it. Grabbed his gun. Pointed it at Head honcho.

Head honcho, I could see, was pointing a minigun at me now. That is, a really really big gun. "Easy now, detective, unless you want to run The Blog Without a Head." I took a mental note of what to name the sequel. As soon as I got out of this shindig, of course.

"I'll sit down if you can answer me one thing," I said.

"Sit down and then ask," he said.

"Now hold on, I think you'll find this question precludes any necessity to having a seat."

"Fine, ask away."

"How do you hold a minigun with paws?"

That's when I saw his paws were not paws at all; they were hands. Head honcho was not a dog. He was a man in a dog costume.

So I said, "Just as I thought. Head honcho, I'm placing you under arrest for charges of false identity, tax fraud, and impeding a federal investigation. And also for humping legs without actually being a dog. 'Cause that's kinda weird. Not gonna lie."

"You're just a two-bit detective, and you work for me," he said. "You can't arrest me."

"That's where you're wrong," said I who put the I in PI. "All along I've actually been an undercover officer of the Eldritch Bureau of Investigations." I flashed him my badge. (The badge is blank; it has no face.)

"I should have known you were EBI," he said. "You showed all the signs." He looked at me for a bit. Then he sighed and took his costume off.

"I knew it," I said.

He was Mr. Grott, Esquire, all along. Sometimes spelt with one t, sometimes with two. Don't get too caught up on it.

"Why did you do it, Mr. Grott? You had worldwide fame for your books. Why put it all at risk?"

"Shows what you know, detective. Nobody likes Finnegans Wake. And I put nearly two decades of work into it! I wanted payback."

"You should have plugged it more. On the internet, I mean. There are fandoms for that now."

"There are no fandoms for my books! Only scholars who make reading look like dissecting a turd!"

"Alright, no need to get insulting. My mother was a turd."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"I think you should put the minigun down, Mr. Grott."

"I think so too."

And so he did. And I arrested him.