PISTON: I’m afraid I’m not the man you’re looking for. Because when that strikes twelve, my Friday night nightmares become somebody else’s Saturday morning problem. And by anyone, they meant me, Dick Piston, hotel detective.Īnd that’s why, at ten minutes to midnight, I had my proverbial eyes glued to the literal clock. So that’s why they told me anyone who clocked even one minute of unauthorized overtime would be out of a proverbial job. So the management wasn’t entirely happy with my proverbial job performance. In fact, as hotel detective, I had personally investigated six unsolved murders in the last five weeks. The Lakeview Hotel had the highest mortality rate of any luxury accommodations west of Baghdad. And it was likely to continue hemorrhaging proverbial money until it stopped hemorrhaging potential hotel guests. You see, the hotel had been wallowing in red ink for quite some time now. But my employer had made it clear that anyone who did use the overtime would be spending all their time xeroxing resumes at the discount copy shop on the corner. And not that I couldn’t use the overtime. Not that I’m a proverbial stickler for whatever punctual people stickle for. But at ten minutes to midnight, I’m always here in my office, watching the clock. After midnight, you’ll catch me drowning my proverbial sorrows at the five-star dive bar in the lobby of that hotel. And on a Friday night, you’ll find me making my rounds at the Lakeview Hotel: a two-bit armpit on the upside of downtown. We really don’t have time for that.Īnd by we, I mean, me: Dick Piston, hotel detective. I know because it happened to me≻ut enough about me. PISTON: The story I’m gonna tell you, you’re not gonna believe.
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