Marlowe Wobbleson, Gelatinous Cube Detective

The dame flew into my office like a pigeon into a high-rise window pane. I could tell she was nothing but trouble from the minute the flesh boiled off her rapidly corroding skeleton. Pretty soon, nothing but trouble was left. I wonder what she wanted.

I should really put a sign on the door.

I paced back and forth within the confines of my 10 foot by 10 foot by 20 foot office. I needed a drink. My partner used to splash whiskey in my face before every case. Those were the days. He was the best partner I ever horrifically melted.

Absorbing my partner was tough to explain, but then again, I’ve always had a problem with the authorities. Of course, they’ve always had a problem with me, too. The only thing that can get through their thick skulls is my own acidic exterior. Somewhere inside me, the phone rang. “Not now,” I thought, and spent several hours extruding it onto the floor in a sputtering, blackened lump.

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