I’m The Grouchy Small-Town Detective Who’s Going To Solve These Stupid Murders
You don’t deserve to see me wear eyeliner.
God, I hate all of you. Especially when you wake me up to solve your stupid murders.
You’re going to need to knock louder than that to break through this carb-induced couch coma. I’m not even wasting eyeliner on you. You don’t deserve to see me wear eyeliner.
My skin glows because I’m covered in potato chip grease.
On the outside I might appear to be a reasonably competent police detective. But on the inside I’m a roiling stew of IBS and self-loathing. Only the vacant thousand-yard stare gives it away. So many dead bodies for such a small town, and not a single Starbucks.
The horror.
I’m not even going to put on real clothes for you people. If you want me to listen to you whine about body parts showing up at Betty’s Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Bakery, or Duane’s unicycle repair shop (The Wheel One), you’re going to see me in pizza-stained sweatpants and like it.
I’ll even pop out of these clothes like a can of biscuits to have sex with this guy I just met. That’s how much I hate all of you.
Remember when I was the star of the high-school basketball championship game 25…
