Ghost Dick, Private Eye: The Investigation Begins

When the dame walked into my office, the first thing I noticed was the legs that went all the way up to where the top of where legs go. Which is good because I’d just had a thing with a woman who turned out to have a bionic leg. And the thing we had was that I spilled a soda on her bionic leg in a bar, and then her bionic leg stopped working and she used her regular leg to kick the shit out of me.

The second thing I noticed was that her legs also went all the way down to the floor. Which was a good sign too. I had a thing with that lady who invented hover shoes. That didn’t work out either because I always “accidentally” got us into situations that required her to hover us across a lake or a swamp or some water while I rode piggyback on her. You can only get away with that so many times with the inventor of hover shoes before she realizes you’re using her for her hover shoes. And that amount of times is three, so enjoy them.

Something that’s weird about me, normally-smart women, like ones who invent hover things, seem to come my way every so often.

Something that’s not weird about me is that I’m a paranormal investigator. Which is a fancy way to say ghost detective.

Wait, I guess that’s weird too.

Okay, the not weird thing is, this lady came in and there was nothing unusual about her legs.

She came into my office, which is a table at Burger King. This particular BUrger King is where I decided to have my office for two reasons:

  1. More than once I’ve seen someone passed out face up in the bushes outside, and when that’s going on, someone who is quietly using a table as a ghost detecting office doesn’t really make the list of priorities.
  2. They have free wifi. I don’t own a computer, so that doesn’t really matter to me, but if I ever did get a computer I’d wouldn’t want to have to relocate and find a new office.
  3. They have chicken rods. I know I said it was only two reasons, but the chicken rods are meaningful to me. Just take a note, Burger King DOES NOT like when you call them chicken rods.

The woman sat down, and I swallowed hard. It was time to look at her face or her torso or some part of her besides her legs. Hopefully nothing was hovering or mechanical or anything else.

I should also mention, part of what made it so hard to tear my eyes away from her legs was because she didn’t have any pants on. I probably should have said that earlier. I’m a pretty good investigator, but the part I’m worst at is when the investigation is over and you have to tell everything that happened. That part I suck at. Which is ALL this book is, so buckle up because you’re in for a confusing ride.

And also buckle up because if you’re reading this in a car, you should definitely use a seatbelt. You’re almost certainly going to crash if you read and drive.

The woman sat in the chair across from me, and it wasn’t just her legs that went all the way up. Her eyelashes went all the way up to her eyes, her arms went all the way up to her torso. Everything about her began and ended at the spot where it was supposed to.

I was pretty sure I was in love.

She said, “Are you the guy?”

I said, “The guy?”

She said, “The investigator. The—“ and she leaned in closer, “ghost investigator.”

I said, “That’s me. Did you know you’re not wearing any pants?”

She said, “You have some good observational skills. That’s a start.”

I smiled, pleased with myself. That was exactly what I was hoping she’d say. “Takes a detective to spot one,” I said.

She said, “I’m having a problem with a succubus.”

And then I rolled my eyes. Because if you ever get in the paranormal investigation game, what you’ll find out right away is that the favorite way people like to screw over their ex-lovers is to come and tell you lies about how their ex is a succubus. It never fails. Someone says their ex is a succubus, you go to look, and it turns out that their ex is just your run of the mill asshole. Which is bad, but not paranormal. You fire a couple warning shots at center mass, which should only mildly annoy a succubus, and all of a sudden you shot this guy a bunch of times. If you’re lucky like me, he turns into this big rapper and tells everyone that he got shot on the streets and pays you some money to never tell the story about how what really happened is a dum-dum thought he was a ghost.


I said, “Tell me a little bit about what this succubus is doing.”

She said, “The succubus is coming into our bedroom almost every night. She sleeps with my husband-“

“Do you mean she sexes on him or that he sleeps next to him?”

I say stuff like “sexes” because I can pretend it’s a technical term for ghost sex and show my authority. Plus, I fuck up words all the time, but if you hide your fuckups behind a bunch of on purpose stuff, people stop asking and figure that if they call you on it, you’ll explain to them another thing that sounds like total bullshit (and it is), but who wants to sit through another explanation? Explanations are the worst because an explanation is never about how smart you are or that you’re right. It’s always like “And that’s why you’re wrong and a dumb idiot.”

She said, “They have sex. Definitely.”

I said, “How do you know?” and I take out a pad of paper. A yellow one. That’s a legal pad, and people who want to think you’re a real detective definitely want to see you take out something with the word legal on it. It’s calming.

She says, “Because I watch them do it.”

I say, “What do you mean? Like you see the whole thing? The whole act?”

She says, “Yes.”

And I say, “You can see the succubus’ entire body and everything?”

“Yes, she says.”

I say, “Hmm. Let’s investigate tonight.”