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"PISTON: The story I’m gonna tell you, you’re not gonna believe. But every word of it is true. I know because it happened to me—But enough about me. We really don’t have time for that.And by we, I mean, me: d**k Piston, hotel detective.
It was a Friday night in the big city. 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. Anytime before midnight, that is. After midnight, you’ll catch me drowning my proverbial sorrows at the five-star dive bar in the lobby of that hotel. But at ten minutes to midnight, I’m always here in my office, watching the clock.
Not that I’m a proverbial stickler for whatever punctual people stickle for. And not that I couldn’t use the overtime. 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.
You see, the hotel had been wallowing in red ink for quite some time now. And it was likely to continue hemorrhaging proverbial money until it stopped hemorrhaging potential hotel guests. And I only wish that was a metaphor. The Lakeview Hotel had the highest mortality rate of any luxury accommodations west of Baghdad. Or east of Baghdad. Or in Baghdad.
In fact, as hotel detective, I had personally investigated six unsolved murders in the last five weeks. And committed four. So the management wasn’t entirely happy with my proverbial job performance. So that’s why they told me anyone who clocked even one minute of unauthorized overtime would be out of a proverbial job. Literally. And by anyone, they meant me, d**k Piston, hotel detective."
-Murder by Midnight, by Jeff Goode
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