We live in a city of ghosts. Face it or get out. The only way to solve anything in
this twisted sideshow attraction is to keep one foot in each world. We aren’t here to
make friends. We aren’t even here to be liked. We spike our drinks with arsenic and
comb our hair with a fish ribcage. We know every bar fly by smell, every specter by
intuition, and every relic that cake walks Sunset Strip. We know all worth knowing, and
some not. We use our fists instead of guns and our insecurities instead of our wits. We
see faces that aren’t there and hear voices that don’t belong to anyone. We allow the
strangeness to exist. Our only obligation is to keep up the lie. Keep the circus lit. And
the great Ferris wheel tumbling. We won’t solve your case…but we’ll make it interesting.
We are Two Dead Boys Detective Agency and this is our mission statement.
A jawless infant twists its arms toward her charred tits and unwelcoming womb. She lays on my bed. Her legs contort and bend and welcome me into her. Light breaks in on our little world through a rip in the curtain and all of a sudden it’s not okay to be crude. Frayed furniture will soon be our kindling and we’ll exist off of each other. Muscles react separately from the brain function. Get thee to a mouth organ. Ancient pornographic photos plastered on the wall with spots of what I imagine to be blood and a little hatchet rest on the bureau. Phone rings and it’s my partner. I let it go to voicemail and allow myself to exist in a time where this didn’t happen. The world is cruel. I leave her in the bed and go outside and walk past the cars. Past the little shops. The little apartment windows. I walk till pavement is far behind me. Into the hills. Into another time. I see the cemetery gates and the lady in blue waltzing amongst the tombstones. She recognizes me from the corner of her cats eye. Her lifeless heart aflutter by my presence…she sighs in relief and accepts me with open arms.
It’s always midnight if you don’t know how your vcr works. If you lost the manual. Or noon. Those who choose noon and those who choose midnight: Noon is a fed time. Noon is a warm time. Noon is lunch breaks with friends. Midnight is keen or be killed. Midnight is hungry. Midnight is sharp and chilled. Midnight is keeping your hands in the pockets as a bluff. Midnight is insane heart beats and walking too fast to be slowed. Midnight is visible breath. Midnight is places to be. Midnight is happening. Tonight.
I build my gallows high enough so that my feet never have to touch the ground. Twisted copper on the asphalt with a cocktail of broken glass. A war zoned tenant building with a good natured preacher sprawled faceless on the cities lawn. A middle finger to good intentions. A word is a word is a word. Shapeless models drilling holes in my head while a curvaceous waitress remains disinterested in what I’m selling and this girl to my left is criminally young. A series of ill decisions make a road map that leads to where I sit. The roof is leaking and the phone hasn’t made a noise since March. The roaches collect the dust from angels and rear their ugly little domes in self defense. Strong getting stronger and making their stance against the bottom of my shoe. Filed down my front tooth to a lethal sharpness to make a point. Punctured the silicon lip I was kissing. Went to the bathroom to clean myself but ended up washing more than just dirt away. Building my pyramid of debt and laughing in defeat. Walks get weirder and days get longer and even the royal court has an opinion of me. “He has a wit about him but his general dumbness is overwhelming. His cockeyed cynicism suggests he has never been enlightened. In our opinion he is a royal waste of time. Mr. McGaffey where do we stand with that machine? You know the one that gets rid of the human equivalent of a dust bunny?” Walk down Hollywood BLVD for three blocks so you can really rub it in. “Spit shine the sidewalk for us rube! Then curb stomp that starlet.” Trash bins and Glasgow grins. Keep building them higher you aren’t going anywhere but down. No cellphone reception by the Hollywood sign. And too much cellphone reception downtown amongst the capitol. And every prophet Boyle Heights has to offer is a dick. Nowhere to go. Nothing to take in. Go East and buy land. Stalk the property of the wealthy uptown but know your place you gilded sot. You ungrateful pariah. You psychologically abrupt nomad. Build my gallows high so that even when I fall I never have to hit the ground. The Mitchum look alike hobo plays my requiem on his bent trumpet but every other note is coming out flat…