Oh, features some swearing! just incase you're yknow, not inclined to read it.
This was meant to be a comic, but i cannot draw. Please critique
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People always talk about people. How people change. How interests come and go and how tastes and fashions and flavors of the month occur. People always talk about how people evolve through time. Way I see it, it's more like how time evolves, because of people.
I found this out about three weeks ago. I was hired to take on a case. Suzy Stanbridge, female, 16, five foot eight, slim, long blonde hair, tied back, no known scars, no known jewelry, no known 'second homes', no diary. Her only leads would be mobile phone and her phone. See what I mean? Time.
Mobile networks don't tend to give out details to Private Investigators, so no point checking there. Ten years ago, Hell, even five years ago, the only leads i'd be pulling would be attached to pets, these days anyone under 23 can be located within three days.
Click, Click: Search Function. Suzy Stanbridge.
MySpace has already told me everything I need to know about this girl, To be honest I'm wondering if I should even bother looking for her.
View More Pics: Roadkill, 'Kara's 18th - Too Much Tequila!!', 'Classy Ladiez!!!' I guess she's not that smart; someone is shooting up in the background of one of these images.
I take a scroll down, and read comment 48 of 121. 'OMG! you were so drunk last nite, Taylor said to come over bout 7. Laterz! Kimmy xxxxx' Dated 25th January.
It doesn't take a genius, a private eye or a goddamn mathematician to realize that some things correlate right before your eyes if you keep them open.
Take a click to Taylor, No information. Try Bebo. Same. Try Facebook. Bingo: Listed as an Event.
I take a look at the address and take a walk. It's raining outside, I get about 200 yards and I grab the bus instead. Taylors house is about seven minutes away via city bus. Seven minutes if all these old bastards don't stop the bus every 40 fucking yards to get off.
I get to Taylor's and tap-tap-tap the door. There's no answer. I take a walk around the back, and hop the fence, I make a little noise, and a neighbor comes to his door, wifebeater and boxer shorts. Figure if they were away, he'd have gone in and at least taken some clothes. Or the TV.
'Bout fuckin' time. Cunts had that music on for six days now, had about e-fucking-nough of those bastards'
'You not been in there?' I ask.
'Fuck no, those bastards into all kinds of shit, got guns too. See those tins there? Them holes are buck shot. I ain't that stupid'
I bridge my hands into the window and peered into the glass. No movement, no anything. Tap Tap Tap. Nothing.
"Hand me that stick please fella?'
'You can't go breaking in there, they'll fucking end you, man'. Quite the paradox: his mouth says something as his body hands the plank over a small brick wall.
Smash. Key turn.
It's apparent something has happened; I can smell that from here. I take two steps in before seeing a dead some kind of small terrier. He moves as I force the door open; Can't believe I missed it to begin with. I take a few steps in and cover my mouth. I take a few steps in and there's shit all over the walls, and there's dog shit all over the floor. I get to a room that looks a little less like a dog pound, and more like a mausoleum. There she is, Suzy Stanbridge age 16, female, five foot eight, long blond hair, at least three visible scars, no jewelry.
Suzy Stanbridge, leaning againt Taylor, who's leaning against Kimmy. A brick of powder in front, on edge of a coffee table. A crate of unopened Kronenbourg 1664. Doesn't take a genius when you see three kids half naked looking for a good time, finding the end of times.
Just a shame 'bout the dog.
