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Detective/Bondage
Shots fired.
I sniffed, curiously
and the clue was
the still smoldering inky guns of
Ed Westwick, holding
your iPhone hostage. Case cracked.
You shoveled, laboring
and struck titanium when
the still-warm carcasses of
Maggie, Mo, Dustfinger, and Farid
glazed gazed up with jelly splattered mugshots.
(Donut break...)
She squinted, hunching
and magnified our prints as
we spun loops of
pool-whirl sucked into her
storm-eye, two pupils long after class ended. A match in the database.
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