"FRAMED FUR IT!" stuff


You pull open the heavy wooden door and enter the Smoking Shot Inn. Immediately, you are greeted by the seductive scent of the fire-roasted pork that was turning on a spit along the back wall of the tavern. Boisterous conversation soon fills your ears have you glance around. The floorboards creek as you walk forward,  and if it was quieter, it would have drawn some attention. 

On your left were two booths, only one of which is occupied. Two men were playing a card game, one of them was in a 3 piece suit, and the other was a mountain of a man in jeans, a long sleeve shirt and some kind of black smock which hung around his neck. 

You look to the right side of the room and you see a nurse in powder blue scrubs sipping from a green cocktail. There seems to be some smoke bubbling off of it, as if it was a prop for a haunted house. 

Across from the nurse was hunched over man dressed in black, with bright pink hair. If he's trying to be the brooding goth, then he's doing it very wrong. 

Diagonal to the nurse's table was a table occupied by a  well dressed individual with salt and pepper hair. The first thing that catches your eye is the clerical collar around his neck, dyed a deep red. The rest of his garb consisted of a black body-length duster, with a thin gold chain on the left side of his leg. He catches your eye and gives you a wave, before going back to his sandwich. Leaning against the table was a staff of sorts nearly as tall as yourself. 

Turning your attention to the bar itself, you spot a man in construction gear, with a neon-yellow day-glo vest, and two seats over was a woman. This woman looked hardened against the elements, creases on her face not from age, but from stress. 

You could almost see the proverbial weight upon her shoulders, dragging her down. She orders a scotch, neat. By the count of the number of glasses in front of her, she seems to be a regular, and drinking as if she wanted to forget something. 

You knew that feeling well. The life of a detective doesn't mean that you find the killer every time. Cases slip through the cracks. The end of the victim's story left to blow in the wind. A story unresolved, a criminal left to go free. Those cases that you couldn't bring an answer to. You sit at the bar and order yourself a whiskey, and flash your ID to the bartender. This was going to be a long night.


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