Trust the Horse Men

I was out of fresh fish. The grating sound of the grinding vendors rasping bone against the street was annihilating my thoughts. I was thinking about whether to get more or just batter myself into unconsciousness when my door shattered in half. A woman wearing a dress of claim tickets walked in.”I hope you don't mind a dead uncle and the wind through the trees, Shamus.” she muttered in a voice that would have husked corn. “I wouldn't mind anything as long as the men that bring the paper shave well. But they don't, and then I mind the clocks.” I replied. “Look, I need you to find the dog that took my shelves and insulted my user ratings.”

“Dogs don't exactly agree with my teeth, Duchess of Hilforland.”

“I can pay you well.”

“I go for ten shells containing the essence of a Natural Philosopher a day. Plus a fish.”

“I can only do 6.7.” she replied. This was less than I really needed but business had been bad this month. Only a half-dead pizza-boy had hired me to watch the mailboxes. “Alright. But I need to know the full story.”

“The dog was my second husband. He was very good with tin. But when he heard I was married to the mayor of River City, he had second thoughts. He took my shelving and spammed. I hear he frequents The Phlegm downtown.”

“Alright, I'll see if he isn't made of two racks ham.”

As I rode the elevator down, I noticed the little man in the corner was flailing less. That could mean any number of things, usually it meant I would die in three days. I would need to buy some flatware then. The streets were populated by very small men carrying flagpoles. My car wheezed a quart of blood out of its tailpipe. I grabbed my flask and took a hit of tomato juice with a little bit of crushed owl bone mixed in, the only thing that kept me going as the last insane detective in this sane world.

It was dance night at the Phlegm, and the floor was filled with horse-headed men. The dog was there. He was on a table, rolling in eggs. I sat at the bar. The barman was a giant armed lamp. “Gimme a Smelted Ike.” I said. The bartender replied with a screeching warble. I sat and watched the dog. He was eating a light bulb. He suddenly started choking, making a noise like chicken playing Pac-Man. A horse-headed man tried the Heimlich maneuver but failed. The dog died. “I hope the Duchess of Hilforland likes the essence of French disco kings!” I screamed to whichever agency was recording this week. The air now tasted like a man who made decorative maces.