BLOODGHOST

---------- Illustration and Animation by Alex ilitchev. --------- Requests considered, commissions always welcome
I gave Miss Marrow the general outline of the events that had come to pass so far, which she recorded in her impeccable shorthand for later transcription. As I began detailing my encounter with the Medium I noticed her shift to the margins of the page, a clever ploy she loved to use when she felt I was straying from the important details. But there would be none of this malarkey today! I gave her a stolid cough of disapproval and she, realizing her gaffe, nervously resumed writing within the proper, designated lines. She was not a dreamer and therefore gave my lengthy escapades in the City an almost excessive degree of skepticism. Of course I didn’t hold it against her; moving to the City typically requires a moment of grave personal trauma in the real world and I would never wish such a thing on my dear secretariat.Having completed our notes I considered my next step. I made a few quick, angry phone calls to my friends at the force, trying to get a grip on this Okra fellow. They told me he worked in the Red Light District. No way, I said. Yes way, they responded; he had tried to become a stage actor repeatedly but fell into a bit of gambling debt that eventually landed him in the slammer. After he did his time he moved to the District. I nervously looked over at Miss Marrow. Her delicate sensibilities would be shattered by such news.“Miss Marrow,” I said, slamming down the phone gracelessly. I’d owe my friends at the force some Joes and Os for that brusque move, mark my words.“Yes, Mr. Wineberry? Do we have a beat on Okra yet?” she asked, full of enthusiasm. Poor, sweet, dear, sweet Miss Marrow. If only she knew the terrifying underbelly of this world. She was like an angelic deer in the headlights of feminine innocence. I refused to be the freight truck of reality barreling down on her.“Yes, well, I’ll take care of that,” I said. Phew, dodged that bullet. “You should go shake up a few leaves at the docks, see if any foreign chaps have arrived en-masse. Maybe we can track Carambola’s assailants, make sure they don’t find her too soon!” She seemed positively enthralled by this idea. Yes, the docks, the perfect place for a young, up-and-coming, would-be-detective secretary. She was already hurriedly pulling her coat on. My god the keenness was almost nauseating.“I will endeavor to do my best Mr. Wineberry,” she called out as she raced down the stairwell. Soon I heard the rev of her Bi-Autogo as it sped out of the alleyway. I had a great contempt for the automobile, particularly because I could not fathom how she could afford it on her truly skeletal salary. Also because it only seated one person, meaning she could never even give me a ride in the thing.Also because it was really, really cool.

I gave Miss Marrow the general outline of the events that had come to pass so far, which she recorded in her impeccable shorthand for later transcription. As I began detailing my encounter with the Medium I noticed her shift to the margins of the page, a clever ploy she loved to use when she felt I was straying from the important details. But there would be none of this malarkey today! I gave her a stolid cough of disapproval and she, realizing her gaffe, nervously resumed writing within the proper, designated lines. She was not a dreamer and therefore gave my lengthy escapades in the City an almost excessive degree of skepticism. Of course I didn’t hold it against her; moving to the City typically requires a moment of grave personal trauma in the real world and I would never wish such a thing on my dear secretariat.

Having completed our notes I considered my next step. I made a few quick, angry phone calls to my friends at the force, trying to get a grip on this Okra fellow. They told me he worked in the Red Light District. No way, I said. Yes way, they responded; he had tried to become a stage actor repeatedly but fell into a bit of gambling debt that eventually landed him in the slammer. After he did his time he moved to the District. I nervously looked over at Miss Marrow. Her delicate sensibilities would be shattered by such news.

“Miss Marrow,” I said, slamming down the phone gracelessly. I’d owe my friends at the force some Joes and Os for that brusque move, mark my words.

“Yes, Mr. Wineberry? Do we have a beat on Okra yet?” she asked, full of enthusiasm. Poor, sweet, dear, sweet Miss Marrow. If only she knew the terrifying underbelly of this world. She was like an angelic deer in the headlights of feminine innocence. I refused to be the freight truck of reality barreling down on her.

“Yes, well, I’ll take care of that,” I said. Phew, dodged that bullet. “You should go shake up a few leaves at the docks, see if any foreign chaps have arrived en-masse. Maybe we can track Carambola’s assailants, make sure they don’t find her too soon!” She seemed positively enthralled by this idea. Yes, the docks, the perfect place for a young, up-and-coming, would-be-detective secretary. She was already hurriedly pulling her coat on. My god the keenness was almost nauseating.

“I will endeavor to do my best Mr. Wineberry,” she called out as she raced down the stairwell. Soon I heard the rev of her Bi-Autogo as it sped out of the alleyway. I had a great contempt for the automobile, particularly because I could not fathom how she could afford it on her truly skeletal salary. Also because it only seated one person, meaning she could never even give me a ride in the thing.

Also because it was really, really cool.

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