[Yeahwell it's almost 6 AM here and I'm pretty fucking stoned so I wanted to write. IDK if this'll be dope or not for anyone, or if it'll make sense, but I had my mind on the 6thies. I remembered this old joke with Twig I had and it was about "investigation skills" or something. I tried pretty much working on that trying to write from Nacho's perspective even though I never RP'd or anything with that dude and I'm convinced the character is a sketch bag. Anyway, yeah, he's pretty much Marv in the sense that they're both fucking batshit and are easily manipulated by people they can't remember anything about correctly. Enough shots to the head and you get that way. Anyway, here you go.]
Helicopters whir around in my head. It's a low, rusted buzz that I've always found myself waking up to. It's as if my consciousness had just flown back and scraped the landing pad of my skull. I've arrived at my body, buried in the claustrophobic, dark corners of my office of bottles and stained shag rugs. Got a thing for carpets and shag rugs. As I notice my surroundings I somehow guide myself back into subtle sobriety. It was a long night before this endeavor. Remember who I am I think to myself, trying hard to drown out the white noise. My name is Nacho. I'm a private eye.
I notice the burns on my fingertips as I rub my temples, crushing the culprit cigarette I had fallen asleep with underfoot. When I can think clearly enough to do so, I'll pick it up. The mountain of 'butts' in my office would make for a good joke if I were good at making intentional funnies. I lean back in my fucked up chair, flick on my laptop and begin to masturbate to Pamela Anderson.
Thoughts roll in:
“What man, you didn't know she was in porn?” Someone had confronted me over a spliff.
As I wrap up I notice the time and head out the door into a flood of people with busy schedules and meetings and the whatnot. I opted out of that shit a few weeks back. People need my investigation skills, but people didn't need me to tell them what to do. Sometimes I tell, but that's only in poker when I'm a few chips down. I'm still strolling through the base for a few and I come across whatshernamewholooksgoodinblack and I shoot her a look. She's the one who brings me my coffee when she needs an ass or mouth to kiss. She doesn't know I've been done for a while.
I'm back in my office after some sort of session and I'm sipping some pretty cold coffee. A phone rings at my feet. I duck from beneath the rectangles of Lyptus I set my workshit on and nab it.
A fellating falsetto asks me if I'm her man to solve a case.
Thoughts of the past roll in:
“You botched this one, Nacho...”
“You fucked it over big.”
“Shit Nacho, you're demoted.”
They can't demote me; I quit.
No. Shake the vibes, frypan. Back to the phone-call.
I tell her I'm her man.
You see I belong to this organiza- this column. The Sixth Column. It all started when my parents died in between a gunfight or something. It's a blur, but now I work for some counter-terrorists because the new dad leads the place and my plethora of penchants are entertaining to most. I don't question how I got here, but I do wonder why I'm still here after the biggest failure of my career. I don't dwell on that, but I do mull over most other things if I've got a fifth of Jack to pussy out and cry into.
She comes over when I've diluted my whiskey with the last Doctor Pepper. The woman's beauty makes me forget the taste of flat soda and ten dollar liquor. She's backlit but I still notice everything. It's my job to notice everything. The psychedelics I took recently make it so her sine wave curves blur and mutate an otherwise perfect silhouette. She has brown hair topping a heart shaped face, and I note the one full lip and a flat tire to complete the set. It's a bad habit but I never start with the eyes, so I correct myself and take the time to scrutinize hers thoroughly this go around. Can't say much about the color of them, but they've definitely stirred up salt water moments before this encounter. The pupils emulate me and evade to the corner of their offices, then trail off to examine the bachelor's big boy office. She's disgusted.
I clear my throat and she stumbles forward, producing a hand for me to shake. I grasp it and my attention turns to her other hand. No ring on it, but the tan-line is obvious.
“My name is ” She blows into my ear.
“How's the marriage, ?”
She cries and I offer her something to make it feel good. An hour later and we've made no progress on her case. She's rubbing my scalp and chewing on her lip now, and this is when I know I'm not going to score. I know I'm not going to score, but I place my hand gently through her brown curls, grazing the back of her head. We go at it like animals.
Animals base their lives off of instinct and sex.
Good point, radio.
No progress. She wants me to creep on the sadistic son of a bitch who robbed her of innocence and freedom with a single gold band. She suspects her husband murdered some people and she wants justice. My reputation is on resignation-paper-thin ice so I tell her I can't help her. She's out the door feeling like I had taken advantage of her. I can't ever let her know what she's triggered in me.
I pull out of the garage. It's night now. I try remembering her words. I try remembering her altogether.
The romance in her. Her piercing blue eyes. Her straight red hair. The two full lips. Sine waves.Wait that's not righ- Helicopters in my head. I'm driving now, doing what she wanted me to. I've pulled up to the house address she gave me so I step out of my beamer.
Something feels off when I think so I don't. I step towards a door. My thoughts are usually jumbling themselves up and then reconnecting at all times, so it's better to trust instinct.
The door opens with some coercion and I'm up the stairs.
Don't question her.
I shadow a half-asleep man through his hall.
People tend to be honest to you when you give them some thizz to chew on and a stable mindset to cowgirl.
He's on his way back from the bathroom and spots me.
Sex is honest, too.
I strangle him and smash a bottle across his face.
The lies surrounding sex are off, but during the act of it the vibes are honest and brutal, blunt and unforgiving.
He's knocked out so I stomp his neck for dramatic effect.
You can usually tell when she's bored. She was having fun. She's won me over with her contralto, her blonde hair.
Why am I standing where I am?
The fifth of Jack I had is broken and emptied onto some beautiful carpeting. I stand on top of a man I do not know. The blood on my fingertips cools the cigarette burns and suddenly I remember the burns and...
They remind me of fire.
I torch the house and the evidence.
I feel like I've done wrong, but I return to my office.
I think of her, and the fire of her red eyes consumes me.
They were red right?
When I open another bottle of Jack and pull out a stoge I feel better.
I mull over whatever happened tonight but don't recall what felt so off.
I've earned rest, tonight I brought justice. I did my job.
The shaky flashbacks of her love nurse my drunk ass to sleep.
Helicopters whir around in my head. It's a low, rusted buzz that I've always found myself waking up to.
Subject: I don't even know man 
Mon Nov 14, 2011 1:54 pm
