“So you hooked up with D last night? How’s she doing?” I asked Sunset as we sat at the Smile, the pale early morning light fighting through the soft roil of fog on the street outside the window. The cool bite of autumn in the air that morning. “What are you some sort of sleuth?” He replied, reaching for the Tabasco that he’d dash across his eggs and potatoes like an angry god raining fire on savage infidels. “Dude, you don’t wake up naked wearing nothing but oversized bowling shoes unless you’re hanging with D, probably called in a couple of flaps,” I paused as The Triple Dub refilled my coffee. “Or you’re some sort of circus performer. So yeah, I guess I’m a fucking sleuth.” I took a slug of coffee. “Ok then Inspector fucking Gadget, tell me how I got this?” And he leaned toward me slightly across the table and pulled down the corner store shades revealing a deep purple borderline back swollen shiner around his left eye. “Well, you don’t have jaundice,” I said, digging deep for a speculative story to weave around what might have happened. | image @brockdavis