Gumshoe.
“These, ahem, ‘gold coins’ of yours tend to get stolen an awful lot, seems to me.”
Yes, quite, well, this time I’m not lying, you know!
“I guess that’s the best I’m gonna get. Well, don’t worry. I smell bubble gum, and I know you’d rather stick your foot in a blender than indulge in such a prole treat.”
I say, what is this chewing gum, wot?
“Exactly. And I do know somebody who would be gnawing on a big old hunk of rubber while they were cracking a safe. Lucky for us, she’s not the smartest, so she probably just stuck the blob of gum under a table, where it’s just a matter of finding it and running a few DNA tests to prove it was her. So stay right there, touching the gum without gloves or even breathing on it heavily makes the evidence worthless-”
Yechk! I gawt it all ovah mah foot!
Oh bolloks.
“Never mind.”
About this entry
You’re currently reading “Gumshoe.,” an entry on Reynard Noir: The Seedy Underworld of Slylock Fox
- Published:
- June 18, 2008 / 8:13 am
- Category:
- carla cat, huge sunday, max being stupid, sir hound
- Tags:
7 Comments
Jump to comment form | comments rss [?] | trackback uri [?]