“Alright, Milt… I hear ya.” A honey and sandpaper voice hushed his words over a supposedly secure line. “This is some shitty fucken wrong ass tree to bark up.”

The poky L.A. office was choked in smoke, lined with Amazonian hardwoods, and lit by the good fortune of dim streetlights filtering through the closed blinds; the resident private detective was a comforting trope his clients appreciated.

“Just drop the comm link before I change my mind!” the detective continued, while Milton—buzzing on the other end of the line—kept talking incessantly.

CLICK.

Jamaica Justice rolled over to his authentic 1920s filing cabinet (life was a game, and he had to keep up the immersion). The steel drawer rolled open on its runners, and Jamaica began thumbing through the grubby documents.

Didn’t expect to get a call about some of the Old Boys.

But thumbing wasn’t fast enough though, so he started to flick, alternating between index and middle finger.

He was a fast flicker.

I am a fast flicker.

Rollen Detszl a.k.a. Lil’ Dog
Justice clenched his lips and sighed through his nose. He had been hoping for a supernatural intervention and that the file just wouldn’t be there. After all, Milton was a good friend, from a good time. He knew it. He stewed on it.

But...

I don’t wanna die for this shit.