Munger P. I.

As requested by a few friends, I’ve decided to post the original Munger P.I. stories from a few years ago. I hope to write more some day.

Here’s part 1:

Chapter 1
Two-Drink Minimum…For Murder!

My name is Munger. I’m a detective. A gumshoe. A private eye.

I dress in rumpled suits and I never smile. I like my bourbon neat and my women messy. My trusty forty-five, like me, is always loaded.

The mean streets fit me like a fine pair of Gloria Vanderbilt Jeans.

The name is Munger. I’m a detective. I repeat myself.

A cool November wind was blowing in from the lakes, sending a chill up and down the spine of the windy city that is Chicago.

Luckily, I live in New York, so that didn’t affect me.

I was sitting in a little dive on 48th street, nursing a stiff drink as John Mayer worked his buttery smooth soft rock magic on the jukebox. I needed a new case as badly as I needed a shave. And a shower.

And a good meal, with my choice of soup or salad.

I think I’ll have the soup, with some of those oyster crackers.

The name is Munger. I’m a detective. I like to digress.

As I thought of what imaginary dessert I would like to order, the door opened…

…And she walked into my life.

I could tell just by looking at her that she was all woman: not like the other women in this neighborhood who are mostly men.

She looked classy too. Probably from one of those well-bred families that enjoyed the finer things in life, like linen napkins or the dry social commentary of The New Yorker .

Her body said “take me right now,” but her eyes said, “No not here, the floor is filthy.”

She made me want to go out and marry the first girl I saw, settle down and have a family and then leave them for her.

She casually sauntered over, and as she stood there before me, she gave me a look that told me one thing. She knew I was staring at her cans.

“Are you Munger, The detective?” she purred, her voice as silky smooth as Ella Fitzgerald on Lithium.

“Yeah,” I replied. “The name is Munger. I’m a detective. Nice cans.”

She handed me one of her cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which I happily drank while she told me about her problem.

“I need you to help me Mr. Munger. You were the only one I could turn to in this price range. My brother is missing. I want you to find him. I don’t have any money, but I can pay you off in sexual favors if you like. I used to be a gymnast.”

“That’s alright,” I said. I’m sure we can work out another form of payment.”

The name is Munger. I’m a detective. I say things without thinking.

Coming soon…
Chapter 2: Dude Where’s My Car…Of Murder!


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