Maddux's Wolrd - Volume #01

Warning sensitive subjet, murder and blood.

After the civil war, all system is on the verge of collapsing, government, health, and education. An old fashion private eye is trying to keep his head screwed on straight. That’s me Maddux Marlow, a 45 year-old ex-cop and ex-college football player, tight end the best position in the game.

If you’re looking for a Dick Tracy-like private eye, I’m not your man. Fighting, I can handle it and even say I love it. I always carry my Beretta handgun and am ready to take it out. Wearing a raincoat because it’s constantly fucking raining after the significant climate change it’s a pain in the ass.

When I was on the force, I could get a cup of coffee as easy as being shot at. Many coffee shops closed due to the shortage; now, if you want a coffee, you better prepare yourself for a fight. People are ready to leave their lives behind for coffee; some of us are addicted, I think I still am.

Nobody’s going to keep me from drinking my coffee. After the Civil War, in 2027, the government banned alcohol, and tobacco products. Some underground places still sell beers and liquors, and someplace makes their own brew and liquors, but a lot of them taste like warm piss.

I spend most of my time I’m in my Chrysler. Tonight I’m following a big Cadillac SUV all over the town. He finally stops in front of a house. It’s time to take some pictures for the client. The pictures won’t win a Pulitzer prize, but They’ll do the job. Taking a lot of pictures as a young almost naked girl opens the door. I think he’s gonna be there for a while.

I have time to look for an underground coffee bar, with all this rain and my left windshield wiper fucking with my sight. All I need for now is a strong coffee so I can keep watching the shitty mayor of this shitty town.

After 45 minutes of burning gas, I finally stop at a joint called Video Poker And Slots. It’s a greasy place where you can win money and spend it right a way on prostitutes—the perfect place for an underground coffee.

I’m finally gonna get my coffee cup. Inside the underground coffee shop, there are no tables. Only video poker machines and a bar with stools; there’s an old pink peppermint smell all over the place. They’re trying to hide the shitty smell, but it doesn’t work. As soon as I step foot on the cheap, flowery carpet design, the prostitutes come on to me like sharks on a dead piece of fish. Sorry for you, drag-queen-looking woman; I’m not here for this kind of fun.

Tried to speak normally with my third time broken nose, asked the barman for a black coffee. I had to repeat before he understood me right. We don’t serve your kind, he said, cops, that is. Do I look like a cop? It’s been a long time since I’ve been a cop. I need a strong coffee to keep up with those dum asses. Cheap clothes and a broken nose made him think I was a cop. I explained to him why the broken nose, but the cheap clothes, was just my style.

10 minutes Earlier…

As I got out of my vintage Chrysler yo in the coffee bar, two fucking gorillas, the Mayor's bodyguard jumped on me. They asked me why I was following the mayor; I guess they didn’t like my answer, because they started to beat me up with punches and kicks. I usualy am the one that break noses, but not this time. I got mine broken by this big guy on my left, didn't saw the punch coming. Fell face-first on the soaked street. By the time I got up, they were both gone.

Back in….

I point my gun at this guy’s face while I try to stop my nose bleed. I ask him if I look like a cop now. He piss his pants and tells me they are out of coffee, because of the shortage of coffee beans, goddamn climate change.

The Video Poker And Slots are out of coffee. That’s why there’s nobody here. After leaving, the pissed his pants guy got to go back to the naked blond and the cheating mayor.

It’s still raining, and my car is gone. There’s a scam going on this Town; the towing companies tow your vehicle to the pound lot and charge you to get it back; my guess is the Chrysler’s over there. I can’t call the cops anymore. It’s not like in my days, there’s a lot of corrupted cops now.

So I had to walk all the way to the car pound. The little fake mustache dude is in for a ride of his life in his little booth. Car Keys, please as ask politely this 130 pounds guy. He tells me it’s 75 for the tow plus another 45 for the time the car was there. With the rain and the low coffee level in my blood lines, I didn’t have time to deal with this guy’s mustache, so I fucking unloaded my betta all around him in the small place he was; he had no place to go. A mixed smell of black powder and shit fills the shared space we were in; I feel almost intimate with the guy. He gently hands over my keys. I had temporary tinnitus, as he thanked me.

I returned to my business at the mayor’s adventure with this good-looking blond. At the house the mayor car is gone. The lights are still on, and the door seems to be open. I sense something’s fishy as I get in; there is evidence of a fight and traces of blood going upstairs, on the walls and the railing. There are family pictures; I recognize the husband.

He’s the mayor’s right-hand man, but the wife’s not blond in the pictures. I bet there’s a coffee machine in a mansion like this one. I show myself to the kitchen. There’s a coffee machine, but it’s too sophisticated for me. There are two kinds of people these days; one can’t even buy a cup of coffee, and the other has a coffee machine that we can’t even start.

I am going slowly upstairs with my betta in my hand. The second floor is the worst, with more blood on the floor and trying not to slip and fall. Someone dragged the body onto the bathroom floor; it’s not the woman in the pictures, but the blond who opened the door. She’s about 22 years old, and has multiple cuts all over her body, probably stabbing wounds, and there’s a bullet hole in her forehead. Someone probably called the cops, I can hear the sirens getting louder. I don’t want to be here if the cops are coming, time to go.

The sun is about to rise anyway, and my nose hurts like hell. Last call to my client to tell her I must see her in person to show her the photos. The phone booth is my outside office. It’s always from this booth that I call my clients; I don’t want to leave my number on their caller I.D.

A half-empty cup of coffee stands on top of the phone, looking straight at me, and it’s still warm. Should I take a sip? Am I this addicted? I need coffee so bad, fuck it, I shug it, it tastes like dishes washers water, and there was a cigarette butt in the Bottom of the cup; it came out as fast as it came in.

The sun is up, the night’s over, going home to shower, and sleep.

Ten-four, I’m out.