The name's Minion, Faceless Minion. I'm a P. I. and odd-job man. They used to say I could've been an evil minion if there hadn't been that accident at the cloning facility.
After the fire, no one says that no more.
It was a dark and … ahem. Rain streaked the window like Tammy Faye's tears the night he walked in. I could tell he was a class act, a full course of trouble with a side order of heartbreak. Roaches scuttled out of the way when he crossed the room.
The dingy light said too little: the svelte figure of a potato, mutton chops the paschal lamb could only dream about, and tiny glasses that would have been cute if they'd sprouted legs and a pointed nose. "I'm looking for a manuscript."
I discreetly tucked the holy water and crucifix back into my desk. "How many words?"
He sniffed, pulled out a kerchief, and dabbed at his eyes. A monogrammed double 'E' glared at me from a lacy corner. "It was amazing. A setting with the structural integrity of lime jello, contradictory themes--"
A grown man's tears. In desperation, I glanced at the coffee pot; the black elixir was crusted with green-gray mold.
"--characters strangled in an air-tight plot--"
I swiveled my chair in time to see George and Bernie duck back into their rat-hole. They'd be no help.
"--but something about the writing screamed at me."
I kept turning until I noticed the window reflecting an empty room behind me.
"It was lost in a fire."
Somehow, I knew the garlic mouthwash on my breath wouldn't save me.