Allen Avon sat in his office chair, lost in thought. A private detective by trade, he was having problems making ends meet as that year there had not been much demand for his craft. Consequently, this had lead to a struggle in paying the overhead. If that wasn’t bad enough, he had the few employees that they had to think about as well, as well as his partner in the firm, Jeb Cabaret, who’s wife had just filed for divorce, trying to take custody of his children. Was the firm going to be able to pay the researchers and analysts, few in number though high in salary, who made the two detective’s jobs exponentially easier, and still meet the overhead? Allen wasn’t sure, as he scratched his hair, which had felt increasingly thin ever since he opened the establishment. He was a plump man, not quite fat nor overweight yet not particularly lean either, standing just below five foot five. Allen wore glasses and Jeb often jokingly referred to his body shape as ‘Hobbit-like’. Allen smiled as he thought about his good-humoured friend, and then glanced back at the paper showing the rent for the year, frowning at the sheer hopelessness of the situation. It was October 21st, and if they didn’t meet the overhead by December 28th, the firm would have to be closed down. Allen tapped his fingers on his desk, and decided to try avoid excessive concern about the rent, which had been unfairly jacked up 30% from last year by their landlord Ned James, a foul man void of any sense of compassion or understanding, his idea of sympathy for their monetary troubles being the statement, “Better than being increased by 40%,” the last time the two had talked. Allen found himself sweating profusely; evidently nervous about the future of the firm he had built up over the past twenty years. Yes, it was small, but it was his. His little bit of that ‘American Dream’ so many naively chase. Yet with real-world problems such as rent, he felt like he was slowly, painfully waking up from the dream. However, he wouldn’t let it be taken away from him that easily.

He pulled a newspaper out from under his desk, old and wooden, just like most of the building, as they’d had little to no money for renovation. He flipped through the newspaper, a beam of hope shining from his eyes, illuminating each word so as not to miss any juicy murders or mysteries the police couldn’t solve which perhaps the firm could make a pretty penny off of solving. There was nothing, no murder, no crime, and no saviour of a mystery to help earn the firm money. In fact, there was even a story about how little crime there was, titled “Chicago Crime Rates Dip Again. Gangs on Vacation?” Allen coughed anxiously, the circumstances seemed to be getting increasingly worse; the firm would never be able to pay the rent, that damn Ned James would take everything Allen had spent a large portion of his life building, and smile as the members of the firm walked out of the door, the winds of uncertainty and indecisiveness sweeping them off the pavements, plunging them into the world of the unemployed and uncared for, both of which were common and frightening prospects in 21st century America. Allen would not let that happen. He stood up, and was about to walk over to have a stern talk with Ned James, whose office was but a street southward, when he glumly sat back down. No amount of words was ever going to change that egotistical malicious man’s mind, it was pointless, and Allen needed a miracle. He hoped for a miracle. He begged for a miracle. But none would come; this was real life, not some naïve idealistic fairy tale where everything turned out all right in the end.

Allen pulled out a bottle of whiskey from his desk’s drawer, thinking to himself, what could a glass of scotch do to make things worse. He thought of his ex-wife, Miriam, who had divorced him because of, in her words, the monster he became when he drank alcohol. F*** her, he thought, since she left me, three years past, he tried his damndest, unsuccessfully of course, to not drink a single droplet of the dreaded concoction that was the reason for his divorce. Well, according to his wife, that is, Allen however suspected she’d been having affairs for years, bored with his life and profession, which in her words was, “Boys playing dress up who find the most creative ways to get killed, all in the hopes of solving crimes the police couldn’t and pocketing a meagre fee.” Allen sighed to himself sadly; it was probably her lack of faith in him that led to their eventual growing apart, as with their relationship her lack of faith led to doubt, which led to estrangement, which finally ended in betrayal. Yes, Allen was certain the man she married a few months after, Martin, was it? Then Allen remembered, it was that damn Martin Stewart, the successful accountant who had helped run the firms affairs before he quit during the divorce. Martin had always had this way of making Miriam laugh, and twirl her golden blonde locks of hair. Allen found himself becoming increasingly jealous of Martin’s calm and cool persona, who with his combination of intelligence and good looks was a bit of a seducer, his smile dropped panties, his stare bared breasts, and his wink caused heart attacks. This was until he met Miriam, of course.  Allen suspected the two had been going at it for years before he even suspected anything, much less separated from Miriam. But, contemplating bitter problems of the past could wait until he could afford to solve the bitter problems of the present. He turned back to his whiskey, eyeing the dark yellow liquid; perhaps it could be the gateway to a solution, as Jed once said, “The answer to all questions can be found in the bottom of the bottle.” So, Allen proceeded to drink the whiskey bottle, hesitantly as the bitter substance ignited a fire in his chest, a burning sensation of passion and happiness he hadn’t felt since before his divorce, and all his problems seemed to melt away. And so did his sight, touch, smell, hearing, and taste. The world, for Allen Avon, went black.

Allen heard muffled noises, just like when one tries to block out loud sounds with a pillow, as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Gradually, as his vision returned, he found himself sitting in a small office. Suddenly the muffled noise became clear, and he heard a woman’s voice, “Allen, Allen can you hear me, Allen?” He recognised it to be the voice of his therapist, Margaret, whom the court had made mandatory to visit after the divorce to help him with his alcoholism, if he wanted visitation rights to his kids. He turned and looked at her, studying her small stout face with the long slender nose that made her comparable to a nightmarish witch. Allen then realised he had no recollection of how he got here, so he, slurring a few of his words, inquired, “How exactly did I get here, what’s day is it?” Margaret looked slightly confused, “Why, Allen it’s Friday, we always have our appointments on Friday.” Allen suddenly got very anxious, he’d blacked out on Wednesday, so where had he been, what had he done for the past two days? “Allen, you walked in here seemingly normal, talking to me about your problems paying your firm’s rent, and then you fainted, and now you say you don’t recall any of this?” Allen nodded. Margaret looked curious, scratching her chin with her long purple nails, as if the clichéd-thinking pose would enhance her intelligence quotient. She then smiled smugly, posing the question she most probably already knew the answer to, “Allen, have you been drinking, are you having the blackouts again?” Allen nodded again. During his divorce, he was sent for a psyche exam, which concluded that due to his abuse of alcohol, the part of his brain containing his to memories had been, well, eroded, to the point where his brain created a firewall defence against future alcohol abuse. This meant that whenever Allen so much as took a sip of alcohol, his mind would shut down the part of his cerebrum with his memories, so that it could recover and protect itself from his weakness. The problem was, he’d have no recollection of what he had been doing while in the state of cerebral recovery. Now, at first the recovery time was an hour or two, but in recent months, especially with his most recent of his blackouts, as his therapist referred to them, had lasted two days. S***, Allen thought to himself, he didn’t wan to be sent for another psyche exam, or be wheeled off in a stretcher to some mental facility, so, when asked by Margaret as he always was when talking about his cognitive firewall, “Allen, is your condition getting any worse, are the blackouts happening for longer periods of time?” he replied with a curt shake of his head and subsequently proceeded to talk about more conventional matters with her, as they usually did during their meetings.

“So what’re we talking about today, Marge?” Every time they met, Margaret had a topic for her and Allen to discuss, which apparently allowed her to analyse his mental capacity and condition, and either be satisfied with Allen’s answers and let him be on his way, or immediately demand he report to the local hospital’s mental analyst. Another pointless clause in his divorce, Allen though to himself, he was fine; nothing wrong in the head except his memory problems. He looked out the window, at the darkening sky around Chicago’s skyline, the pied beauty of the dappled sunset amazed him, and he wondered how many times the people of Chicago, often wrapped up in their own world and too busy to appreciate their surroundings, stopped and took a moment to look up. Allen had always been fascinated with the sky, with the striking colours painting the sky, as if God were the artist and the world was his canvas. However, Allen didn’t believe in a god. The cruelty of man and disloyalty of his wife had shown him that only sin lay in the hearts of men, and that there was no grand designer of the human being, the devilish offspring of evolution. Allen chuckled to himself, if there was something greater, someone greater, he surely wasn’t an architect by profession.

Margaret regarded him strangely, seeing that he was lost in his own universe, as he always was when he met with her, and she often wondered what his inner thoughts and feelings were. She desired the key to unlock his deepest desires, his most sinister wishes, as it was only then that she could give a proper analysis of Allen’s mental condition. She pulled a pencil out of her pocket and chewed on it, thinking deeply about how to uncover the secrets of his mind. All men’s minds were combination locks, the combination changing every time you successfully uncovered the code. Last time he was here they’d talked about family, and it was by using Allen’s kids that she gained useful insight into his love of his children, which was undoubtedly strong. However, before she could say anything, there was an annoyingly loud clamour downstairs, as if somebody was playing the drums for the first time.

Suddenly, there was a knock on Margaret’s apartment door. She went to answer it, and in burst Jeb Cabaret, in full stride, briefly nodding at Margaret and rushing anxiously to the couch Allen sat on. He paced nervously, shaking his head wildly as the action would rid his mind of an undesired image. “What is it Jeb?” Allen asked, alarmed by his partners unnerved persona. Jeb looked at Allen, saying weirdly soft and eerily calmly, “Allen, there’s been a murder.”