Jazz Noir Detective Music - Perfect for Studying, Relaxing, General Listening
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- Опубліковано 15 чер 2022
- Jazz Noir music or Film Noir music is dark and mysterious like the Film Noir movies that inspire it. This Jazz Noir Music Playlist will evoke images and feelings of mystery and intrigue. It is absolutely suitable for relaxing, studying, driving, thinking or light melancholy. It's dark, mysterious, sad and smooth and reminds of the 1950's detective film.
Track Names:
0:00 Cool Vibes - Kevin Macleod
6:20 Bass Walker - Kevin Macleod
8:58 Cold Mind Enigma - Soothing Sparrow
10:15 Covert Affair - Kevin Macleod
16:20 Doublecrossed - Scott Dugdale
19:30 Hard Boiled - Kevin Macleod
22:37 Just As Soon - Kevin Macleod
25:33 Night On the Docks - Kevin Macleod
29:07 Walking Along - Kevin Macleod
31:50 Lobby Smooth - Stone in Green
34:38 On the Cool Side - Kevin Macleod
36:19 Outcast - Myuu
42:09 Spy Glass - Kevin Macleod
If you want to hear more Jazz Noir music, check out the second playlist here!
- • Jazz Noir Detective Mu...
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June 1946, Chicago: I was in my office, enjoying a smoke and some whiskey, when I got the call: Joey Sanchez was dead. My closest friend from the army, served together from Africa to the entire Italian campaign. Shot at by Germans and Italians, survived explosions from mortars, been through hell and back, and what finally got him in the end was a driveby shooting. Ain't that just a case of rotten luck
These are great stories!
Captivating storytellin' there. I like it 👍🏾
And also, that was the time my grandmother was born.
I love it!❤
And that's when she walked.
I’ve got eight slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drink packs a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye. The dame walked in and said she had a case for me. She sounded like a case herself.
Listened to this on my way to town the other day... I ordered a coffee, black as the night and bitter as my divorce. The dame behind the counter had the look of exhaustion about herself... an honest days work, but after the crooks in government took their cut, far from an honest days pay. I headed out to the street, lighting my cigarette, delving deeper into the belly of the beast. From femme fatales and crooked cops, I was sure to come down with a bad case of lead poisoning... but I had to keep pushing on... because I needed to buy some new socks.
Bravo :-)
Socks, man. Gotta have them. 👏👏👏
Your dark comedic virtuosity brightens my cloudy morning. I tip my fedora to you.
Socks... Eso si que es.
It was old Jimmy Valdez... In disguise.. I knew it, the hair, the strut... Even disguising himself as a dame wouldn't work... I recognize that ass anywhere.
@@RealBradMiller 🤣
It was raining. Hard. The streets were slick. The city's inhabitants were running to and fro, ruining their shoes and their newspapers, trying to escape the storm.
I was sitting in my office trying to coax one more memory from my gin and tonic. The phone hadn't rang in days. The office smelled of old paper. Old air. Old cologne. My chair creaked in annoyance as I eased back...with no further plan than to dull some more brain cells. I lit a cigarette.
I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in...
She was a tall drink of bourbon to a Sunday priest. My gin didn't mean anything anymore. I looked up to drink her in. She was built like an aero plane. Long. Trim…With curves in all the right places.
As I forced my gaze above her chin, I couldn't help but notice -she had lips as red as sunburn...and just as hot. Skin like smooth jazz. She gazed at me with eyes so deep you couldn't see the bottom. I noticed something.
She'd been crying...
Maybe a swindler took her inheritance. Maybe an ex-lover jilted her at the altar. Maybe she even murdered the poor devil. Who knows?
All I know is the sound of that door opening meant greenbacks in my palm and my next hot meal.
I'm a Private Eye.
I was reading your comment while the first tune was playing. When I came to the "I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in..." part, the first music ended and the second music started. The slow tango piece. Perfect transition! Talk about one heck of a coincidence.
@@freeurmind5790 Thank you! I'm a PI in real life. My partner and I would often create these monologues during slow times on the job.
@@MGAC1701 Must be an interesting work environment.
This! Such images conjured with the writing. Brilliant!
@@devinflowtherapyjames5808 Thank you!
Here's my hardboiled detective film noir opening.
It’s my world, a world where the night is never just night, and every shadow tells a story. The city never sleeps, and neither do the secrets that slither through its shadowy alleys. It was a night thick with fog, the kind that clings to your coat like a desperate dame. I was holed up in my office, a glass of bourbon keeping company with the stack of unpaid bills. The neon sign outside flashed a sordid dance of blues and reds across the room, painting the scene like a Picasso in his blue period.
They call me Jack Sullivan, private eye. I've seen things that would make a preacher swear and a convict pray. The door creaked open, and she walked in, legs first, a silhouette cut from midnight velvet. Her eyes held the promise of trouble, the kind I knew all too well, the kind that paid the bills but never came cheap.
"Mr. Sullivan?" Her voice was a melody that could turn saints into sinners.
I tipped my hat, "The one and only. What's got you wandering through the devil's playground at this hour?"
She took a breath, and the story began. Another chapter in this city's endless book of heartache and crime. And me? I'm just the sap who writes it down.
She perched on the edge of the chair across my desk, a black dress hugging her like a lover's whisper. "It's my husband," she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "He's missing, and the cops... they ain't doing squat. I need someone with your... particular set of skills, Mr. Sullivan."
I leaned back, the chair groaning under the weight of the world. "Missing, huh? People don't just vanish into thin air, not in this town. They leave trails, like breadcrumbs for the hungry."
She pulled out a photograph, a snapshot of happier times. "He was last seen at the Sapphire Lounge, the jazz joint down on 5th and Vine. He plays the piano, or he used to, before..."
"Before what?" I prodded, sensing the plot thickening like blood in cold water.
"Before he got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Gamblers, thugs, the kind of people who'd sell their own mother for a slice of the pie."
I took the photo, our fingers brushing-a jolt of electricity in the gloom. "I'll take the case," I said, already feeling the familiar itch of intrigue and danger. "But I gotta warn you, what I find might not play the tune you wanna hear."
She nodded, a tear escaping down her cheek. "Just find him, Mr. Sullivan. Please."
The door closed behind her, leaving nothing but the scent of jasmine and a mystery to unravel. I grabbed my coat and hat, ready to dive headfirst into the belly of the beast. The Sapphire Lounge was calling my name, and I had a feeling this case was going to be a doozy.
The Sapphire Lounge was a joint where the drinks were stiff and the jazz was smooth. I pushed through the door, the sound of a saxophone wailing like a siren's call. The air was thick with smoke and secrets, and every shadow seemed to whisper a different lie.
I made my way to the bar, the bartender giving me the once-over. "What'll it be?" he grunted, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days.
"Information," I said, sliding a crisp bill across the mahogany. "I'm looking for a piano man, goes by the name of Eddie. Ring any bells?"
He pocketed the bill, his eyes narrowing. "Might do. Eddie's been tickling the ivories here for years. But he ain't been around for the last couple of nights. Word is, he's in deep with Big Tony's crew."
Big Tony. The name was like a bad penny-always turning up. I thanked the bartender and turned to leave, but a voice stopped me cold.
"You're Sullivan, ain't ya? The detective."
I turned to see a dame with a face that could launch a thousand ships and a body that could sink 'em. "I might be. Who's asking?"
"The name's Vivian. I'm a singer here. And I know where you can find Eddie."
She led me to a table in the back, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. "Eddie's got himself a gambling problem," she whispered, leaning in close. "He owes Big Tony more dough than he can ever pay back. Last I heard, he was trying to skip town."
I felt the puzzle pieces clicking into place. "And where would a desperate man go to disappear?"
She scribbled an address on a napkin and slid it over. "The docks, at midnight. But be careful, Sullivan. Big Tony doesn't like snoops."
I pocketed the napkin and nodded. "Thanks, doll. You've been a real peach."
As I stepped out into the night, the fog seemed to close in around me, a shroud for the city's sins. The docks at midnight-it was a setup, it had to be. But it was the only lead I had. I'd have to be ready for anything. Because in this town, anything could happen-and usually did.
The docks at midnight were a maze of rusted shipping containers and forgotten dreams. The air tasted of salt and regret as I followed Vivian’s lead. The moon hung low, a pale witness to the sins that played out in its shadow.
I found Eddie huddled near the water’s edge, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the piano case. His eyes were hollow, the light gone out like a busted streetlamp. “Sullivan,” he croaked, his voice a rusty hinge. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I leaned against a stack of crates, my fedora pulled low. “Eddie, you’ve been dancing with the devil. Big Tony’s got a long memory, and his goons have a short fuse.”
He wiped sweat from his brow, the lines etched deep like canyon walls. “I had a system, Jack. A way to beat the odds. But the cards turned cold, and now I’m in too deep.”
I glanced around, shadows shifting like ghosts. “What’s the play, Eddie? You gonna run? Disappear into the night like smoke?”
His fingers traced the piano keys, a melancholy melody rising from the darkness. “Nah, Sullivan. I’m gonna face the music. Tell Big Tony I’ll pay what I owe. But I need time. One last gig, one last chance.”
I knew the stakes. Eddie was a pawn in a high-stakes game, and the odds were stacked against him. But maybe, just maybe, I could tip the scales. “Alright, kid,” I said, my voice gravel and regret. “I’ll make a deal with the devil. You play that piano like your life depends on it. And I’ll dance with the wolves.”
As the clock struck midnight, the Sapphire Lounge came alive. The crowd swayed, lost in the rhythm, while Eddie’s fingers danced across the keys. The notes were a confession, a plea for redemption. And somewhere in the shadows, Big Tony’s enforcers waited, hungry for blood.
I stepped outside, the night air biting like a betrayed lover. Vivian was there, her eyes wide with worry. “You’re a fool, Sullivan,” she whispered. “But you’ve got a kind heart.”
I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like a question mark. “Kind hearts don’t last long in this city, doll. But sometimes, they catch a break.”
And so, I waited. The docks held their breath, the moon a silent witness. When the final note echoed across the water, I knew the game was afoot. Eddie had played his hand, and now it was my turn.
Big Tony’s goons stepped out of the shadows, knuckles wrapped in brass. But I had a secret weapon-the truth. I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the night like a switchblade.
“Big Tony,” I said, “your boy Eddie’s got a debt to pay. But he’s got something you want more than money. He’s got a soul.”
The enforcers hesitated, eyes flickering between me and Eddie. Big Tony emerged, a mountain of menace in a tailored suit. “Speak your piece, Sullivan.”
I leaned in, my breath hot with defiance. “Eddie’s gonna play one last tune. And if it don’t move you, if it don’t touch that black heart of yours, then you can have him. But if it does… well, then maybe we all get a second chance.”
Eddie sat at the piano, his fingers trembling. The keys whispered a prayer, a melody that hung in the air like a fragile promise. And as the notes soared, I saw it-the flicker of humanity in Big Tony’s eyes.
The city held its breath. The scales trembled. And for a moment, just a moment, redemption hung in the balance.
And that, my friend, is where the story ends. Because sometimes, even in the darkest alleys, there’s a glimmer of hope. And sometimes, just sometimes, a private eye can change the tune of fate.
👏👏👏
Wow, it has been delightful to read this. You have inspired me to continue writting my unfinished stories. Thank you.
@@nadiacorimayo3157 Nadia ! Unfinished stories are like an invitation, an invitation to enjoy yet another kiss from a lover that’s been distant like a shadow in the fog. That unfinished story is waiting for you to embrace it, to hold it once again, let it unfold like a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Having a partner to bounce off of is overlooked and underappreciated, much like a hunch that comes without knowing why, yet it just is. Let’s test it out together, I’d be happy if you sent me a paragraph or two of one of your unfinished stories and allow me to give it a whirl like a fedora caught in a gust of wind.
I love your story! You should do more!!
@@hastymemer Listen up Hasty, I ain’t no two-bit gumshoe scribbling for a quick buck. Nah, I pen my tales ‘cause it’s like sippin’ bourbon on a rainy night-smooth, dark, and damn satisfying. You see, my ma, bless her heart, she raised me on those flicks from the golden age. The ones where dames with legs that went on forever slinked through shadowy alleyways, and the air reeked of secrets and gunpowder.
And my old man? Well, he was a real piece of work. Used to talk like he stepped right outta a Raymond Chandler novel. “Kid,” he’d say, “life’s a maze, and the dames are the twisty turns. You gotta navigate 'em, even when they’re sharper than a switchblade.”
So here I am, typewriter clacking away, weaving tales of smoky jazz clubs, dames with eyes like loaded revolvers, and crooked coppers who’d sell their own mothers for a nickel. But there’s a hitch, Hasty. A real twist in the plot. See, there’s this dame-the one who’s got me by the lapels, squeezin’ tight. She don’t take kindly to the other dames I conjure up. Jealous, she is. Thinks I’m moonlighting with ink-stained vixens while she’s waitin’ by the fire, wearin’ that collar she snapped on me.
So, Hasty, my fedora-wearin’ friend : I write for the thrill, not the dames or the dough. And if any Joe wants to know why my stories drip with noir, they can blame it on Ma’s late-night movie marathons and Pa’s whiskey-soaked wisdom. But that dame? She’s the real mystery-one I can’t solve with a typewriter or a slug of rye. Maybe one day, I’ll spin her into a tale, too. Until then, the shadows beckon, and the keys keep clackin’. 🕵♂🚬📝
You know they say that in life you should eat what you're served. Problem was, most of the time, I was served soup with a fork.
She had a smile that hit my eyes the way the first drink hits your stomach. It feels good, but you've been here before. You know how it ends. You know how it ends, and you do it anyway.
I'm in..
Count me in also 🤚
Shoutout to all the commenters who’ve posted short noir snippets. Lot of fun to read them all.
The best Noir line I ever heard was from Calvin and Hobbes. “yeah, that’s me. Tracer Bullet. I got 8 slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drinks pack a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye.”
It was rather excellent.
Another line from C&H Tracer Bullet was "I've got a dear friend that lives close to my heart. Down and to the left to be specific."
It was something like that.
YES.
"The click of a hammer being cocked behind my head focused my thoughts like only a loaded .38 can."
Yes! I remember that strip! ✨️💖
I cracked the door open and shook off my coat. It had been raining again. It was always raining lately. I hung my now ruined hat on the hook by the door and stepped inside.
A small movement in the kitchen caught my eye and I shut the door. It was my unwitting house guest.
Mittens let out a pathetic noise and I knew. "Hungry too? Figures." I went to open a small can of tuna, my last one. Darn cat ate better than I did.
My pay as a gumshoe was terrible, my pay as a P.I. had been worse. Giving up on my notion of a sandwich I got to work.
The perp thought he'd gotten away, but he'd been cocky. I knew what I'd seen had to be a clue. I was close, I could feel it.
"Looks like you an I are in this together now, eh mittens?" The little furball was my only partner now. I had inherited her from a grateful client before they had passed.
Turns out a lonely cat and a washed up detective make a good pair. Both keep late hours and both of us needed someone to trust.
And I.. I had to make enough leads to equal a sandwich.
Love this, but a gumshoe is a PI.
@@katashley1031
I was actually wondering if anyone would catch that little bread crumb. It's meant as an internal joke. It's just his humour is a little dry.
The character in the story actually does have a job at a larger sort of privatised agency, but he was put on a sort of leave. He's not fired, not suspended, but not really expected to show back up for awhile.
So he is doing something on the side with his own private office. He's trying to make ends meet and chase something personal while between regular work.
Hence the line you caught. ;) It was my way of saying "the pay was even worse on my own" while hinting all is not as it appears.
I very nearly put "my pay as a detective had been bad" because I thought it might be confusing. But I wanted to stay true to my story and I thought, "hmm, let's actually say this then and see if anyone asks."
Since so many people liked my first little story, figured I'll post something more for those who bother to read comments.
---
"Mick! Hey! What're are you doing here?"
The well intentioned man addressed me from a few feet away, a cup of joe placed in his hand.
"Coffee maker at the house broke. Usual diner is closed. Best I could do."
I looked down at the coffee in my own cup. Coffee was as dark as a sinners soul. But the real sin was that taste.
"The coffee here is cheap, but it gets the job done. And also, the name isn't Mick, my name's Mike. I've told you that before."
Jayce crossed over the floor towards my direction, a wry smile on his face.
"I know, but it gets you talking."
He took a sip from his mug, his face souring.
"Urgh.. I don't know how you can drink this. It's worse than last time. I swear the coffee gets cheaper every time I try it."
He hovered his hand over the trash can, pausing a moment as if considered throwing the whole thing, mug included, inside.
Instead he tipped it over, letting the coffee drain out and put the mug down.
"I dunno Jayce. It beats a broken coffee machine. Even this junk is better than nothing. And, it's free."
"For a reason." Jayce retorted. "Tastes like it fell off the back of a truck.. and hit a curb on the way down."
"Seriously. I think the boss must get it for free too. Only reason to keep it around here. Wouldn't surprise me if no one else wanted it."
Jayce looked me directly in the eye then and I took stock of him. His blonde locks were slightly out place, his tie hung loose. It was then that I knew.
Some folks handle long shifts with grace. This man, did not. He got through the labors of a day by talking about them.
And if he was still up, that meant something was keeping him up.
"Look Mikey.. I know you just got back to Central and your report's not due for a few more days but Chelz has been asking for you."
I made the mistake of starting to read the comments! lol They are as GREAT and the music. Love this!!
I don't advise believing the comments. I won't even believe your $100 until it's in my pocket.
my favorite thing about Jazz is everyone doing the "detective narration" in the comments
"It had all come to this, here I was, walking into a dark bar that looked to be made entirely of wood, marble, jade, and danger."
I tried not to touch anything. The glue holding the place together came from a think layer of tobacco tar coating every surface. Without it, the walls, ceiling, bar, tables, and chairs would crumble faster than the lives of their regular customers. Even the glasses on the bar stuck in place if left too long, mostly empty and ignored. Looking around the room, it appeared the same thing happened to the patrons. A neglected bar for neglected, and negligent, people. Except one.
She was there. Trying to hide in the darkest corner. Obvious, she looked out of place, but somehow she belonged. When they call me for help, things went from bad to worse ... and fast.
I'm loving these comments as much as the music itself. 💯
that means the playlist is truly inspiring detectivesque thoughts 😂
I can just imagine Capt. Picard on the Holodeck as P.I. "Dix" on ST:TNG or ST : First Contact.
Guinan - "Tell him it's - Gloria, from Cleveland."
I’m about to do some sneaky mischief listening to that opening track
Twin Peaks vibes too ☕🥧
exactly what i was thinking!
I'm here for it.
@@MelancholyMoondancer that show was one of a kind!
_12;45. Pauline’s Saloon. Second Booth from door on right._
That was all the letter said. I studied the scrawl, smelled the paper, and checked for any signs of where it came from. Nothing. I checked my watch, 12;28. Pauline’s was about ten minutes from my office, but I was never one to be late. I took my .38 from the top drawer, slid it into my shoulder holster, and closed up shop. Business had been bad lately and this looked like the first thing all week that might put some dough in my pocket.
It was 12;40 when I got to Pauline’s. I slid into the booth, ordered a gin tonic, and sat back to wait. Several people entered for the next few minutes, but none so much as looked my way. Then _she_ came in. Looked like she stepped right off one of them fashion magazine covers. She carried an air of confidence on her and her big brown eyes looked as deadly as the poorly concealed derringer in her purse.
“Mr. Maunders?” She asked. Her tone was as thick as honey.
I nodded, pulling a cigarette from my case. I offered her one and she took it with a pair of slim gloved fingers. Leaning across the table I lit it and then my own, then waited to hear what she’d say. A couple of puffs and then she stared me in the eyes.
“A friend told me you knew Sammy during the war.”
A pretty vague statement. I shrugged, “Knew a lot of guys named Sammy before, during, and after.” However, there was one Sammy that came to mind specifically. Sammy “Diamond” Brooks. He and I had been stuck in a basement for almost a week while the Jerry’s kept base above. He told me a lot during those days. His life, his family, how he got his nickname and a lot of other stuff.
“Oh you’d remember this Sammy,” she smiled and reached into her purse.
I subtly reached for my gun in case she tried anything.
She pulled out a small velvet bag and threw it in front of me. I opened it and found myself staring at four diamonds. Even in the dim interior they gleamed and sparkled.
She locked her fingers and rested her chin on them, “Now, Mr. Maunders, just what did Sammy say to you.”
I cinched the bag closed and threw it back at her. “Nothing worth this lady, now just what are you really after?”
She grinned, “Truly, I just want to know what he told you.” She leaned over and slid the bag into my coat pocket, her hand lingering on my chest for a moment. “Surely, with these, you can at least spare the time to tell me that.”
Before I could even reply, a car came screeching down the street. Bullets, glass, and screams were all I knew for the next minute and then the bullets stopped. Habit had saved me, I’d ducked, but not for my mysterious companion. She lay face down on the table, a pool of crimson dribbling off the corner.
Who really was this Sammy Brooks? What had he told me those three years ago that had suddenly become worth killing for? I slipped out through the back during the confusion and hoofed it back to my office. I looked at the time as I sat back at my desk - 1;01. The night had ended but my work was just beginning. I lit a cigarette, leaned back, and slowly began going over those days three years ago.
October 2287, Boston: I was on a case for a runaway daughter. The family were good people but their daughter was quite the rebellious spirit. Tracked her down to an old vault ran by an old acquaintance of mine named Skinny Malone. Seemed like it just became a case of kidnapping.
I guess they were expecting me, cause the next thing I knew, I was apprehended and locked inside the overseer's office much deeper down.
Only then did I find out that the runaway daughter wasn't kidnapped but rather she became Skinny's new girl. The oil that makes the flame shine brighter. Hope someone comes by soon so I can get out of here.
It looked like rain, so I got up to close the window. That guy on the sidewalk was still playing his sax. He was good, but I had heard enough for one day.
When I turned back to my desk, she was already standing in front of it.
"Can I help you?", I said.
"No, Mr. Starker, I'm here to help you.", she whispered. "You placed a Want Ad for a secretary in today's paper. I'd like to apply for the position."
"Cookie, you can have any position you want." I replied, "You're hired as of now. And from now on, call me Mick."
"Oh, thank you Mr, uh, Mick." she squealed, "You don't know how happy this makes me."
"Sit down, sugar, pour yourself a drink. We've got all night to get to know each other. And you don't know how happy this'll make me!", I said as I removed my tie.
That's when the phone rang. That's when it all started to go sideways.
Who could've figured that she'd wind up dead, and I'd be sitting in a jail cell talking to you?
Love it!
Ain't no sax. Vibes, bass & drums. No need for anything else.
@@antechinus100 So sorry my fiction doesn't fulfill your limited requirements.
@@jtcbrt hahha
@@antechinus100 Au contraire, @32:00
On morning eve, the calm before storm,
Laid back on my seat, drunk without form.
Then sudden the beat, tap tapping of my door,
Was a figure in red, luminous and galore
She waltz before me, eyes with furious light,
And solemn these words that give me a fright.
There mind alight, I nod what might seem
To the person in question the Lady of Dreams.
I thumbed through my empty rolodex, and took a swig from the rock glass half filled with Pepto Bismol, perched on the battered bunch of beams that passed for my desk. I picked up my 45 and put it on the turntable. It was a revolver cut from the Beatles album of the same name.
It had been our song, me and Molly, the cow on our farm. That relationship was an udder disaster. She left me for a bull named Angus, and that's when I got into this racket.
Me? I'm Porter, Porter House. Meat detective.
Sam: I bought that VCR at the supermarket.
Max: So you know it’s a good one.
Sam: Still smells like asparagus, though.
FREELANCE POLICE!!! BRILLIANT!!!
Brb someone just snatched the Pink Panther diamond
These comments are fantastic!
This music brings back all the hours I spent listening to Dragnet on the radio
"You've got a lot of nerve leaving me in the wind like that," she said before I even finished entering the darkened room.
The tiny flame of the match rose to the tip of a cigarette, tobacco burning almost as fiery as the eyes it illuminated.
With a flick she turn on the desk lamp. Her body captured the light in all the right ways. Wavy black hair over alabaster skin and lips in a tight smirk promised violence you might enjoy. An evening dress of violet silk and heels swore a night of the tango, in one form or another. The tight leather gloves didn't exactly ruin the moment either.
The gun pointed at my gut however was a bit distracting.
"Well, doll, what did you expect?" I said, tossing my hat onto the coat rack in the corner. "That I'd chase your tail after you plugged my boat full of holes and left me for dead?"
"I never doubted you would make it out alright," she said, gun unwavering. "But you didn't have to lie."
I grinned, shrugging out of my overcoat. "I'm a dishonest man. Honest."
Cigarette smoke drifted from her lips. "We really shouldn't keep meeting like this. People might start talking."
I crossed the room to her, the gun barrel pressing firmly against my stomach. "Well, toots, I ain't afraid of a little bad word of mouth."
The heat in her eyes and the slant of her lips agreed.
The thin cold light illuminated the doorway and the outline of a big, big man. The sheer bulk of the figure made me glad I had my Marley.38 in my shoulder holster where it felt nice and warm. Crossing my arms casually would bring it into my hand. I charge $100 a day plus expenses. What can I do for you? Nuthin' said the big man. I'm here to fix the toilet and I charge $200 an hour for night work. Need an apprentice,I asked?
Where her soft almost secretarial voice once greeted me with a thin mentholated chill, her eyes betrayed a cold calculation that would make a snowman shiver. She knew something. Worse still, she knew that I knew. “One more time… where are the god damned anchovies?”
Another late night of reports. The hazy street lights of Kansas City's east side was punctuated by the wafting of sad, jazzy vocals and sax from Vine Street a few blocks down. Meloncholic ... rhymes with alcoholic. How apropos, condersidering matters.
Click.
I looked up to see a dark man in fedora and trench enter the office. From here, I could smell Money from the scent of Stoli and Cuban cigars around him.
"I heard Detective Michael Gabriel got cacked by Boss Tom's men. My condolences."
I regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Thank you. I'm his widow and partner: Angel Gabriel. And you?"
He removed his hat, and I was staring into my dead husband's face, only younger and no scars. He also had a neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache. "I'm Mike's brother Raphael. I just returned from Paris and I'm taking over the agency for him."
I laughed. "You don't know what you're getting into here, brother."
Smooth 😎
Love the twist
You've got the makings of a hard boiled writer here....
Hotel Dusk vibes. Most underrated video game of all time.
This. This is exactly what I was looking for...idk why but I needed to hear it.
Hi Matt, thanks for stopping by! Glad you were able to come across my video, if you are looking for some more, there is a part two in the description of the video. Have a great day!
In the dimly lit streets of Noir City, Detective Jack Malone leaned against the lamppost, cigarette smoke curling around him like a ghostly shroud. He was waiting for his informant, Mickey, a small-time crook with a knack for digging up dirt.
As the clock struck midnight, Mickey emerged from the shadows, his fedora pulled low over his eyes. "Got something for ya, Jack," he whispered, slipping an envelope into Jack's trench coat pocket.
Jack nodded, his eyes narrowing. "What's the word on the street, Mickey?"
Mickey glanced around nervously before speaking. "There's trouble brewing at the Nightshade Club. Rumor has it, the boss, Mr. Black, is in over his head with the wrong crowd."
Jack's interest piqued. The Nightshade Club was a cesspool of vice and corruption, and Mr. Black was at the center of it all. Jack knew he had to tread carefully if he wanted to get to the bottom of this.
With Mickey's information in hand, Jack made his way to the Nightshade Club. The air was thick with smoke and the sound of jazz music filled the room as Jack slipped through the crowd, unnoticed.
He found Mr. Black holed up in his office, surrounded by his goons. "What do you want, Malone?" Mr. Black growled, his voice dripping with menace.
"I want answers, Black. I know you're in bed with the wrong crowd, and I aim to bring them down," Jack replied, his voice cold and determined.
But before Mr. Black could respond, the door burst open and chaos erupted as shots rang out. In the confusion, Jack managed to slip away, his mind racing with questions.
Back at his office, Jack poured himself a drink and lit another cigarette. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but he knew he was running out of time. He needed to act fast if he wanted to crack the case and bring justice to Noir City.
With a steely glint in his eye, Jack set out into the night, ready to confront the darkness that lurked in the shadows.
This great music! It makes me want to grab a glass of bourbon and a good mystery book!
The name's Henry Dorsett Case. My office is in Chiba City, Ninsei district. I like a mug or two of Kirin and a few Yeheyuans to get me started each day. My quarry calls himself Neuromancer. Been tracking him down in Cyberspace. Careful fellow. A little old-fashioned. You'd think he came from somewhere south of the border. Likes Carnivale. Speaks fluent Portuguese. Likes girls with Gibson Girl hairstyles. Guess I'm headed out-of-town for the BARM (Buenos-Aires-Rio-Multiplex) and see what clues I can come up with.
Twin peaks has a hold on this music for me
Her perfume walked into the room before she did, out of all the joints in this town she had to walk into my office. I slowly looked over the rim of my glass of whiskey and laid down my cigar ‼️
...I had to admit...this dame sure did have a great set of pins...
Packed the four five government model.
Yeah. I was ready.
''Swing the meter Cabbie''
LA Noire vibes ✨️
Investigating the kids room after I hear a loud bang and they pretend to be asleep.
The war hasn't been over for very long but a new reality is setting in; talk about, "Gone With the Wind". I can't believe the changes in five years and they're not pretty. Even the mood has changed, dark, gloomy. The new pictures reflect this but I do like them. Well, welcome 1946.
Really loving all the detective stories in the comments that people are making.
I read all the comments while listening to this! Now I'm so intrigued to get into noir books 🙈 any recommendations for a beginner like me??
I would suggest The Easy Rawlins series by Walter Mosely. Set in Los Angeles in the 1940s. Easy is an African American detective after returning from WWII.
For a one-off, Death is a Lonely Business by Ray Bradbury fits the bill as well.
Now curious to read Easy Rawlins though, thank you.
Dashell Hammet
Moody and dark. Makes me want to read Sam Spade or Mike Hammer.
Saving this for next time I pick up house of leaves
I'm about to go into the bedroom after playing COD all night. Wife is (pretending to be ??) asleep. I have this music playing in my head as i tip toe into the room without incurring her wrath.
Wish me luck!!
Detective Holliday is all too familiar with homicide, but the drip of blood always gives the body a strange sort of animation. Clues splattered all over the sidewalk, bathing the ground in red and blue as the police cars arrive is not something the detective thought he would find familiar, but it is, however, what he signed up for. With the blood still warm, this had just occurred. It was not too late stop the dripping of someone else’s blood before this night was over.
"my goodness, it's dark out here" she muttered, switching on her lamps ...
@Eclectic Lofi
Congrats about thy outstanding Noir Detective Music, dat one I need for my noir and detective stories :)
"It was a foggy October night, one of those damned ones so foggy October nights that you need a butcher's knife to cut off all the myst between you and the unknown... After that my Buick kicked me up, was now walking between Chalkboard Street and Bodoni Memorial Avenue, when a heavenly vision appeared to me under that public lamp. Was so surprised that my cigar fell off from my lips. Her scent smells of a chorus of angels and saints... and enough troubles as a magnet actracts the metal objects..."
Your story deserves a finish...here goes'----The fog hung low, thick as molasses, swallowing the streetlights whole. I adjusted my fedora, the brim casting a shadow over my eyes. The Buick’s engine grumbled like a hungry tomcat, and I leaned against its hood, waiting for something to happen. It always did on nights like these.
That’s when she stepped out of the mist-a dame with legs that went all the way up to her troubles. Her silhouette danced in the lamplight, and I swear the fog parted just for her. She had the kind of beauty that could make a priest break his vows or a detective spill his secrets.
“Detective,” she said, her voice a velvet whisper. “You’re the one they call the Midnight Marlowe, aren’t you?”
I nodded, my eyes tracing the curves of her figure. “That’s what they say. What’s your game, sweetheart?”
She stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of her perfume-violets and danger. “I need your help,” she said. “My husband’s gone missing. He was last seen at the Bodoni Club, but the police won’t lift a finger. They say he’s just another drunk who stumbled into the fog.”
I took a drag from my cigar, the smoke curling around her like a lover’s embrace. “Why come to me?”
“Because you’re not afraid of the dark,” she replied. “And neither am I.”
I followed her through the labyrinth of alleys, the fog clinging to my coat like regret. The Bodoni Club loomed ahead, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. Inside, the air smelled of whiskey and desperation. The dame led me to a corner booth, where a man sat nursing a glass of bourbon.
“Meet my husband,” she said, her eyes pleading.
He looked up, hollow cheeks framed by a five o’clock shadow. “Marlowe,” he rasped. “I’ve seen things, terrible things. The fog-it’s alive, swallowing souls. I stumbled upon a secret, and now they’re after me.”
“Who’s after you?” I asked, my gut tightening.
He leaned in, his breath sour. “The Syndicate. They control everything-the cops, the politicians. They’re the real mist in this city.”
I glanced at the dame. “And what’s your angle in all this?”
She lowered her gaze. “I married him for love, but now it’s survival. The Syndicate wants something he found-a ledger, names, dates. If they get it, we’re both dead.”
I stubbed out my cigar, the embers fading like hope. “I’ll find your ledger, but it won’t be pretty. The fog doesn’t give up its secrets willingly.”
As I stepped back into the night, the mist closed in, swallowing me whole. But I had a butcher’s knife of my own-a mind sharp enough to cut through the darkness. And if the Syndicate wanted a fight, they’d get one. Because in this city, even angels had their demons, and I was the one they called when the fog thickened and the shadows whispered.
The fog clung to my coat like a guilty conscience as I stepped out of the Bodoni Club. The dame’s husband had spilled secrets, and now the Syndicate was on his tail. I needed answers, and the streets held them like a deck of marked cards.
I followed the trail of smoke and neon signs, winding through the city’s underbelly. Chalkboard Street led me to a pawnshop-the kind where dreams were traded for desperation. The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and the old man behind the counter squinted at me through thick glasses.
“What can I do for you, detective?” His voice crackled like a gramophone needle.
I leaned on the glass display case, scanning the trinkets-a tarnished pocket watch, a faded photograph, a silver cigarette case. “I’m looking for a ledger. Names, dates-the kind that could make a man disappear.”
His eyes darted to the back room, and he wiped his hands on his apron. “I might know something. But it’ll cost you.”
I slid a few bills across the counter. “Talk.”
He leaned in, his breath sour with regret. “There’s a place-the Whispering Gallery. It’s where secrets echo like ghosts. Ask for the Oracle. She’ll guide you.”
I nodded, pocketing the information. The Whispering Gallery-a dive bar hidden beneath the city’s skin. The kind of joint where the jukebox played heartache and the bartender poured regret. I stepped back into the fog, my footsteps swallowed by the night.
The gallery was tucked away in an alley, its entrance marked by a flickering neon sign. Inside, the air smelled of spilled whiskey and broken promises. The Oracle sat at the end of the bar, a woman with eyes like forgotten wishes. Her fingers danced over tarot cards, revealing truths and half-truths.
“Marlowe,” she said, her voice a velvet shroud. “You seek answers.”
I took a seat, the wood creaking under my weight. “I need to find a ledger. The Syndicate’s after it.”
She shuffled the cards, the edges worn from countless readings. “The fog hides more than secrets. It guards the truth like a jealous lover.”
“What do you know?”
She laid down the Death card, its skeletal figure grinning up at me. “The ledger is a map-a path to power. But it leads to darkness. Beware the shadows, detective.”
I left the gallery, the Oracle’s warning echoing in my mind. The fog thickened, wrapping around me like a shroud. But I had a butcher’s knife of my own-a resolve to cut through the mist and expose the Syndicate’s web.
As I walked back to my Buick, I noticed a figure leaning against the lamppost-a silhouette in a fedora. “Marlowe,” he said, his voice like gravel. “You’re digging in the wrong graveyard.”
I tightened my grip on the knife hidden in my coat. “Maybe. But I’ve got a date with destiny, and the fog won’t stop me.”
He chuckled, disappearing into the mist. “Destiny’s a fickle dame, detective. Sometimes she dances with the devil.”
I climbed into the Buick, the engine roaring to life. The fog swirled, revealing glimpses of truth and treachery. The Syndicate had their secrets, but so did I. And when the fog lifted, one of us would be left standing-bruised, bloodied, but never broken.
The Buick’s headlights cut through the mist as I drove toward the heart of the city. The Syndicate’s secrets were buried deep, and I was about to unearth them.
The Whispering Gallery had closed its doors, but the Oracle’s warning echoed in my mind. I needed answers, and the only way to find them was to follow the trail of smoke and betrayal. The streets whispered their secrets-the crooked cop, the politician on the take, the dancer with a knife hidden in her garter.
I parked outside the Bodoni Club, the neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. The dame was waiting, her eyes haunted. “Did you find it?” she asked.
I nodded, pulling the ledger from my coat. Names, dates-a roadmap to power and treachery. “Your husband stumbled upon something big,” I said. “The Syndicate’s web reaches farther than we thought.”
She took the ledger, her fingers tracing the inked lines. “What now?”
I leaned in, my breath warm against her ear. “We expose them. Every dirty deal, every backroom handshake. We’ll bring the fog down on their heads.”
She kissed me-a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted like danger. “Marlowe,” she whispered, “you’re a fool.”
Maybe I was. But the fog had lifted, revealing the truth-the Syndicate’s grip on the city, the corruption that seeped into every brick and cobblestone. I lit a fresh cigar, the smoke curling like a promise.
As I walked away, the Buick’s engine growled. The streets were still damp with mist, but the mist had cleared. The dame watched me go, her eyes filled with equal parts fear and longing.
I drove into the night, the city’s pulse beating in time with my own. Destiny danced with the devil, and I was the one leading the waltz. The fog would return, but this time, I’d be ready-with a butcher’s knife and a hunger for justice.
And so, the tale of the Midnight Marlowe continued, weaving through the shadows, unraveling secrets, and leaving behind a trail of smoke and echoes. Because in this damned city, even angels had their demons, and I was the one they called when the fog thickened and the unknown beckoned.
@jaydouglas5847 congrats, my was just a canvas for a "To be ended" detective/noir story set on a fictional New England town near Maine or Quebec. But thy amazing original writings ideas and concepts have beaten even a quite good semiprofessional novelist like me. VOTE: 10 P.s. am an almost amatorial in noir and detective stories, am specialized in horror, heroic fantasy, cyberpunk and articles
''Suddenly the truth hit me, like a wet pair of underpants. Colby had been stabbed 44 times, so, for sure, someone was responsible. I looked again at the police report. Under the cause of death, it said 'murder.' I knew I was a great detective, but it all seemed just a bit too cozy to me. I removed the wad of gum from my mouth and stuck it to the side of my empty whisky glass. My first destination was the liquor store, as I needed to have a deeper contemplation of this case. Priorities matter in this game.''
I was listening to this while drawing Detective Peach from Princess Peach Showtime. I have no internal monologues here for this one.
We could tell by his sinister smile and piercing dark eyes that we were getting ready to go the mattresses.
Why, did they work in a mattress store?
They didn’t. It was a Sicilian term for going to war against a rival gang.
Feels like im in Twin Peaks right now!
The whole affair only lasted three weeks, but it cost me everything. It was just a painful reminder that, when it comes to dames, she's never really yours. It's just your turn. My business card had gone from GI to PI to Broke AF. The phone rang so I set my whiskey glass down next to my .45. The voice on the other end was part strawberry wine, part black widow. Her cousin's best friend's sister was missing. Here I go again...
Excellent noir private eye vibes here
It hits different when sped up just a little bit. ❤
It doth.
It had finally stopped raining. After weeks of downpour we finally got a dry spell.
When four came around I knew it was time to get to work. As a commercial cleaner, I got dirty. Dirty as a pig in filth. It wasn't a glamorous job but it had to be done. You learned a thing or two from the stale bagel crumbs and chewed gum, as chewed as gum in a trashcan.
Not everything wiped away with bleach. The past stuck around like that chewed up gum in the trashcan. Damned chewed gum. They took everything from me, but that was just the business now adays.
Takes me back to Hotel Dusk.
And then she walked in.She was wearing one of those peasant dresses.The way she looked made a guy want to grab a scythe,and start harvesting some wheat.....up to that point,it had been a quiet night,but the wrong kind of quiet.The kind of quiet that made you think that,before sunup,you'd be eating a lead sandwich,with a side order of plasma.
Just like reading the best of the worst Hemingway, where people write their best imitation of Hemingway. Some of this pastiche is pretty good.
DON'T quit your day-job.
I had three slugs in me. One was a .38, and the other two were bourbon
Covert affair is like someone whisking an egg inside my brain in a rusty metal bowl
Nicely done! Think I just might go out and do some late night investigating starting at the bar!
Leaving work early. An old friend has died. Malaria it seems. That poor old bastard.
The second song reminds me SO much of Steve’s doodling song from Blue’s Clues… I’m undoubtedly the only person who thinks that…
I can hear it 😊
I pooped my pants while reading the newspaper, not my proudest moment but when you're a moron, these things come naturally.
This hot dame came through the door, grimaced in a seductive way and said "are you Detective PoopyPants?" I let out a little extra lunch burrito gas to let her know I mean business and she died, the end
It's a late night, I'm beaten down from the driving rain after a long day and only one tavern is open. An old fashioned is my only trophy after reuniting Dhalia with her parents. Sure, I had solved the crime, sent a real dirtbag back to processing for unspeakable acts he had done to this poor girl. I expected some sort of recognition, but to my surprise, I'm welcomed by the smile of my partner Sam in the same tavern, sharing a drink we call loneliness. Yeah, it ain't so bad being a lone wolf I suppose. It feels less uninviting here among another who relates to the despair we sometimes encounter. Even a moment such as this gives me impetus to forge ahead, do what's right, even if it's only your best friend congratulating you.
I'm reminded of Golden Eye
some really nice use of instrument personality. thinking bass to begin with.
"On my last case, i had to throw my own brother out of an airplane....the poor sap."
This is a story about justice and unspeakable cruelty.
The stars are shining bright, almost as bright as the neon lights that surround the hole in the wall that I call home. My fingers dial up the paraffin heater to make up for the stiffening cold that sits in the dingy, dark sitting room. I pace myself through the floor, hearing the boards creak and moan.
Work’s been slow, specially during this time of the year: the worst season to not have any dough in your pocket. There have been five weeks since I resolved a case and ten since I payed the rent. Things are direr than usual down in this part of town: hard thing to deal with when you’re the only black detective in an East Asian city.
Suddenly, a knock on the door. Three knocks, to be precise. A timid “…Excuse me?…” muttered out without expecting a response. And then, he came into the room. A warm autumn breeze made his way through the doorframe and came to rest on the only chair that didn’t come undone yet.
Untied leather Doc Martens, black corduroy drainpipe trousers mended too many times and a blue jeancloth jacket full of “BLACK PANTHER PARTY” patches and “PUNK AIN’T DEAD” badges conformed his current wardrobe. The kind of boy that never bothers to look over his shoulder and tie his shoes.
“You must be Detective Étienne, uh?” He inquired.
“Uh-huh.” I spoke through my teeth as I took a seat on my old armchair across the desk. “Who’s askin’?”
“My name’s Lonnie, Mrs. Étienne.” Replied the kid. “But I don’t need your help.”
“Then why the hell would you haul yourself across the street to get me to talk, boy?! Aren’t you too young to be supposed to speak to a sniffer, anyways?” I spat, annoyed. The boy seemed to shiver and shrink in his seat, but he did not shy away so fastly as I expected him to do.
“It ain’t me who needs your help, Mrs. Étienne. It’s one of my boys, Nikki. Nikki Park, to be more specific. You must know him from around Ahyeon-dong, his family lives down there.”
I turned to him, surprised. “Ahyeon-dong? Isn’t he the boy who…”
“The Lee pastry shop chef? Yeah, that’s him. He’s known throughout the hood as a real straight-edge guy, ma’am. Never known to hurt a fly or a person. Or so we thought until a few weeks ago.” Lonnie’s face contorted into a grimace of worry. “You’ll see, Mrs. Étienne, Nikki’s been hanging around with the wrong crowd for a good while now. At first, nobody in his circle seemed to know, not even his omma. But since…” He came to a halt, worry and fear showing up in his eyes like two limpid brown pools.
“Keep talkin’, Lon. What’s with this friend of yours?” I tried to say as softly as possible, to not upset him any more than he was at the moment.
Lonnie seemed to try as hard as possible to recover his breath and speech. When he finally stopped trembling, he continued.
“He’s in the clink at the moment, Mrs. Étienne. Framed for a crime that he didn’t commit.” He stuttered. “Even as we speak, ma’am, Nikki is freezing to the bone in a wet cell on the district’s prison. The magistrates have given us two months to dig up enough evidence to bust him outta there; and if we don’t, a worse destiny awaits him and his omma, and the whole family.” At this point, Lonnie’s eyes were at the brink of bursting with poorly-contained tears. He believed in his friend’s innocence.
Well I be damned. Guess I’ve still got a crumb of humanity left in my heart.
“What do you want me to do about Nikki?” I asked my young client.
“Bust him out, whatever it takes.” Lonnie sniffed. “I believe in your skills, Detective Étienne. Your ability to pick up intel is as impressive as when hounds pick up the smell of a partridge at miles of distance.” His voice straightened out as he spoke. “You may not be the most seeked-for sniffer around here, Mrs. Étienne, but God smite me if you’re not the most needed. Everybody here knows about you. Your father was in the ranks as a war reporter once. What does that mean if not your capacity as a private eye?”
“What do I have to do with this to bust your little friend out of the can, huh? It ain’t gonna be easy for me as well, Lonnie. My pop may have been a war reporter, but that doesn’t mean dirt to the country’s magistrates. At least, not after almost 30 years since the war.”
“I don’t care, Detective. Do what you do best. I want you to squeeze information out of the bastards that framed Nikki that would put the very CIA to shame. If you gather enough data, a quite large amount of money will be waiting for you at the end of the month.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“The least you would spend on rent and utilities and still could be spent again on yourself, Detective. You look like you could use some on your coat, at least.”
I sighed. The little bastard was right. With how things were going, it was hard to come by a plate of warm beans to fill my stomach and enough paraffin to keep my old bones nice and warm.
“I’m taking the case, Lonnie.” I finally responded, trying to put a straight face as joy and relief bloomed in the kid’s eyes and cheeks.
“But one more thing before you go. Do you, by any chance, got any preliminary info about this racket?”
“Glad you asked, Detective.”, replied the boy, as he proudly put a rundown school notebook onto my desk. With frayed paperback covers and yellowing pages, it was full of handwritten notes and sketched out places, presumably from the crime scene.
The clock hanging on the wall stroke 9:00 pm. With a jump on his seat, Lonnie saw himself out, muttering something about supper and his omma’s temper. As the door closed, I finally took a closer look at his collected evidence.
Would I finally able to see the hand beneath the curtains? Or would this time be different for Lonnie and the Park family?
Clementine Étienne: confessions of a private investigator.
Best comment section ever!
Good music for Graphics Adventures/Point & Click Games...😅
Great playlist
It's late night... Anyone has a case?
This music and these comments are very interesting and it is reminding me of L.A Noire, the game from Rockstar, the stories of the the comments, it's like a DLC in my head for or from this game
That was a great game!
Agreed
As i cascaded across the unclean kitchen counters, backside over brow... one Unclean thought of mine survived the beating:
How many times am i gonna pack my .38 and leave the iron in my glove box? Man's gotta have some padding on the turnbuckles, after all. But here i am. Breaking knuckles before breaking bread.
"The brawd didn't like ice cream. She didn't like how cold it tasted against her teeth. I told her that her mouth would warm it up. She still found it strange that an ice cream man would be outside the office at night."
All the writers start sounding off in the comments, my god
I APROVE THIS PLAYLIST
🙏🏼
The lovely September night breeze, comin’ through my window of September 1947. There I was, in my office, enjoying a shot of whiskey and a smoke. Cleanin’ and loadin’ my girl, Thompson. Waitin’ for trouble, until I hear a knock on my door. In comes trouble..trouble with a pair of legs. Trouble startin’ with this lady at my front door. Question is, were any of us gonna do anything ‘bout it?
Charming...
It was a rainy morning, the first shot of a triple espresso down the hatch signaling the need for the other two to push it up to my fogged brain. No rest for the weary or guilty as the sound of the elevator doors crashing open moved the morning air. I heard the clip-clop of dangerous high heels in that unsettling, emergency staccato and I knew what was coming next. Please, please just open the door but no, BANG BANG BANG on the glass just where it read, "James Redd, Private Investigator., Please Come In". OK, not a big reader, but hopefully a paying customer. Winter had been slow headed into the late spring.
She walked in, all five foot seven of her, with a red dress as wet and tight as a vacuumed packed rib eye. Speaking of ribs, she had 'em, protected by a pair of fully loaded 38's, bottomed out with her own special forces core and sadly hidden surprise attack, most assuredly backed up with hips that held a full artillery deep in the rear.
Ma'am...
She just stared with that, hey I'm up here disappointment combined with a let's get serious.
I see you forgot your umbrella. You can use mine if that's what you need.
That's not what I need.
Well then, espresso? A towel?
I need a detective!, the words pushed out of a deep pulse of air. I'm beside myself, It's my Joey, he's missing, I'm so scared, I'm seeing stars.
Well, now you're seeing Redd as I pulled the double shot and steamed the cream. Sit down... on the towel... if you don't mind, the leather and all.
All that cotton and chinz I swore was going to fail the pressure test as she sat. No such luck
And the case began accordion style as the legs folded under the chair, and the story unfolded into the blue-mountain morning air...
Lucky me.
Nice, thank you, more off this please.
Thank you for the comment. I will keep this in mind!
just walked into the office. She was already waiting for me. Only the desk lamp was on. Odd. I could see her long legs restless. Not sure what she wants now. The past two months had been a blur. Barely managed to collect enough circuits to repair myself. Let's see what she wants this time.
It was a Monday, a day like any other day, I left a small town for the Apple in decay
It was my destiny, it’s what we needed to do, they were telling me, I'm telling you.
Diane, I am now entering the town of Twin Peaks.
Five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles west of the state line.
I’ve never seen so many trees in my life.
This is the kind of comfy, mellow, deep-thinking, scientific jazz music I love hearing through the ears 😌 I get the sudden feeling of wanting to lay on a therapist's lounge sofa and give him or her the details of how insignificant my life can be, although not necessarily.
Reading these comments in Nick Valentine's voice
This is good, good stuff. Perfect with this bottle of rye in my pocket
Reading 5 Decembers as I listen to this
excellent❤
She was just a good girl in a pretty nice looking woman's figure...Had I right..even thinking of both things..or...finding out..something such delicate in her attitude that little piesce of her soul that made me remembering her...Sure she could play the role or just be what she showed...kind natural etc...Lady. .I wasn't desperate in front that doors..such many times being a fool..Theend was obviously like many times in my ideal world..fanthastic..And it wasnt so much ideal maybe if I could walk down on the ground more often...But what raised me up ..there..it wasnt important...sure I knew 4 myself what it was but I found myself ' reacting'..just as more rare as time went by..It was fulfilled.. that space..in my soul ..and some similar empathy only could find something there as I could recognize in a very narrow..street..the pearl in the darkness..Alright I thought goodbye and to you..I liked your touch..it came sophisticated above my shy..pain and trouble..It covered all that and revealed me that better side of life.again..desire..I just wanted to tell you..that I wasnt overreacting..watching after you.I didnt care about myself..so what could be so significant to me..but...I was needing you..because..noone needed that what I've seen in you..lucky..to notice that..the way you wanted not to hurt me...
Without having even heard the song before, I immediately know a Myuu song when I hear it and can tell you that the tracklist and timestamp in the description is wrong.
Tomorrow didn't need any more tonight so I left the bar. I could tell I wasn't alone. She could tell the same thing. Hunter hunted. I made a slow slow slow move to scratch my back so I could wrap my left hand around my Walther PP. But, she already had both hands wrapped around my throat. That I'm telling you this story instead of her is why you hired me. Don't forget that.
Uber ride pickups will never be the same
Beat it, toots. This town ain't like it used to be.
🤨?
it's a film noir thing:)
Forget it @@Yinyanchant, it's Chinatown.
It was a cool autum morning in August of 33', the city life bustled below me as I stared out over the city, the finest cuban cigar in hand. My head pounded from the night before from my debacherous attempt to rid me of the memories of this town...a town that never slept and where blood flowed as freely as the wine. As I gazed across the concrete jungle, I heard the rattle of my clackty door, the copper knob daring to fall out any moment. As I turned to look upon who might have entered at such an ungodly hour, my baby blues feel upon the tallest drinka' water a man could ever dream of. The damsel in distress stepped toward me, a tantilizing breifcase in her delicate grasp. As the dame stirded further, she slammed the case' down with a firey hatred in her eyes and only spoke a name in the most vitriolic way I've ever heard a woman speak, "Franky-Twinkle Toes". Now as endearing as that might sound, I assure you this was one joe you wish'd didn't happen upon your path as you walked home in the dark twilight of this already cruel town. He was a meance, brutally efficent, relentless, cunning as a fox and as stout as a girzzly. I only knew there'd be trouble if I got involved, but I wasn't about to turn down a client in this economy, espically one so dashing. I took one final puff of my cuban before I smothered its light into my already full ashtray as she had my full attention now.
😂
This morning’s newspaper headline read “ Boss of Boston Steel Co. fatally shot”! interestingly there had been a news article last week of him laying off half the workforce at the plant. A highly likely connection, nothing is a coincidence. A possible act of revenge against the owner. Time to start asking questions. I’ll start with his management and then the union leader.
Man.. now I want to come up with a story
Can I tell you one, pleaseeee???