Irascible police chief RC spends another night at his desk, drinking scotch and muttering about munchkins.
"Another slow night", I thought as I downed my 3rd glass of chilled comfort, when in it walked. I knew it was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on it, the beeping banks of servers leaving very little to the imagination. The kind of trouble I always got involved in somehow.
"You have to help me," it pleaded, fans whirring to keep it cool, "I have a problem. There's these, these..."
"Well spit it out luv, I ain't getting any younger here."
"It's... It's the munchkins! Those godforsaken munchkins. They keep breaking my games and roughing up my players. I can't keep this up. Please, you have to stop them."
Munchkins. Of course.
I'd heard the rumors, every speakeasy and piss-riddled alley in this dinky subsection of the forum had at least one drunk slurring about how they were back in town and how they should just ban and deport the lot of them. But actively killing of games? They didn't use to be this bold. Something was up, I was sure of it. I have a nose for these things, and my nose never lied to me before.
"Don't worry sugar, I'll handle this."
"Uh, the name is Pie-"
I stormed out of the office. Hadn't felt this alive in years. Funny how adrenaline feels when you kicked the habit for so long.
Grabbed ol' Maky, an old PM I got from a KGB friend many years ago, and the notebook I keep my numbers in. Need to contact the guys, get the crew back together.
"D? It's me. Grab your coat, pick up H, meet me at N's. We have munchkins to wrangle."
(Changed it to private eye because I can and you can't stop me.)