“The people in this city looked hollow, like shitlibs. They’d broken their backs lifting Moloch up to heaven, and now they were down here in the gutter, fornicating dysgenically. The whole town stank of high time preference.”
– No Enemies to the Right (an Alexei Codeski novel)
She walked hypergamously into my office. Tall, blonde and Nordic subtype. On average, the best ones always are.
I looked up and took a hard pull from my flask. It was filled with contraband gin, held up in the FDA approval process for years by demotic regulators. It burned like the core of a chronically mis-managed city in my bold, truth-telling throat.
“I need a PI” she said, sizing me up for long-term investment potential.
“A predictive index for what?” I asked, passing her shit-test with ease. “Don’t you know that noticing is illegal nowadays? I don’t do that kind of stuff any more.” I tossed my dog-eared copy of The Bell Curve into the wastebasket with a sigh and set it on fire.
“No, silly, a private investigator. I have a case.” The hamster was spinning furiously.
“I know. I was just ironically voicing outrageous opinions to ward off the uninitiated.”
She smiled in-groupically. “I like a man who can countersignal competence.”
this needs like a million more chapters