It Always Rains in Space [FT|Noir|Art]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Posts: 32
Founded: Oct 18, 2019
Compulsory Consumerist State

It Always Rains in Space [FT|Noir|Art]

Postby Birina » Wed Jun 01, 2022 11:10 am

OOC: Folks, I'll be up front with you. This is satire. In case you're not very educated, that means that all the parts you like and think are good were interpreted correctly and all the parts you don't and think were shitty were intentionally that way and you just don't get it.

THE PIECE is very high-minded. The piece is very cerebral. The piece is allegorical. The piece is noteworthy. The piece is eclectic. The piece, this piece, would be well received at Cannes or Sundance. Essentially, what I'm saying is that it's not very good.


Flash back to one space year ago, on board the space ship Signalia.

It was almost exactly one space year ago. Almost to the day. It was raining. That was when I saw her, standing on the promenade of the Signalia in her slutty red dress, her slutty hair getting tossed in slutty curls by the slutty space wind. She always had a derringer with her. You might call her a fatal female for that reason. She always had wet wipes, too, but I think that was unrelated.

“It always rains in space.” She said to me. You might think that was the first time she said that. Or the last time. But you’d be wrong. She said it way more than that.

Flash forward to the actual beginning of the story.

The name’s Christon. Christon Mills. It’s important that I tell you that because it’s tax season so the name on my door says something else temporarily. But below that it always says “Private Investigator” because that’s what I am. I’ve tried a lot of things to take my mind off that slutty blonde. Femboys. Alcohol. Gambling. Femboys. Other blondes. Femboys again. None of it worked, although I still have sex with femboys a lot.

She moved up in the world fast. Like an elevator that skipped odd floors. But she was broken, I knew. Also kind of like an elevator that skipped odd floors in that way. So anyway, it was raining, as it often seems to in space. I kicked open the door to my own office and approached Ms. Barnett, my secretary, lover, friend, and amphetamines guy.

“Any messages for me, Kitty?”

I called her Kitty. I was pretty sure it wasn’t her name.

“No, Mr. Mills.” She was dressed as a nurse for some reason. “As a general rule, not having messages as a private investigator implies that you’re not very successful because messages represent possible revenue. This fact could also be gleaned from the drab, alcoholic vibes that your rundown office gives off.”

I ignored her boring talking sounds and poured myself a drink with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other. With the other hand I loosened my tie. Then, the phone rang. In spite of my obvious lack of funds and the kind of financially crippling ketamine addiction that can only arise from sharing an office with your dealer, someone calling my place of business was an inconvenience to me for some reason. I mean, what could some asshole calling me at the place where I earn my living possibly want?

I picked up the phone. I then arranged it so the part you talk into was near my mouth and the part you listen into was near my ear. It was the most effective orientation for this piece of technology.

“I’m not buying anything!” I shouted in my most money-losing voice.

“Dammit, Christon!” the moustached voice from the other side boomed, “That’s no way to talk to the Mayor of the Ship, which is a normal thing for ships to have!”

“Mayor.” I said, completely unimpressed by his very real ability to lift me out of my squalor.

“Listen up, space investigator, and listen good. Ship elections, which are a natural logical extension of there being a Ship Mayor, are coming up! And that means all these broads being murdered on the lower decks is a problem I need to worry about now.”

“You mean the killings that started pretty much right after the last election?”

“The very same. Now, everybody knows that you are an absolute fucking genius. You have this gruff exterior but beneath that is a keen analytical mind that makes you just so good at solving cases. It’s a shame about that thing that happened that was just bad enough to get you kicked off the force but not bad enough for you to go to jail and it wasn’t weird or sexual. And that’s why you have to be a pretend cop now instead of a real one, you goddamn space genius. God you’re so amazing.”

“Get to the point, Mayor!”

“I want you to handle this for me.” I could hear the space rain hitting his windows in the background through the part of the phone that sounds come out of.

“Alright.” I said into the part of the phone that your voice goes into, “But it will be on my terms. I do everything by the book. All above board. Nothing to go against my very strict ethical code of conduct that I adopted ever since that thing I did that was pretty bad but not too bad, like it was bad but it wasn’t murder or anything.”

“That’s almost exactly what I had in mind, Mills. Just a few tweaks: You don’t do anything by the book, nobody knows about this, this conversation never happened, you tie any loose ends leading back to me, and when you find who’s doing this you kill them extra-judicially, dispose of the body, and I pay you a lot of money in cash under the table that was embezzled from the Pitiable Orphans Fund.”

“Fine. But I get to have a brief internal struggle about it.”

The Mayor chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. By the way, I’ve left like thirty goddamn messages with your secretary. Why haven’t you responded to any?”

My mind was filled with questions. Who had a beef with broads in the lower decks? Why was the Mayor coming to me for this? Would I ever find a competent secretary? Should I have clarified how much money "a lot" was? And why do they make all the best drugs for horses?

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Posts: 32
Founded: Oct 18, 2019
Compulsory Consumerist State

Postby Birina » Wed Jun 22, 2022 2:45 pm

I placed one of the many manly drinks I had poured myself that day on my desk. It fell off because there are no flat surfaces anymore. Everything is curvy in the future. I had forgotten that because I was focusing on my past; the bad kind of past. The kind of past where you do something that's bad enough to get you kicked off the force and make you an anti-hero, but not bad enough to make you unsympathetic. And not anything weird involving feet or whatever. Then there was a knock at my door. The metaphorical kind of knocking at a metaphorical door that signifies an idea popping into your head. It's a very common expression Birina. This knocking at the door, which was exclusively allegorical because I wasn't even in my office, was the idea that I should begin my search for the killer of all these women with one of the leaders of the Signalia's underbelly: Vito Stromboli.

Stromboli had been leading the Westies gang for twenty years now. His name had a lot of vowels in it and he came from a culture of passionate lovers. So obviously he was a natural criminal. I got up, poured myself another drink, and then threw the glass at the wall because that's what private investigators do. I kicked my door open to exit my office, because it turns out I actually was there only I was drunk. That took me out to the hallway outside my office. I lit three cigarettes and began smoking them as I made the journey to see Stromboli. Fortunately, his restaurant was right across the hall from me. I read the sign etched on the door.

"Stromboli and Sons' Restaurant and Criminal gang"

Then I kicked it open. The shocked restaurant-goers waiting in the foyer to be seated looked on, probably thinking I was awesome, as I went over to the staff only door and kicked that one in too. I stormed down the hallway and turned a corner towards the smell of cigar smoke and money. I immediately burst through into Vito Stromboli's inner lair, which was not separated from the hallway by a door but sort of had that new age archway deal leading into it. This was upsetting to me because I had frankly been anticipating a well crafted door that I would kick in and had gotten myself pretty jazzed for that. So I glanced around the crowded room til I found a door leading into another room and I kicked that one in.

"Where are you, Stromboli?!" I shouted.

The guy in the middle of the frame who looked gangster-leadery answered. "My friend... you cannot simply barge in here. There are rules."

"I'm not doing any favors for you, Stromboli!"

"No favors. You need to take one of these coasters and it will light up and vibrate when I can see you."

"... Can I at least wait at the bar?"

"Standing room only, we're packed tonight."

"Stromboli, you sick son of a bitch." He knew I couldn't stand for long, what with my knees being shot from all the doors I kick in on a regular basis. "I know you're doing crimes, Stromboli!"

"Yeah? What if I am? What is one drunk, washed up protagonist with a secret heart of gold like you gonna do stop me?"

"It needs to stop, Vito!" I shouted, "We can't have so many more women being murdered than the average that are naturally murdered by their husbands for their inheritances!"

"Woah, woah, hey now. I don't murder no ladies. Do I run cat houses? Yes. Do I run illegal casinos? Yes. Do I run chop shops? Yes. Do I sell orphans into slavery? Yes. But I don't murder women."

I knew he was telling the truth because otherwise why would he say it. Vito wasn't my man. It looked like I would have to recklessly burst into someplace else.

"Alright, Stromboli! Til next time!" I shouted, "Also I'll have some veal parmesan."
Last edited by Birina on Wed Jun 22, 2022 2:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Founded: Apr 29, 2005
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Santheres » Wed Jun 22, 2022 4:47 pm

Your introduction is very baity/trolly and nothing about it (nor your history) suggests to me that this is posted in good faith. There is no future for troll posts like this. It is essentially spam. As such, this will count as another *** warning for troll/bait/spam ***

Additionally, I'm not normally one to criticize on this topic but if you have to explain that something is satire, it's not only not good satire, it's not satire at all.

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