Christopher Peacock: Private Investigator
He Ain't Heavy
Peacock & Peacock. The words officially lettered the translucent pane of the door to the office of brothers Drew and Christopher, private investigators. The same door belonged to their father Ray, and their uncle Lou, who started the business ten years ago. Boom times for the PI, ended in tragedy. Boom times gone now, sonic remnants remain in this town.
Christopher opened the door with his hand, a hand just as comfortable writing notes as it was holding a gun. Any fool could hold a gun but Christopher could bullseye a nickel over 200 yards away. He heard voices as he entered.
"Okay Mrs Scunthorpe, I got it all. We can take this job on but it's gonna cost ya." Christopher's brother, Drew Peacock, ruthlessly laid out the terms.
"That's fine Mr Peacock, I shall send you a postal check. Half now, half when the job's done, a bonus if you get me proof by the end of the week." The delicate Mrs Scunthorpe replied. Christopher took off his creased trenchcoat, retrieving a letter from a pocket as he did so. He placed it, and his fedora, on the rack and leaned against the windowsil, whipping out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lighting one up in one smooth movement. Drew winked at him, and Christopher grinned back.
"No problem, ma'am. Me and my brother will get right on it." Drew said with a smile; pure charm from cheek to cheek. Drew was always the face, Christopher was the workhorse.
"Thank you. I shall see you again." Scunthorpe replied, giving a half smirk back, and leaving the office. Christopher couldn't help but notice she was built like a showgirl, a dancer. All wiggle in the hips and gams that'd make a blind man dance.
"Good business?" Christopher inquired. "Should see us through the end of the month." his brother speculated, with a hint of anxiety in his voice.
"This was in the post for you." Chris said, handing him the manila envelope, a bill no doubt. Christopher turned to fix himself a Scotch. "You want one?" Chris asked the wall, a stand in for his older brother. No response.
He turned and saw his brother, hands shaking violently, in one the u folded paper letter, in the other a snub nosed pistol, filled to the brim with death. His tear filled eyes looked straight into his brother's as if to say 'I'm sorry' and he pulled the trigger. The bang was contained but the implosion caused the mulched matter of Drew's scrambled skull to spray all over the framed photo of their father and uncle Lou. Chris didn't scream, didn't move, didn't cry, didn't wail. Having stood there for what seemed like an eternity in hell, he called 911 and explained what just happened. He hung up and looked at the letter in the corpse's hand. It read, in Bland typeface:
Ha! Drew Peacock! Drew Peacock! Your wife must not like that! Ha! Droopy cock! Ha!
Chris fell down on his knees and wept for a full hour, resisting the urge to have a tearful wank in honour of his brother's dead body right next to him.