*This is part one of my entry in Conrad Zimmerman's Dreamcast Giveaway Contest (link here). **UPDATE: I won!** A little background: My Dreamcast died some time ago. Last year my amazingly awesome girlfriend, Carollelogram, lent me hers to use. Recently she reminded me that she will want it back someday. I'd like to have one of my own before then. So, I've decided to go way overboard on this contest. The following is part one of a five part story. I will be releasing one part a day between now and July 7th, when the contest ends. Enjoy.*
Peach. She said her name was Peach. Princess Peach.
I arrived to the office late that afternoon. I was suffering from a hangover heavy enough to make a Metroid sitting on your face seem pleasant. When I arrived she was waiting for me.
"The doorman let me in," she told me with a raspy purr. "He said you wouldn't mind." Boy howdy, was she ever a knockout. A body so smoking, you'd swear there was an overheated plasma rifle under her blouse.
I apologized for my tardiness, "My alarm clock fell into the bathtub. Lucky for the landlord I wasn't in it at the time." Not one for drawing out a conversation I asked what her problem was.
Apparently, she was at a club recently. Her ex-boyfriend, a large and mean fella named Bowser was treating her a bit unkind. Some greasy little guy comes in to tail him off. Mario, he calls himself. And ever since then, she can't get rid of him. He's been following her around everywhere. Calling her up constantly. Sending her love letters. It's become too much. Guy won't take a hint. It's scaring her. "Finally, after I wouldn't give in to him," she explained, "he stole something of mine. A magic star necklace. It's a very valuable and irreplaceable item. I need it back and I need for him to leave me alone."
"Sounds like you need a big brother, not a private detective," I spit out.
She walked up to me and leaned in real close. Close enough to make out the flavor of her breath mints. Close enough that I could see a small birthmark on her cleavage. "I'm offering you a job. I've got coins. And from the looks of you, I'd say you could use a few." She touched a finger to my tattered overcoat, disdainfully. Dames like her think they can say what ever they like to you. And they're mostly right.
"Maybe you should have just slept with him and gotten it over with. Wouldn't have been anything new for you, I'm sure." She reached back and rapped me hard on the mouth. Hard enough to hurt. She stormed to the door. Before heading out, she stopped. Without turning back to me, she asked coldly, "Do you want the job or not?"
I told her I'd look into the matter for her. Dames like her. They think that they can always get what they want. They're mostly right.