#and the fedgelords

[definegodliness]

Richard C. Garamond, Private Eye

(...)

Persephone pulled out a cigarette from an ornamental silver box she had stashed in the pocket of her army coat, loosely draped over my run-down Chesterfield. I got my hands on that iconic piece of English furniture when I helped Gertrude, my upstairs neighbour, move into her appartement. The smell came out all right, and after some saddle soap the quality leather had somewhat recovered from the years and years of abuse as a cat claw sharpener, so that now the chair emitted my much desired air of sophistication, when glanced at for a short second through your eyelashes.

I watched her glossy black nails rummage through the ornamental silver box, a fascinating spectacle. Her middle and index finger lithely flicked over the rolling white cylinders, as if pale legs in a cancan dance, while she held the cigarette of her choice still between her ring and pinkie finger like a straight cane: 'Hello, my baby, hello, my honey, hello, my ragtime gal…'

The dance was over when she had exposed the slender Bakelite tube, a cigarette holder, and pinched it from under the insubordinately rolling ivory columns. At that she slammed shut the silver box and ended my entrancement. Only just in time for me to intervene as she had already tucked her cigarette and was bringing the slender Bakelite tube to her luscious lips' soft pink.

I said:

"Madam, you can't just go out and smoke like it's the nineteen twenties in here!"

She lifted her hand flat in apology, took the cigarette from its holder, and pulled up a surprisingly bourgeois neon green Bic lighter. I had expected a silver Zippo with some sort of historical relevance, or, no, matches, in fact, but it was a Bic lighter. Hers must have had a plastic wrapping at some point, with some kind of frivolous Hallmark post card-esque design, and I would have loved to have known what would have been the design of her choice. That being said, the deeply ingrained beer cap scratch marks at the lighter's bottom already told a story of their own.

Persephone lit her cigarette, and with a sigh exhaled a big puff of thick blue smoke that swiftly expanded across the room, scattered by the docile zephyr of my slowly turning ceiling fan.

I said:

"Better."

I love the classics, but I draw the line at a cigarette holder. That's just pretentious. So, anyway, I opened my bar globe and poured us both a snifter of fine cognac, then turned the volume down on the crackling vinyl playing the USC Trojan Marching Band's rendition of Air's Moon Safari, and gesticulated Persephone to state the intent of her welcome. She tardily swirled the deep amber coloured eau de vie in her glass, and puckered her lips pensively. Then, her Beau blue eyes turned distant.

"Mister Garamond, it's about my husband…"

As the last word rolled off her tongue, and lingered, her gaze all of the sudden turned penetratingly clandestine. I could feel an odd sensation in my gut that held the middle between thrill and fear. In hindsight, I should have pulled my hands from The Case of Persephone that instant. But I didn't.

[system-of-a-feather]

Literally was always wondering when we'd get a wild transphobic Rad-fedgelord. Finally I can mark that off my bingo list of being on tumblr. About fucking time, we've been running this blog for like five years.

Actually double check, fakeclaiming TERF. Double bingo. Sweet.

-XIV

[definegodliness]

Richard C. Garamond, Private Eye

I had just taken the first drag of my third Camel cigarette that day when I heard the distinct sound of black leather military-style buckle boots thumping on the spiraling wooden stairs leading up to my office. There was a strange suspension in the air. This, I concluded as I watched the pale blue cigarette smoke swirl in the golden rays of a summer's early dawn, creeping through the cheap plastic blinds I preferred to keep semi-closed. She approached. I imagined her dark raven hair, painted black to be in stark contrast with the paleness of her skin; the way it would fall down in its perfect straight strands, cut to fall just slightly over her shoulders, yet all the way down to her tailbone at the back. Judging by the soft rhythmically thumping sound her heavy military-style boots made on the stairs, I deducted she was small. Lightweight. A kitten with the heart of lioness and equally threatening. A woman of prowess, demanding my vigilance. 

The thumping stopped, and I leaned back in the big leather chair I bought off of Craigslist. Subconsciously holding my breath as I watched her shadow, waiting for the knocks and my queue to say 'enter' as casually as possible. As if I didn't need the money of a potential new job direly. But the knocks did not resound and instead I found myself observing her shadow through the tinted glass of my office door. So did I breathlessly watch her apply a fresh layer of lipstick, which would either paint her full lips a deep shade of red, or pitch black. I sighed, now conscious of halted breathing, and relaxed. I would soon find out. As much as I would find out what kind of person would still carry around a little pocket mirror these days. Notable. Intriguing. Then, she tugged what seemed to be a skin tight shirt down. V-necked. To furthermore expose the black strappy bra she wore. A fashion choice to ornament and demand attention to her half-exposed perky breasts. Finally, two knocks. Rapid. The first softer as if to ease me into the fact of her arrival. The second, loud and decisive. 'Enter', I heard myself resound, louder and far more stern than I had practiced in my head. It had been a while since I had heard my own voice. Perhaps it caused the slow, almost hesitant way she turned my door's handle before she entered. But she entered. And she was exactly as I had imagined, except for the soft pink shade of her lipstick, which came as an uncommon surprise to my private eye. Nonetheless, far more fitting. Then, there was silence. I let it linger as I watched her size me up. Her eyes had a peculiar coloration, somewhere between blue and grey, but there was a certain warmth hidden within them which refrains me from calling them steel blue. Her gaze fell upon the half-smoked cigarette loosely clenched between my index and middle finger. By now it had developed quite a lengthy cone of ash. I tapped it over the ashtray. And at that tap, she finally spoke. Her voice, soft and lyrical, yet compelling in its intonations. Solemn.

"Tell me, mister Garamond, do you smoke to get closer to death?"

Her lips shaped an enigmatic smile as I could not suppress a slight frown. My next action would either affirm or deny the assessment I had made of this nyctophilic femme fatale now approaching my desk, bringing with her an air of intoxicating perfume, playing on my senses as she positioned herself on the chair opposing mine, crossing her legs and showing the curvature of her tone calves through the fabric of washed denim skinny jeans. All the while maintaining that enigmatic smile and inquiring eye-contact. Which I did not break as I nonchalantly brought my hand toward the freshly opened package of Camel cigarettes situated on my desk. Using my thumb to slide one cigarette forward. Then picking the package up and reaching it forward to offer her one. To my surprise she lifted her hand and showed me her palm, gesticulating rejection. Perhaps I had been mistaken about her nature after all. But then she picked up her bag and placed it on her lap, and from within it she revealed a package of Gauloises. Furthermore, a bakelite cigarette holder. Slender and black. She placed the cigarette of her choice in it, and returned the bag on the floor. Then she lit her Gauloises with the Bic lighter she twiddled out of her pocket. It was a dark shade of purple and decorated with grey skulls. I smiled as she took a long drag. Demonstratively exhaling a thick waft of smoke up in the air as if to answer her own question with a decisive, 'I do'. She was dark. She was cringy. A female edgelord. A fedgelord.

She closed her eyes to escape mine, and with a deep, almost apologetic sigh admitted:

"... it's about my husband."

I nodded. From the moment she stepped through my door I knew she was trouble. She wore no ring around her finger, and bore no markings of ever having worn one. I extinguished my cigarette and got down to business. Had I known then what kind of dangers I’d be putting myself in, I would have surely left this case to my competitors. But I didn’t.