In the city of Memphis Tennessee just at the end of the second world war, sarcastic and witty private investigator Blart Ramis is provided a brand new case to fulfill his boredom: Finding the fiance of a very rich young man.
But as he continues dow...
"Monsters are real and ghosts are real too. They live inside of us, and sometimes they win." – Stephen King.
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DATE: Sunday, Oct 27th, 1946 LOCATION: The Blart Ramis Private Eye TIME: 9:00 PM/21:00 hrs
It's raining again.
For the fourth time this week, God has drenched us with downpours, controlling the dark city of Memphis. Hell and high water in this dreaded town. There is never a quiet moment in the streets. It's always louder than the thunder, but tonight it's different. Tonight, the thunder is so loud, the claustrophobic glass walls most call windows rattled violently. The neon light hanging from outside flickered and buzzed, tearing into my ears like a knife. At any moment a bolt of lightning could strike the sign and when that moment arrives, I will fall to my knees and thank the Lord above for blessing me with the greatest miracle he had bestowed. Between surviving as a prisoner of war in Nazi Germany and that blasted sign, I would preach of Christ's miracle of him eradicating the crude thing the bank insisted I mount outside my office.
I checked the clock. 9:01 PM.
Another late night of sitting in a silent office, drowsily waiting for someone to enter. If the time ever came, that is. Here I am, a man in his early thirties, struggling to stay awake in my chair. But I knew the drill. If I fell asleep, I would sleepwalk once again. And with a storm this big, I'd rather not do so.
At this point, I am satisfied with jinxing myself on a not-so-busy night. I would love to see something interesting...
... It is very quiet for a Sunday night.
And suddenly, as if an angel grew wings and flew down from heaven, the doorbell rang.
"Come in." I nearly cheered.
After my invitation, a youthful chap came into my office. His face read multiple emotions: distressed, anxious, hopeful, and desperate. His eyes were focused. They never moved away from my gaze. They remain locked at mine. His breathing was limited as if he were strangled to unconsciousness merely seconds before. His body language was never better. I was confused by the way his shoulders were relaxed and his arms tensed, but to my guess, he was to the point of begging but was willing to leave calmly if I were to refuse his service. His clothing was extravagant. He wore a gray suit with a red and orange tie knotted under his collar. He was a rather thin man with messy brass hair and a charming freckled face. Old enough for war but young enough not to kill. Which reminds me: his hands and feet were muddy with blood dripping slowly from his right nostril. I could only assume he was punched on his way or he fell. He stepped forward, his arms now resting at his sides.
"Are you Mr. Blart Ramis? Former prisoner of war now a nation-renowned hero who is also a detective?"
After hearing the kid speak, I was well aware of his flattery. I was interested in buying myself a desk plate with the exact answer he waited for right when he walked into the room, but still, the multitude would doubt themselves and would want to ask anyway.
