Sleep with the Fishies

A Prologue About Cult Stuff

     Unfortunately, I showed up. They hate when I do that.

     I'd been watching the dockside warehouse for the indigo hour between sunset and dusk, eating the gross-ass taffy my convenience store sells to poison the locals. Good thing I could stomach it with my predisposal to eating anything, 'cuz it gave me an excuse to loiter.

     When night had the city in a death grip, I sauntered over to the warehouse side door. Fiddling with the lock wasn't going great when a mobster came around the corner. He pointed his crowbar at me, one hand hovering over the gun jammed in his pants. "You'd better not give any trouble. Move along."

     I smirked. For detectives, causing trouble is sorta legal. Which is why I'm a detective. I turned back to fiddling with the door. "No, thanks."

     I could practically hear the gears turning in his head. "Move along or I'll shoot."

     Yeah, and bring the cops down on their hella shady warehouse? Not a chance.

     The lock clanked to the ground and I faced him. He took in my casual stance, fisherman's overalls, fuck-you expression. And finally recognized me.

     "Holy—guys, it's—it's fucking Joanah!"

     You got it, buddy.

     "HEEEEEEELP!"

     I decked him and went on my way.

     The warehouse was normal. Quiet 'cuz the guards were outside, and brightly lit with floodlights because the pile of crates in the centre apparently liked to feel important. I moseyed on over. Humming softly and twirling my new crowbar like a baton, I surveyed the selection of plain crates. The nearest one was leaking greenish goo, so I opened it.

     Cult stuff. Cool.

     If I didn't already know that I'd be a shitty detective, but it was good to have proof. Meant I got paid.

     I opened a few more crates for funsies.

     There were your carved idols from before the First Coming—which means Cthulhu's wings are all wrong—and your basic eldritch texts. The last crate I opened had the important thing: bubble wrap, ice packs, and insulation hugging a tiny bottle of hellgae from the depths of R'lyeh. Yippee. I took that with me, and a crappy pocket-sized idol as a souvenir.

     Time to scamper.

     I hurried back towards the exit I'd cleared. Wasn't expecting half a dozen awake guards a bit tougher than the first guy. I ducked away, only to get decked by the guy blocking my exits. Fuck you, karma.

     While I was dazed, they decided to tie me to a folding chair. Then they called their boss.

     I hummed jazz while we waited.

     Finally, a car pulled up outside, but another five minutes passed with not a whisper. One guy turned to his buddy. "She's always late. Why is that?"

     "Hell if I know."

     They shut up quick at approaching footsteps.

     "Ah, the spotlights are on. I do like theatrics." The arriving woman was sexy in a corporate way: knee-length blazer dress, intentionally windswept hair under a sassy hat. She swept it off and threw it to an unprepared guard, smacking him in the face. She lifted a lip in distaste and turned to me. "Apologies for my tardiness. Someone needed to be reminded whose job it is to drive me where I need to go, even in the middle of the night." She pulled off black leather gloves, something dark glinting on the knuckles.