I sit in my office swigging the rum. Name engraved on a frosted glass window, the cluttered brown room, all in the name of being a typical detective the people expect. They sit on that clients chair and await the rum to come from the desk drawer. Seeing that glistening bottle of Captain Morgan’s reassure them they’ve come to the right place, after all fiction has deemed rum an essential for a private eye. I take a few drops and they believe anything is possible. They’ll follow me off a cliff as long as I have the bottle half full.
The thing is though, I hate the stuff.