Huffrey Bogurt was a detective who recognized the irony in his name. He was a not-quite-well-known private investigator. This was important to Bogurt. He wanted to live up to his name and no further. While he did solve cases he made sure to choose ones he clearly foresaw as easily solvable.
Like the lost car keys case, oh, last week. He'd followed a hunch that lost things were always in the last place you look and he knew from years of experience that most lost objects in a house inevitably migrated to the sofa. Something to do with the seasons.
Sure enough, they were in the last place he looked, under the sofa.
Bogurt felt warm when he thought about that case.
It was nothing like the case he'd just accepted.
Somebody had lost their remote control.
Poem from 1999 - Eschatol Bridge
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