“The Letter”

Meanwhile, back in Yugobatania, in the biggest of Yugobatania’s six captital cities, Vielo, in a busy street, lays a small building.

The weather was wet and cold, tears from the heavens showered those below.

Hanging above the door lays a small neon sign, flickering from years of service, which spell out the words “Yugo Private Investigators”.

Better known as YPI, or to the common folk, “Yipee”.

The street was quiet, with only the drops of rain and thunder heard, but the sounds of outside never pierced the ears of one inside.

Enter, Harvey “Harv” Manning, 31 years of age, and still looking as young as his twenties.

Leaning back upon his recliner, he was reading a letter handed to him by his secretary a few hours before.

It was taking him quite a while to read it. His mind was elsewhere, in places he swore he would forget.

"Lemme get this straight i am investigating a murder case that was carried out by the Thessallonnian Mafia and i suggest that they were responsible for his assassination but i need you to help me solve this case"

The Thessallonian Mafia. Harvey went far back with them. All just because he took too long to deliver some money from a prostitute.

He later found her mutilated body scattered the hotel room they slept in, as well as a little note demanding for the money.

Which he never delivered.

And they’ve put insurmountable bounties on his head ever since.

All that for some sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

And so ever since, he’s hid in this hellhole, in the slums of Yugobatania.

He liked the country, but the people who ran it were complete imbeciles.

Harv placed his burnt out cigarette back in the ashtray.

It was time to get to work. He began writing a letter to whoever that poor chap was that sent the letter.

You’re in for much more than you can bargain for. I don’t work cheap. 30,000 and we’ll call it a deal. That, or I’ll just let the Mafia deal with you. Your choice.

Signed, Harvey Manning

Harv sort of felt bad. But these were the Thessallonnians he was dealing with. Such an organization within his empty heart demanded a steep price.

He called over his secretary.

She entered the room.

Vivian “Viv” Rosenlee, 29. A femme fatale in the eyes of many, but only Harv knew where she came from. She was the only person who was willing enough to come here.

But really, he hired her to protect her from the people who wanted very badly to kill her.

And right now was not the time to discuss such a manner.

“Viv, I need you to send this letter to the people who sent me that letter,” he said. “We’re dealing with the Thessallonnians here.”

Viv pauses for a bit. He tapped a part within her that wanted to be forgotten, but now it crawled its way up from that dark pit.

“I’ll...I’ll see what I can do,” she replied, a faint shakiness in her voice. “I know some people.”

She took the letter from his hands. But he didn’t let go.

“Be careful, all right?”

“Harv, I’ve had worse.”

He let go of the letter, and she left us office.

That was a lie.

He turned his chair around, and stared out the window, a newly lit cigarette in hand.

And still the heavens cried.