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autie-stereotype-crime-noir story

i like clues because they make sense, unlike people, who have legs that go on for days. how can a leg go on for days? i don’t know. help

i got the call late at night: “there’s been a murder on the orient express.” i knew i had to take the case immediately, because that is a TRAIN

i have been told i am “gritty” and “hardboiled”, maybe because i eat so many eggs and crunch the bits of shell between my teeth

“he’s the killer!” i said. “wait, no he’s not. wait, all these people look the same, which one is which again?”

i’m a straight shooter who plays by my own rules, all 376 of them that I have in this annotated binder

i’m a lose cannon, in fact, i have been institutionalized for erratic behavior

my job as a detective is made harder by the fact that i am physically incapable of telling a lie or bluffing but made easier by the fact that i have no emotions about anything but trains. once a train was murdered, and i couldn’t stop crying

she had curves in all the right places. i like curves, because they make sense, unlike people

i like my liquor hard, and my social interactions harder

i’m the best detective around, but my fees are high, and i only take payment in trains

she had curves in all the right places. she was a graph i was making about trains. in the other room, my dad was crying because i wouldn’t make eye contact with him

“you will tell me what i want.” i said. “everyone tells me what i want. i’m tough as nails, and i’m not afraid to display aggressive behavior”

i got into this job because one time in fifth grade i asked my special teacher why people don’t like me, and she told me to be a detective and figure it out. i took that completely literally, and here we are today

maybe i should throw away all my detective memorabilia so that i can hug my dad for the first time

“i know you’re a detective,” my mom sniffled, “but sometimes i feel like the real detective, trying to figure out how to finally help you”

the only mystery i cannot solve is the mystery of why these nice ladies keep making me play with special blocks. i have literally no theories about why this is happening

“i didn’t solve the case, and i let a second train get murdered!” i cried. “i’m a bad detective!” “oh, honey, no,” my mom soothed, “you’re not a bad detective, you’re just special, and sometimes that means things are a little bit harder for you”

he handed me the pictures of the suspects. i crossed out their eyes so i could look at their faces.

i got the call late at night. “TEXT ME” i shouted into the phone

“there’s been a terrible murder.” “that makes 231,” i said, twirling my hair. i like numbers.

she had curves that went on for legs. i reminded myself to make eye contact, like my special teacher told me

“ain’t she a beauty?” i asked. my special teacher had been working with me on saying “isn’t.” “a genuine Horse .75. i got her 12 years and 37 days ago and she weighs exactly 14 ounces. i call her Melissa, after my special teacher. she’s almost as good as a train.”

i took out my bottle of whiskey, and started to read the label aloud

i’m a private eye. that means i think eyes should be private. why do people have to look at each other’s eyes all the time?

the ceiling fan moved slowly in my grimy office, slowly like someone about to give up on the world. i stared up, up, up at it, distracted from my obsessive cleaning. it had curves in all the right places

the whole world seemed black and white, like an old film, or my thinking

i took my gun out of the pocket of my trench coat, which i was wearing because of my sensory issues

with my gun smashed​ to pieces on the floor and the criminal’s gun pointed right at me, it seemed like just about the right time to elope

this is the best thing in the world