The Poker Murders

Anti-detective

          Consequently, the sun blooms like a flower over the horizon, spreading its golden-coloured petals. The chirping of the birds could be heard, reaching the ears. The rays of the sun struck against Mort's curtain. Abruptly, Blake pulled them open, "Wake up, wake up, Mort."

   "Oh, fuck's sake, close the curtains!" yelled Mort, the rays now beating against his eyes. Mort was obliged to get off the bed and stand on his feet, moving away from the window and stepping into the shadow. "What brought you up to pulled the curtain like this. Let me at least wake up as normal people do," he said.

   "Mrs Stella's calling for breakfast," Blake announced, leaving the room and going downstairs, "Dress yourself up."

   "I don't really understand these detective minds," Mort mumbled.

Downstairs, in the hall, there stood an oak-brown medium-sized table along with four chairs around. Blake and Mort sat on them and Mrs Stella served them their cereal bowls with a spoon as if someone was resting on the edge of a pool, surrounded by cornflakes and oat. 

Blake took a spoonful and ate first. Unexpectedly, he made a grotesque face and spitted it out into the bowl. 

   "It's expired or what?!" Blake exclaimed. 

   "Evidently." Mrs Stella said, smiling cheekily, "That would be a great lesson for you, humiliating a venerable and respected lady like me."

   "Venerable!, respected!" laughed Blake.

   "Of course! Mort, you can go on I've poured a new one for you." 

   "What?!" Blake said, "This is fucking insane. You're still with what I said for yesterday?!, eh!?" Blake asked.

   "Say sorry to her, Blake," Mort said.

  "Huh, Ok," he went on, "I'm sorry, very sorry."

   "Sorry who?" stated Mrs Stella.

   "To the cereal, I just spitted," Blake said, racing upstairs.

...

Mort arrived upstairs after his breakfast. Blake was at his desk with the letter in front. 

   "Oh, Mort, let's go," Blake said, spotting him.

   "Go where?" he asked.

   "To buy a dog." 

   "Buy a dog, you fancy going to buy a dog?" commented Mort, "Why?"

   "Because I think that dogs are useful than these useless human beings," he said.

   "Are serious?"

   "Of course, of curse," said Blake, moving off from his chair, reaching the top of the stair and treading down along with Mort.

They both put on their coat and made their way to the pet shop.

   "Ting-ding!" the doorbell made as Blake pushed open the door.

A moon-faced middle-aged man with silver-black hair appeared, seating at the counter. There was a fan blowing in every direction. 

   "I want a dog." Blake launched himself directly.

   "In the upper rows," he said, pointing at the lines of arranged cages, "Which type?"

   "A labrador, retriever or German Shepherd," replied Blake.

   "A little on the right." 

   "Which one will you choose?" Mort whispered.

   "The one who barks first." 

   "Are you gonna make Mrs Stella annoyed with it?" asked Mort.

   "No, indeed she loves animal," Blake told to Mort then glanced at the direction that the man pointed. There were two retrievers on the top shelve, the first one ginger-brown and the second pitch-black. The second slightly left cage was a golden labrador. The third middle row was a huge bronze-and-black coated pointy-eared German Shepherd. "Woof!" it woofed.

   "Is that a male or_ _"

   "Female," said Blake before Mort ends his question.

  "How much is she?" Blake asked, showing at the German Shepherd.

   "Two hundred and thirty-six," he said.

  "Good, reasonable price," Blake said, fuming the coat-pocket and banging and amount of money on the table like a poker star. 

   "Sold." said the owner.

   "I still don't comprehend why did bought a dog," said Mort in the end, "Certainly you, yourself, a detective like you."

   "I'm not a detective but an anti-detective."

...