AUGH! Who did this? The Dame’s scream hit an octave usually reserved for calling dogs, but it meant I had a case, and the sound of greenbacks slapping across my palm is music to my ears any day. After all, I’m not an opera critic. I’m a private eye. Calvin’s mom discovers a broken vase on the floor. Tracer Bullet sits in a dark office that’s frought with cigarette smoke. There’s a pack of cigarettes on his desk, as there there are a bottle of whiskey, a colt, bullets and some playing cards. He wears a leather coat and an old fashioned hat. Light falls on the radiator, a fan and a file cabinet.
I keep two magnum’s in my desk. One’s a gun, and I keep it loaded. The other’s a bottle and it keeps ME loaded. I’m Tracer Bullet. I’m a professional snoop. It’s a tough job, but then, I’m a tough guy. Some people don’t like an audience when they work. Enough of them have told me so with blunt instruments that I’m a phrenologist’s dream come true. Snooping pays the bills, though. Especially Bill, my bookie, and Bill, my probation officer. So when a tall brunette opened my door with a case for me, my heart did a few calisthenics and I took the job. In the dark, Tracer Bullet explains his job. He pours himself in a shot of whiskey. Calvin’s mom rushes into his room. He’s shocked.
The dame said she had a case. She sounded like a case herself, but I can’t choose my clients. She was the pushy type, the kind who’d break your heart, or maybe your arms. I hurried over. Either she had a psychotic decorator, or her place had been ransacked by someone in a big hurry. WELL?! How do you explain this? The dame was hysterical. Dames usually are. Tracer Bullet smokes in the dark. Calvin’s mom pushes him to the broken vase. Tracer Bullet inspects the crime scene. Calvin’s mom demands an explanation. Calvin thinks his mom is hysterical.
What have you got to say for yourself? Don’t touch anything. I’m looking for clues. The click of a hammer being cocked behind my head focused my thoughts like only a loaded .38 can. The dame had set me up! She didn’t want me to solve the case at all! She just wanted a patsy to pin the crime on! Well? I didn’t like the way this story was shaping up, so I decided to write a new ending with my .45 automatic as co-author. Calvin’s mom is still waiting for an explanation. Calvin says he’s looking for clues. Tracer Bullet finds himself in a tough situation. He shows that he’s pushed against the wall. Calvin plans a twist.
I introduced the dame to a friend who’s very close to my heart. Just a little down and left, to be specific. My friend is an eloquent speaker. He made three profound arguments, while I excused myself from the room. I always leave when the talk gets philosophical. You’re in REAL trouble NOW, young man!! Tracer Bullet pulls out a gun from his coat and shoots at the tall brunette. Calvin’s mom is mad and threatens him. Calvin runs off.
I’d just finished putting the puzzle pieces together when the dame’s hired goon jumped out of nowhere and practiced for his chiropractic degree. When the discussion was done, an all-percussion symphony was playing in my head, and the accoustics were incredible. The orchestra went on a ten-city tour of my brain. And I had a season pass with front row seats. I had figured out who trashed the dame’s living room, but since she wasn’t my client any more, I felt no need to divulge that information. Besides, the culprit happened to be a buddy of mine. I closed the case. I guess we should’ve played outside, huh? Tracer Bullet gets caught by the goon of the brunette. Calvin has to listen to his dad holding a speech. Tracer Bullet solves the case, yet he has to need to reveal the one who did it. Calvin implies that it was Hobbes. Hobbes wants to play outside.
There’s a well done Youtube video about Tracer Bullet.