“Hi, which are you? An artist, critic or buyer?”
“I’m a drunk. Can’t you tell from my pie-eyed exasperation with the supine adoration and voluptuous monetisation of withered metaphor and stunted conceptual perception?”
“Ah, that’s what that was. I thought there was just a gun in your pocket. My name’s Javert.”
“What are you doing here then, if it’s not to aficionado all over the floor?”
“Well, I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like to make fun of while drinking free champagne. And you?”
“I like to cruise locales swollen with people out of my price range and flirt outrageously.”
“How exciting for you.”
“Is that an original Rob Graves?”
“Depends. Are you talking Platonically?”
“I do nothing Platonically…”
“Very good. I would have also accepted No, but I’m drinking gin and Platonically…”
“We’re so witty, someone should be quoting us.”
“Shush. We let them do that and they’ll be selling us in galleries by the end of the year.”
Sam Haine is a private detective living in a world where there are super villains and horrific conspiracies. She travels the world solving mysteries, becoming less and less plausible every day.
She recognises this, and decides to go home, back to her original home, to work out how it has come to pass that her name is Sam Haine, and why people have started to treat her as if she is some kind of poet, actress, engineer, deep-sea diver, sword-fighter, dancer, homewrecker, vagrant, karaoke princess and semiotic goddess chaotician…
Someone has tricked the most brilliant detective in the world into trying to figure out why there is something instead of nothing, and before she has finished she may have solved everything… And then what will be left?
Part One: own worst enemy
Part Two: who bled and who grew?
Part Three: unrequited hate
Part Four: my final day in solitary confinement
Part Five: sam haine and the lordotic reflex
Part Six: a joke of home
Part Seven: day of the dead
(c) Ian Bird 2009