There’s been a murder in the old Gualictica Manor. Not only is the name hella hard to say, but the Manor looks like a grasshopper sitting on a dung beetle sharing loogies and babies on a pile of—

“Yep, yep. This is it, the old Guh-a-wall-a-tic-ah-ass Manor,” my boss, Private Investigator Teddison Williamson Junior oh-seven-one-two, says as we enter the thick iron gate surrounding the mansion.Oh, yeah, he’s also my brother. My younger. Brother.

I guess you can tell that I don’t try to correct the boy. He’s seventeen, literally just hit puberty, but is somehow my boss- and a horrible one at that, needless to say.

I’m twenty-two. Should’ve been boss, but noooo, mom had to pick her little bundle of… of just perfect roses. My redneck ass, by the leather of my boots he crawls under my skin like sunburn and Julia Lee from eighth grade chemistry class.

“Private Investigator Teddison Williamson Junior,” I say, “are you sure we’re suppose to enter the place? There’s been a murder, we ain’t got no weapons or no backup. No nothing ‘n we’re going in there bare assed like a pair of deers hangin’ up to dry for jerky.”

The child turns to me with an irritated pimple on his nose, bad breath and a faint blonde baby hair mustache. “Why, Bucky,” he says rather smuttingly, “did Superman say that? Did Batman or Ironman?”

I also don’t say that these are fictional characters. It’s like telling the kid Santa Clause ain’t real, it’d break the boy’s heart in two like a damn toothpick. And because I was half scared outta my whitey-tighties to turn and see my brother with the American flag leather buck boots on in just his underwear and a stick of wheat sticking outta his loudmouth.

“You see that, Bucky?“ The boy points to the ground. I stare in awe. At what? Well, I ain’t sure. Not yet, at least. My brother isn’t the sharpest chainsaw in dad’s ‘ol tool shed.

“Why, I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say, “I’ll be damned, ain’t that a fine piece of yard. That right there is an acre or five, might plant me some corn on that there. Get me a tractor ‘n puff, puff me some weed the crazy lady throws at you when you walk by the corner on Martin Luther King street.”

I pop the kid on the back of the neck, turning him red with a good one like I was raised. And boy, I tell ya, that left him a mark stinging like a wasp up my shirt at the swamp yards, no escape, I tell ya. He jumps back and hollers a little later than reaction time, molasses could’ve poured straight from the bottle faster than that boy could react to anything.

“Dat-dern horsefly, big as an elephant in Antartica,” I pat his shoulder oilman-lovingly and mutter the excuse.

“By golly, Bucky,” my brother goes to hollerin’ ‘n swearing him a blue streak. “Ain’t you tell me to take in all the evidence?”

“That doesn’t mean checking yourself out in a puddle of Mississippi muddy water. If I gave you a pine stick and a cotton swab you’d go fuck yourself in that there bathroom,” I point to the house.

“I’m telling momma on you, Bucky. You’s a cussin’ ‘n shit,” he stops and covers his mouth. “Now see what you done gone and did? I’m a cusser now.”

We enter the mansion while fussin’, the investigatortrips on something real big and toned and thick on the floor, he spins to inspect the damage he’s made.

“Goddamn, would you look at that thang,” Private Investigator Teddison Williamson Junior says, eyeing the dead woman on the floor.

“That’s a woman. Not a ‘thang’,” I bring out my notebook and start scratching notes on my dollar-cheap paper pad. When I glance over and up, Private Investigator Teddison Williamson Junior, bless his heart, smacks the lady’s ass like a drum at the high-school bandhall.

“I meant this thang. I ain’t never seen a dump truck like that since-“ he squeezes it hard, I half expect her left buttock to bust. Lord knows the thing was as big as Bubba’s lips off Forrest Gump.

“Would you shut up? We have a job to do, you foo. Make me lose my coo up in here,” I growl, eyeing the woman. And her ass.

“I think you already lost ‘yer cool. Or either your tongue,” Private Investigator Teddison Williamson Junior shoots back at me.

(😂😂😂 Bruh… what? Sorry. I wrote this at 2AM, where everthing is funny. Should I finish it? Idk. Prob won’t. 😂 Omg. The Southern American slang and jokes in here is so bad, I’m prob torturing y’alllll!)😂