Mental Cobwebs

A brisk October morning in New York City. The elevator door opens on the 17th floor of a swanky apartment complex. Out steps Chip Dipson, detective extraordinaire.

His rich brown, sturdy, leather dress shoes clap on the thinner-then-paper carpeted hallway floor. His perfectly creased black pants and the ends of his tan trench coat, sway around his ankles and hips respectively, as he confidently strolls past each apartment. He briefly adjusts his tie, and his black button-up shirt as he opens the door to apartment #29.

Inside the studio apartment, there are police officers standing in every corner. Pizza boxes are cluttered around the reclining chair that sits in front of the 36" HDTV. A couch with pullout bed is against the hallway wall, trash strewn about in the sheets.

In the kitchen, a massive pile of dirty dishes is stacked in the sink and cigarette butts are scattered across the counter top, as well as the entire apartment. On the outside wall, sits a computer desk, with a large, flat screen monitor, combination printer/fax, and dead man slumped over the keyboard.

"Alright Jim, what'd you get me out of my nice, warm bed for?" Chip says as he slides his left hand into his pant pocket and takes off his sunglasses with his right, a hint of frustration in his voice, like he's too good to be working this case.

"Well Chip, Oscar Madison over here seems to have gotten himself shot in the back of the head." He says nonchalantly, motioning toward the dead body laying on the computer desk, blood running from the bullet hole in the back of his head, down the side of his face.

"There a Felix, or Mrs. Madison?" Chip asks, still holding his sunglasses in front of him, open, as if ready to put them on at a moments notice.

"Doesn't look like it, he seems to live alone. Not that any roommate or spouse would ever put up with a mess like this." Responds Jim, as he precariously picks up a moldy, half-eaten piece of pizza from a pizza box balanced on the arm of the recliner and tosses it back down with a disgusted look on his face.

Chip, having tossed up the ends of his trench coat and perched the tips of his thumbs into his belt loops, strolls over to the dead man. He leans over his body, examining the bullet hole in his head, then turns back to Jim.

"This whole thing reminds me of the case we had last week," He declares, holding up a picture of another dead man on his LG Dare cell phone, "You notice any similarities?"

"That guy was equally trashy. Life didn't seem to be working out for either of them." Jim replied distractedly as he held up a porno mags sideways with one hand, eyeing the centerfold.

Chip was peering around the dead man, at the trash strewn about the computer desk, looking for some kind of connection between the two murder cases. His eyes panned across the desk, and stopped abruptly at the tray of the printer.

"Hey Jim,"

"Yeah Chip?"

"Didn't the last victim have an unemployment check in the mail that he was holding when he was killed?"

"Uuh, I think so." Jim said, as he tossed the magazine back down on the bed and began to walk over to Chip.

"Well, if so, then we may have found our connection." Chip said confidently, holding a freshly printed resume up for Jim to see.

"Are you saying we have a killer out there targeting people who've been laid off? With the job market the way it is right now, probably half the city is at risk!"

"It looks like it could not only hurt to have your resume up to date, but it may even kill." declared Chip smoothly, as he slid his sunglasses back on and strolled out the door to the apartment, rock music blaring.

Suddenly everything went black.

In a double wide trailer, somewhere in Ohio, the every man gets up out of his reclining chair. He mumbles obscenities to himself as he stumbles to the kitchen, limping slightly.

"Stupid fuc... CEOs and big-shot Hollywood writers... think they have a clue about what we're going through." He grumbles.

The factory where he works has been shutdown for four weeks now, and he's too old to keep doing roofing and construction jobs to make ends meet -- his leg is already crying foul. He grabs a half eaten ham sandwich out of the refrigerator and takes a bite as he limps down the hallway to his bedroom, still cursing big-wigs and television networks under his breath.