Fade in.

It's late at night at the Murphy Law Detective Agency. I lean up in my chair reading a newspaper, my feet resting on his desk. A bent cigarette sits in my mouth and a half-finished bottle of whiskey sits on my desk with my trilby hat.

I'm $Murphy$ $Law$, the guy you call when everything that could go wrong does, and I'm not afraid to give anyone a bit of the business.

As you enter, I barely move a muscle. My eyes only glance up at you for a moment before going back down.

"What'll it be this time?" I ask, still not looking up from my paper. Wouldn't be the first time someone barged into my office with a story to tell. And it won't be the last.

The office smells musty, the only thing helping to cut the smell being an old desk fan and a window cracked open.