Congratulations Fraudulent Lawyer!

There's lots of ways to make a living.  You make it as a lawyer.  But you're not a real lawyer.  You're a fraudulent lawyer!

"What does that mean?" the desperate young woman in your office will ask you.  "Do you specialize in fraud causes?"

You'll shake your head.

"Nope," you'll tell her, putting a cigarette out in the elaborate ivory ashtray on your desk.

"Then what?" she'll ask, holding out a cigarette for a light.

You'll put a lighter made out of a vintage hand grenade from WW2 and spark her up.  As she exhales into your face you'll breath it in, lick your lips real nice and creepy and whisper at her:

"I'm not a real lawyer."

She'll inhale and hold it, thinking, before she lets it out and punctuates her exhale with a "What?"

"I never passed the bar or went to law school, and I never appear in court.  I just trick people into giving me money, then relocate.  I share part of my earnings with my clients, to enlist them in keeping the authorities off my back."

"Really?" she'll say, rubbing your crotch through your pants.

"Really," you'll reply.

With that, she'll clap a handcuff on one of your wrists and then slip the other end on your chair.

"You're under arrest," she'll inform you, flashing a badge from the International Lawyer Commission.  You'll try to spit on her, but it'll just get on your pants, so you'll start flipping out, screaming at her.

"YA GOT ME AGAIN," you'll shout at her.  "GOD DAMN DAMES!  YA GOT ME AGAIN!"

Congratulations Fraudulent Lawyer!

Congratulations, You're On the Case!

It’ll be raining outside. Seems like its always raining outside when beautiful women walk through your doors soaking wet with too many problems and just enough money in their savings to secure your services. That’s because you live in Seattle and cater to an unsavory crowd.

When she comes in the door she’ll take off her overcoat to reveal a dress that men would kill to see on their floor. Her head will be shaved, her arms decorated by long, lacy scar tissue a butterfly tattoo on the inside of her right elbow.

She’ll look like she’s been crying, but she won’t have been. Its a trick of the rain. Don’t fall for it.

“I hear you’re the man to see when you need help with a problem.”

You’ll push up your fedora and look at her. Its 2009 and no one really wears fedoras anymore, but you’re a traditionalist and you have thinning hair.

“Depends on the problem,” you’ll say in your gruffest voice. If that doesn’t get her a little wetter, we don’t know what will.

She’ll smile a little.

“A man is trying to blackmail me. An old lover.”

The word will sound wrong coming out of her mouth, like something a stage performer would say to establish setting. She’ll be mocking your gritty nature and anachronistic tastes and you’d tell her to get the fuck out of your office right then and there but she’s super hot and you really need the money badly, so you’ll sit calmly and stare at her. After a few minutes she’ll get uncomfortable and get honest.

“My boyfriend. He’s got some important things of mine and he wants me to engage in illegal activities to get them back.”

You’ll nod.

“Ex-boyfriend,” you’ll correct. “Why not go to the police?”

She’ll stare you down. “Why do you think?” she’ll spit at you, like you’re an idiot. A grin will form on your face.

“Good,” you’ll say, removing your hat and twirling it. “You’re not an idiot. But don’t treat me like one. I need to know all the details, and I need to know them now.”

She’ll be taken aback by your brusqueness, and a little bit aroused. She’ll also notice your thinning hair and feel a twinge of sympathy for you. In her eyes you’ll have become a little bit more of a real person.

Her eyes will lock with yours and you’ll know for a fact that you’ll get more than just your hourly billable rate out of this job. Something that you won’t be able to get a receipt for.

It’s sex, in case you couldn’t tell.

Congratulations, you’re on the case. Now go get detecting.