Room 333, Friday Morning
Hank dug through his closet until he found what he was looking for: His old-style detective hat. (Sure, it was properly called a "fedora", but Hank didn't know that. And it was brown instead of the more appropriate gray, but that was because it had been part of an Illinois Smith Halloween costume once worn by his grandfather, and hadn't been meant for detectiving. The fact remained that it was a detective hat, and you couldn't be a proper private dick without a detective hat.)
With the hat on his noggin, the world seemed a little clearer. He knew what was what, could call a spade a spade, and could probably tell his ass from a hole in the ground. He shook down the closet some more until he glommed the matching detective whip, and gussied himself up in a dapper suit.
Time to leg it to the mainland. There was a mystery afoot! A tangle to be untangled! A conundrum wrapped in an enigma, served up with the kind of greasy sauce you get in a hole-in-the-wall diner, with bacon and eggs on the side.
And it wasn't pretty.
Hank Venture, P.I., was on the case!
With the hat on his noggin, the world seemed a little clearer. He knew what was what, could call a spade a spade, and could probably tell his ass from a hole in the ground. He shook down the closet some more until he glommed the matching detective whip, and gussied himself up in a dapper suit.
Time to leg it to the mainland. There was a mystery afoot! A tangle to be untangled! A conundrum wrapped in an enigma, served up with the kind of greasy sauce you get in a hole-in-the-wall diner, with bacon and eggs on the side.
And it wasn't pretty.
Hank Venture, P.I., was on the case!