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1.
n. What Third-Eye gumshoes end up reading on drizzly Tuesday afternoons after listening to the monotonous staccato of rain on their desktops...
Out of the fog.
Into the smog (cough cough).
Relentlessly.
Ruthlessly! (I wonder where Ruth is?).
DOGGEDLY! (ruff! ruff!)
Toward his weekly meeting with THE UNKNOWN.
At 4th and Drucker he turns left.
At Drucker and 4th he turns right.
He crosses MacArthur Park and walks into a great sandstone building. (Oh, my nose!)
Groping for the door, he steps inside, climbs the 13 steps to his office.
He walks in.
He's ready for mystery.
He's ready for EXITEMENT!
HE'S READY FOR ANYTHING, HE'S...
(rrrring) (click) Nick Danger, Third Eye.
(Uhh, I wanna order a pizza to go with no anchovies)
No andchovies? You've got the wrong man! I spell my name "DANGER!"
(click) (what?)

Let's get down to business. Uncross those beautiful stems of yours, baby! Here's the case I call number 666...

It all began innocently enough on Tuesday. I was sitting in my office on that drizzly afternoon listening to the monotonous staccato of rain on my desktop, and reading my name on the glass of my office door--"regnaD kciN."

My secretary lay snoring on the floor. Her long, beautiful gams pinioned under the couch.

I didn't hear him enter, but my nostrils flared at the smell of his perfume: "Pyramid Pachuli." There was only one joker in L.A. sensitive enough to wear that scent, and I had to find out WHO HE WAS...
by Dan Weyandt July 25, 2008
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