<span style="font-style: italic"> Just another bleary day, </span>the thought drifts through the man’s mind and he trudges through the rain, shuffling through the crowded New York streets. A lonely tendril of smoke drifts from the cigarette dangling out of the cold lips of the somewhat underdressed man. His trench coat is pulled closed by his left hand, and his right holds a newspaper above his head in a vain attempt to keep both his head and cigarette dry.<br/><br/>After about a good ten-minute walk, he stops short in front of an old, run down building of brick, then approaches the front door, tapping his shoes against the wooden front step in order to knock off the dirt. The man pauses and turns to look out at the crowded city street, his cigarette held between his thumb and pointer finger for a moment before its life is snuffed out against a brick that is coated with about two years of ash and some slight burn marks. He pushes open the door and walks up the rickety wooden stairs to an old office door.<br/><br/>The man stops in front of the door, looking at the near scrapped off letters on the glass, letters that can still be read that spell out “Soap”, with a small scowl<span style="font-style: italic">I really need to finish that job. People will continue to think that I’m some kind of sales-man.</span>Then his gaze goes to a small brass nameplate screwed into the wall that says “Jonathon Tyler, P.I.”. His thumb brushes against the nameplate as his lips form a proud smile. This has been his dream since childhood. Sure, his business may be “failing”, and he may have “no clients”, but he enjoys his work.<span style="font-style: italic">After all, without cheating spouses, where would my business be?</span>the thought pushes a wry smile to his lips as the young man pushes through the door.<br/><br/>The coat is haphazardly thrown onto an empty chair and the solid black tie is loosened. “Any news, Rosie, old gal?” Jonathon laughs to an empty desk by the door. “Any clients? No? Ah well, keep up the good work, old gal!” He steps back to his own desk, with another brass nameplate stating his name. “There is that old hat of mine!” Jonathon exclaims, seeing a dusty black fedora, clearly used. There is even what looks like a bullet hole through the brim. He picks it up and places it on his head. He takes a look in the water logged window, admiring the look of of his outfit. Black ironed pants, black suspenders, a black tie, and a white shirt. Topped off with his black fedora. Detective Tyler slips into his wooden seat and leans back, kicking his feet, encased in black shoes, up on top of the desk. He lights up a cigarette with a small wooden match and cocks his beat up fedora over his eyes, the smoke leaking through the bullet hole in his hat.