Once again, Decoder Ring Theater presents another page from the casebook of that Master of Mystery,

that's Sultan of Sleothing, Martin Bracknell's immortal detective, Black Jack Justice,

starring Christopher Mott as Jack and Andrea Lyons as Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

The name's Justice. Jack Justice. They say the quality of mercy is not strained. Now, it may

very well be that I have a less than perfect understanding of just exactly what a certain

hack writer who shall remain Shakespeare meant by that. Lord knows it wouldn't be the first time. When I was 15, I was nearly expelled over an

uncontrollable fit of hysterics prompted by the question, whom would fardle spare. But on this subject,

I can only hope that old Bill was being ironic on at least five or six levels, or else he had

different neighbors than we did,

that's for darn sure.

Because in the big bad city that Trixie and I called home, both the quality and quantity

of mercy were strained well past any appreciable breaking point, and routinely threatened

to snap back and sting your fingers like a bored kid with an elastic band in English class.

But enough about me.

It started, as most things did, with the girl detective and I behind our respective desks, each silently trying to find a way to

blame the other for the fat lot of nothing that had transpired up to that point. That point,

in this case, being the moment just before all hell broke loose. Though in this case, the event in question was no more dramatic than the sudden flinging

open of the gray-green door that bore the optimistic phrase, Justice and Dixon, private

investigations, and a small, sweaty man appearing quivering with excitement.

Our old pal Freddy the Finger had come to call.

Well, just when the skies couldn't look any more grim.

Oh, hello, Miss Trixie.

...