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 Dixon. Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

It has been brought to my attention, dear friends, that I have, over the years of our acquaintance,

presented you with something of a limited picture of the girl detective's interests, to wit,

shoes, liquor, handguns, and anything in tight slacks. It has been suggested by those who ought to know better, I might add, but it has been suggested that impressionable young ladies

gathered around their radios at finishing school

to hear the latest ripping yarn from the casebook of Justice and Dixon

might benefit from a more balanced portrait of the artist as a young Hellcat.

No, I'm sorry, that last bit was mine.

But in all, it was desire that if nothing else, yours truly should show a healthy interest in more socially acceptable forms of exercise than was my usual want.

Which is why, and I think it ought to be very clear, the only reason why, I found myself that particular Saturday within the temple to fitness and sport that was my local

bowling alley. Well, what on earth did you expect? I am for reasons we need not discuss just

now banned from several local boxing gymnasiums, and football players spend entirely too much time

with their hands on each other's fannies for my taste. In any case, it was raining.

There was nothing in particular on the radio,

and Leon's bolorama was less than a block from my apartment.

As I sat at the bar, sipping up passable Tom Collins,

and trying to gain an appreciation for a game that was limited,

as far as I could tell, to attempts to roll a rock,

at some sticks that weren't exactly

moving or putting up much of a fight, at least one thing became clear to me.

...