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.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt, and I suppose that's true enough,

though there are always notable instances where it is less than entirely necessary.

Such was the case between a certain square-jawed

alleged detective and myself. Somehow, the universe granted me both the wisdom and the foresight

to be filled with contempt for him from the first moment we met. And for that, dear friends,

I have always been grateful. As a sort of cosmic payback, the universe also saw her way fit

to saddle me

with the big jerk for low these many years,

but I suppose you have to take the rough with the smooth.

Familiarity may have arrived too late to the party to actually breed the contempt itself,

but it sure did help foster it,

tending the rich garden of my well-deserved scorn

and all the noll cowardesque bon motts that came with it.

The point of all this, and I do in fact have one, is that what familiarity actually breeds is familiarity,

or rather the built-in expectation of continued familiarity,

or the comfortable sort of old shoe feeling that one got from knowing pretty much how one was going to get irritated

minute by minute between the hours of whenever Jack got to the office to whenever he decided to pack it in.

Or, or I don't know what else. I was having some trouble organizing my thoughts as I was limiting the

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