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

that's Sultan of Sleuthing, 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.

I'm a private detective, and in my experience that means one thing.

Trouble. It means it for me, and if you happen to be careless enough to get within a hundred feet of me,

chances are good that it means it for you too.

Consider this fair warning.

You're not likely to get another.

It's the one thing I know almost as well as I know fine coffee, fedoras, and light jazz

musical underscoring.

Those who know me well might also be tempted to add to that list a certain, almost scholarly

fascination with the hidden wisdom to be found in shop-worn cliches and old wives' tales.

And it is true that there is a certain savage clarity to be found in almost everything that

your great Aunt Eileen used to say, if only you had been listening.

It often helps to cut through the clutter that is to be found

when you live the sort of life in which everyone, and I mean everyone, lies to you professionally,

and then expects you to ferret out the truth, or at least as much of the truth as they happen

to find personally convenient. It's the sort of job that makes you either a cynic or a drunk, and since I've been both of those at one point or another long before the state issued me a private investigator's license, I elected to add Cracker Barrel Philosopher to the mix.

It helped to break up the day.

All of this is at least somewhat beside the point, though it helps to provide some context for the observation

that some folks say that home is where the heart is.

...